William S. Bart in
Wild Bill Hickok
By
WILLIAMS, HARTTHE LIBRARY
OF
THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES
IN MEMORY OF
James J. McBride
Presented by-
Margaret McBrideWilliam S. Hart in Wild Bill Hickok.
By
William S. Hart
Shortly after the close of the Civil War there was on the Western Prairie a little changing station called for want of a better name, Point of Rocks. It was on the route of the Ben Holladay Stage Line from St. Joe, Missouri to Sacramento, California. At this station was employed, as horse wrangler, one James Butler Hickok, a former scout and spy of the Union Army.
The little changing station was just that and nothing more. Between all stations designated Home Stations there were these changing stations which were just stopping places to change horses.
At the time our story opens there had been numerous hold ups which always seemed to point to the worst known gang of those days, The McCanless Gang, as the perpetrators.
Old man Holladay of the Holladay Stage Line was getting tired of endeavoring to reimburse losses to those who had been robbed and indeed the Wells Fargo people with whom he had a contract to convey their express matter were threatening to cancel their contract and start a stage line of their own unless the hold ups ceased. Three times in three months the bandits had ridden in with the stage at changing stations and holding up the driver, express messenger and lone resident hostler and had robbed at their leisure.
COPYRIGHT 1923 BY WILLIAM S. HART
WILL A. KISTLER CO. PRINTERS, LOS ANGELES, CALIF., U. S. A2
WILLIAM S. HART
So these more central places were reinforced and the bandits moved on, moved on to the least habitable country of the trail, and so came the tragedy, the fight of Point of Rocks, the greatest battle of one man against odds ever known. One against nine, all heavily armed and the one man killed them all.
James Butler Hickok, the lone horse wrangler, had been duly warned. A rider had come in and without dismounting there had taken place the following conversation.
“I represent some parties that is coinin’ in with the next overland.”
“She don’t carry passengers!”
“No, we’ll be ridin’ our own stock long side of it.”
“You will!”
“Ugh hu—an’ I might say we’re not aimin’ to cause any trouble unless its necessary. All you gotta do is keep right on tendin’ to your stock.”
“Suppose I don’t.”
“That’ll be different. It’s up to you.”
A rein was layed against a pony’s neck, a quick swing, a cloud of dust and James Butler Hickok was alone with his thoughts, which told him plainly the light travelin’ money stage was to be held up at the most isolated place of the trail that stretched in its over two thousand miles of winding from the Missouri to the Ocean.
James Butler Hickok walked over to the corral where the stage horses knickered a welcome, but he passed on to a little single corral adjoining where there was a little spotted pony.
“Old Timer, said James Butler to the spotted pony, we’re up agin it. That feller aint bluffin’”.
And not receiving the right sort of an answer from his four footed friend, James Butler leaned up against a corral post and drew from the inside pocket of his worn vest, a little, short flute, and he played softly. And somehow the landscape, the little cabin changing station, the horse corral, the spotted pony and the lone figure leaning against the corral post with the flute, all seemed to fit in, to blend in and harmonize.IN WILD BILL HICKOK
3
The time came for the next overland, and they DID come in with it, NINE STRONG. They had dashed out of a box canyon a mile down the trail and rode side by side with the lumbering Concord Stage to all appearances like an escort rather than a hold up.
The driver and the messenger were not cowards. They would never have held such positions had they been cowards, but the very knowledge they had earned and learned as fighting men taught them the futility of making any fight now.
They were told to throw down their guns, drive ahead and stop and change.
They promptly threw down their guns and they intended to follow out the rest of the instructions—but they had proceeded no further than setting their horses back on their haunches at the little log station when it all started. A lone figure stood right out in the open in front of the little log structure, a long barrelled single shot rifle was in his hand and two muzzle loading six guns were strapped about his waist and resting against one of these six guns reposed an eight inch blade in the sheath.
There could be no argument as to who spoke the first word. There was no first word spoken. The long rifle spoke, spoke once the only grim word it knew, and the foremost bandit rolled from his horse, dead before he hit the ground.
The lone hostler as if in derision and defiance of death had deliberately held his fire until they were all close up.
The unarmed teamster and messenger were game men. If there was a fight they would take a chance. They made a move, but it was their last and they too rolled to earth, shot down by the bandits.
And then that historic battle started; the like of which has never been seen nor ever known within the realm of time.
And the odds were, then, eight to one.
James Butler Hickok’s rifle was empty. He went to his six guns and retreated. Just as he backed into his cabin door he was literally shot through it for a bullet4
WILLIAM S. HART
caught him full in the breast and he fell backwards and in.
Six of the bandits still remained.
And then came that frontier style of battle, copied and learned from the Indian, the bandits firing from behind every possible cover and Hickok returning their fire through chinks in the logs.
While the odds were all on one side—it was in numbers only for at this style of fighting where snap shooting and marksmanship alone counted the odds were in reality in favor of the lone defender—for the world did not then know but was that day to learn that James Butler Hickok was the greatest six gun fighter that was ever known or that the whole universe ever will know.
The Six were reduced to Two.
Of the two left, one was the leader.
And the first oral words of the fight were spoken.
“Let’s drop the stock, Jim. If we don’t git him he’ll never make a getaway.”
And with the words the guns belched their fire towards the wildly pitching horses in the corral.
The lone fighter in the cabin saw and instantly knew. But it was not his means of escape being destroyed that caused his heart to jump. Out there in a little single corral was a spotted horse that was to him his very soul.
He ran to the little single pane back window and putting his fingers to his lips gave a long shrill whistle.
The little Paint paused in his pitching and plunging and deliberately ran to the opposite side of his little enclosure—and getting a good start smashed his way thru the bars. Nor did he stop. Straight for the cabin door he ran. He had heard his master’s call.
The two bandits saw. They raised their guns and fired but they snapped on empty chambers.
The door of the log cabin was opened and straight in ran the spotted pony.
“Hell!” said the leader.
“Me too! I’m sayin’ Hell,” repeated his wounded companion.
But these men were fighters and it was a fight to theIN WILD BILL HICKOK
5
death. A chance must be taken. The leader suddenly stood up to his full height and dropped again.
“His ammunition is gone, same as our’n,” he said, “We’ll go in and git him.”
They were close to a wood pile. And now without fear of lead they took the log upon which the wood was split and headed straight for the cabin door.
They knew it would not long hold against such a battering ram. Nor did it. The door was splitting, bending and creaking.
James Butler Hickok could fight injun fashion and he could also retreat injun fashion and he did so.
“Keep fightin’ ’em, Paint. Keep fightin’ ’em,” he said, as he dashed up the stationery ladder that was on the side of the cabin wall, thru the hole in the roof he went. And just as the door crashed in below and a flying horse dashed out, and before the attackers could recover their balance, straight from overhead, seemingly straight from the sky, came the lone fighter, his boots heels striking on the head of the wounded man, and his spirit there and then took flight high up over the Big Divide, leaving the Leader of the bandits and the Lone Defender both terribly wounded but man to man knee to knee, knife to knife and breast to breast.
And there streaked across the hills and mesa, a pinto pt/ny. On the grades he ran and jumped with goat like strides, while on the open plain his lengthened stride was such that his belly almost touched the ground.
He knew there was a little hand full of men, men like his master, ‘way off on the prairie, and he was goin’ to them—A MESSE NGER like Thermopoli of old.
And the two lithe, giant figures fought on, like bull dogs, without a sound.
And the pony still ran, even faster and faster.
And far away over the hills in a little draw was the chuck wagon and outfit of the Turkey Track Brand.
The cook was preparing a meal and the off duty boys were stretched out on their blankets.
The hills were between or they would at that very moment have seen the paint horse, running, his lean muscles standing out like ribbed steel.6
WILLIAM S. HART
The two fighting figures could no longer fight, but they faced each other, swaying, each unable to raise a hand.
The Paint Horse was still running.
And the off duty cow punchers were still lazily smoking, unconcious of the flying messenger.
The two modern gladiators had fallen down of their own weight, each seeking to brace himself against the cabin wall so he could renew the fight. But outraged nature will be served and the bandit was the first to succumb.
“It’s no use, old timer, you win.”
And he fell backward against the logs.
At that very moment the remaining strength of the hostler gave way—or was it the Almighty that intervened—and he too, with gaping wounds, fell back against the steps of the cabin.
“Where in Hell did you come from,” weakly asked the bandit.
“Springfield, Illinois,” weakly replied the Hostler.
“Never heard of it. But they sure raise fightin’ men there. What’s your name.”
“You’re askin’ a heap of questions but my name is James Butler Hickok.”
“Never heard of that either, but the name I’m going to give you fer this day’s work will be known, all right, as long as people live.”
“What’s that?”
“Wild Bill!”
The resting cow waddys at the Turkey Track chuck wagon were rubbing their eyes—a lather covered paint horse was dashing into their midst.
“Boys, that’s that Paint from the Point of Rocks station. Somethin’s wrong. Let’s go.”
They rushed for their horses, threw on saddles and mounted and were off.
The life strength of the two fallen fighters is ebbing just as their life’s blood is flowing.
“Say, Wild Bill?”
“Yes!” (James Butler Hickok answered to the name).
“I’m cashin’ in.”IN WILD BILL HICKOK
7
“Well, I’ve never done it afore but it seems same here too!”
“If you live, Wild Bill, do somethin’ for me, will ye? My kids, they’re little, look after ’em, will ye?”
“I’m McCanless. I gotta wife and three kids. Live at Leavenworth.”
“I’ll go ye!”
“Say, McCanless,”
“Yea!”
“If I go an’ you pull thru. Look after my hoss, will ye!”
“He’s an onery little cuss, but be good to him an’ he’ll go to Hell for you.”
“I’ll do it. You bet.”
“So long, McCanless.”
“So long, Wild Bill,”
Across the Prairie at break neck speed is racing those who are coming to the rescue. But the killing pace of those sturdy cow horses is not fast enough for a sweat matted, riderless, bridleless Paint hoss.
He rushes past them and with a shrill neigh he takes the lead ’way out in front.
“Darn’d if he aint takin’ us there, Jack, just like he was a dog,” one of the riders calls.
“Sure he’s takin’ us there, only he aint no dog. He’s a hoss.”
And with that cowboy philosophy they all disappear over a rolling hill.
The two fallen men are lying still•—only the breast of one is rising and falling, and a flute is in his hand—but the other is stark and still.
׳* “Wild Bill” Hickok as he was ever after known was for one whole year an inmate of a Kansas City Hospital.
After his recovery there was founded, peopled and occupied the towns of Hays City, Kansas, Abilene, Kansas and Ellsworth, Kansas, all in a period of two years, and they were tamed and made livable in turn by that single lone peace officer, Wild Bill Hickok, who snuffed out in the taming process no less than forty six lives. Hays City, twelve, Abilene, twenty-five, Ellsworth nine, being the numbers alloted to each of these new wild cow town communities.
Footnote: The above to be covered by fading in and out of titles.8
WILLIAM S. HART
And now we take up our story again, which brings us to the days of the wildest of wild towns, the top, sides and bottom of all wild towns ever known, the cow boy capita], Dodge City, Kansas.
Dodge City, Kansas on the bank of the Arkansas River, in actual distance, three hundred and sixty three miles from Kansas City, but as far as law and order was concerned, this little shipping cow town at the end of the Santa Fe Railroad was, when founded in 1872^-. three hundred and sixty three thousand miles from Kansas City.
Its streets were blocked by the wagons of freighters, hunters and government teams from Fort Dodge. The military post, was only five miles away.
Near the single track railroad where the hide yards were, were piled from sixty to eighty thousand Buffalo hides awaiting purchase and shipment.
Even the Buffalo bones that covered the surrounding prairies brought countless hundreds of thousands of dollars. And there was no money known less than two bits. The Ford County Globe or the Dodge City Times cost the same as a needle, a drink or a paper of pins, a quarter of a dollar. There was no smaller change.
To sum it all up briefly and in the language of Dodge City itself, one had money to throw away. Hunters were making $100.00 a day. Dodge City was in every department, a whole team with a mule colt following.
At the time we take up our story the lifeless remains of people were a common sight in the streets of Dodge City, Kansas, unless some tie of friendship or relationship existed with the departed, who would cause their removal.
It was in reality at least one man for breakfast every morning. It was when this number became multiplied to such an extent as to endanger the wiping out of the whole town, that the Vigilance Committee was formed.
Dodge City had highly capable peace officers. There were no better. And to further protect the community they had organized this Vigilance Committee of the very best citizens.
For a while it fulfilled its mission. And then it allIN WILD BILL HICKOK
9
commenced to change. In spite of Masterson, Earp, Basset, Tighlman, killings became more and more frequent.
It was at this time that a darky attendant at Tom Sherman’s saloon and dance hall delivered a note to a shaded eye dealer at the Faro table, which read:
“Dear Bill׳. I want to see you right now ־back of Santa Fe Station.” Bat.
The dealer played out the deal, called a man to take his place, and departed.
And soon he joined his friend, Bat. And right there and then back of the Santa Fe station were gathered the greatest group of gun men that the world has ever known or ever will know. Bat Masterson, Sheriff; Wyatt Earp, Deputy; Charlie Bassett, Town Marshall; Bill Tighlman, Chief of Police; Luke Short, gambler; Doc. Holladay, gambler;—and the last arrival, now a gambler, Wild Bill Hickok.
Where under the sun of heaven will there ever be their like again.
There were other great gun men but never any to approach these and certainly none that were ever in one crowd.
Bat spoke:
He said, ‘4Bill, I’m much obliged to you for coming. I knew you would come, but I’m much obliged just the same.”
“I’ve asked all the boys to meet here as its train time and we won’t attract attention.”
“Bill, I know you quit your job as Sheriff at Hays and put your guns away because you didn’t want any more bloodshed—an’ vowed you’d never strap ’em on again. But, Bill, you’re the greatest two handed gun fighter that ever lived or ever will five and we need you. We’ve got to have you.”
“Boys, it is a rather unusual state of affairs. We have got to get our own Vigilance Committee and we’ve got to get them with lead.10
WILLIAM S. HART
I fought against the forming of this organization, I pleaded and argued against it and for this reason. I knew that hard, bad men would keep creeping in and joining until they outnumbered the men who had joined and were willing to risk their lives for the public good. I have watched the bad gradually outnumber the good; I have watched them grow’ in power until they are in complete control, until every honest man has been dropped or intimidated. And now this so called Vigilance Committee is all bad and is proceeding to use its power for their own selfish ends and purposes. It is an outrage on common decency. Only today they shot an inoffensive negro and as he fell half a dozen of ’em kept pumping lead in him. And this Negro, Taylor by name, is a former servant of Colonel Dodge over at the Fort, who, when his enlistment run out started a little hack line between here and the fort and for horning in on some grafters business it cost him his life.”
“Why don’t colonel Dodge interfere? He is responsible to Sheridan for the lives of his men.”
“The bald truth is he knows at this kind of fighting he couldn’t win, which demonstrates the seriousness of this situation. But I wish to say that us eight men right here, of which I am the weakest member, can whip Dodge City, Kansas or any other city on the continent.
What do you say, gentlemen?”
The noise of the daily incoming train prevented any answer and the little group silently watched the little wood burning engine pull past and the coaches stop, and voluntarily suspended their conversation. They watched the passengers alight. They could not help doing so for they were unusual.
Bob Wright was there to meet them and as he was doing over a half a million dollar business a year in the sale of hides, it was quite apparent that the arrivals were buyers of hides. They were and they had come all the way from Boston to take this opportunity of seeing the city, to see its wickedness. All, save one. He was going to remain as a resident buyer. He was an em-employee. His pretty young wife at his side had per-IN WILD BILL HICKOK
11
suaded him to do so for his weak lungs as the air of this country was a well known cure.
What a contrast, what a strange contrast were these two groups as they faced each other, for Bob Wright had led seven of them forward; the other with the pretty young wife remaining slightly in the background. The plain silent men of the prairie and the Bostonese.
“Bat,” said, Bob Wright, “I want you and your boys to meet these gentlemen. They expect to be here about a week and I will be greatly obliged if you will sort of take care of ’em.”
“I am very glad to meet you all gentlemen,” said Bat. “I hope you like our little city, but please keep north of the Railroad track after 9 P. M.
A big florid visitor who had been looking around, said, “Why, what’s wrong with the south side of the railroad track.” and pointing a heavy knobbed gold cane, “It’s that direction, isn’t it.”
And getting no reply, continued: “That doesn’t look bad to me.”
“It isn’t bad, Mr.”, said Bat, quietly, “it’s just a good place to let alone, that’s all.”
As far as Bill Hickok was concerned he had not heard a word nor had he seen a face or form, save ONE— the tall, slender girl in the background. God! how his heart beat. That must be her brother with her. Sure that MUST be her brother.
For the first time and as it was to be the only time in this man’s life he felt what love was—for that only time and that only girl was the only love that Wild Bill Hickok ever knew.
The sensation all seemed so strange to him. Imagine this angel being of the same breed and the same sex as the girls he knew; imagine this frail creature with the heavenly eyes being a woman like Jane, Calamity Jane, whom he knew had always loved him and he had never felt the meaning of the word.
The strangers moved on but Bill Hickok did not know and it was the quiet voice of his friend Bat that seemed to clear his brain. .12
WILLIAM S. HART
“Now you all see, boys, the necessity of what I talked to you about.”
But why did Bat direct his talk to Bill?
“Now you all see that if folks are to ever come to this
town we’ve got to be in a position to protect ’em.”
But why did Bat continually look at Bill?
“What do you say, boys.”
“We’re all with you, Bat,” was the answer of voice and nod.
And still Bat looked at Bill—for Bill had not spoken. Again the quiet voice of Bat went on, “You see, Bill, we got to make Dodge City a fit place for a young lady like you been lookin’ at to stay in. I know you promised your friend, General Custer over in Hays you’d put your guns away—but they got to come out again Bill.”
“Yes!” Bat, Yes—Sure—I know—yes! Count me in on anything. I know—yes—I—and he actually stammered and stopped.
They all saw and they all wondered, for nothing living every doubted the courage of Wild Bill Hickok. But they all thought how very strong the bond of friendship must be between Hickok and his friend General Custer of the 7th Cavalry, to whom Bill had promised, after killing seven soldiers in a fair fight, he’d never pack a gun again.
But Bat Masterson did not wonder. He knew!
HE KNEW!
And when they had broken up and gone their several ways to avoid attracting attention, Bat took Bill’s arm and said: “Hard hit, aint you, Pardner.”
And Bill answered, “Bat, I never used God’s name afore, but for God sake find out who she is.
Bill does not go to work until midnight. He is in his room at the Dodge House. He is in his shirt sleeves laboriously writing a letter which is addressed to:
Master Lawrence McCanless,
Leavenworth, Kansas.
My dear Boy:
This is just a few words to send you the money due from what your father left you to be sent every year.IN WILD BILL HICKOK
13
Last year you ast me how I was gettin’ along. I am doin’ fine right now. I’m workin’ in a bank.
I hope you are growin’ up to be a big boy—• but don’t git too big not to always do what your mother tells you. She knows what is best for you kids.
Always yours,
James Butler.
Next year I’ll be stopped travelin’ an’ I’ll tell you where you kin write to me again.
While Bill is writing letter Jane comes in. She is jealous and reads letter much to Bill’s annoyance but he is good natured about it. We know that he is thinking of the girl at the station.
Get over in these scenes great love of Jane for Bill. Bill offers to take Jane to work but she laughs and declines.
Down on Front Street things do not look so good— groups of hard looking citizens are seen collecting, just outside the shadows that fall from the saloon and dance hall windows.
Leaving the Dodge House and starting to cross the railroad track is the group of our Boston friends, seven strong, their full strength—save for the man who was with the lady.
The group on the edge of the circle of light see them and comment.
The Bostonese are all attired in their best, high hats and frock coats, all out to duly impress the natives and TO SEE ALL THAT WAS TO BE SEEN. In fact one of them was gaily mumbling a song, of which the words might be caught; “What kind of stockings did the big blond wear.”
When they reach the railroad track the large florid faced gentleman dramatically informs the crowd, using the big gold headed cane to indicate the points of interest:
“You are now, gentlemen, crossing the magic line from North to South, the dead line; a fine which though14	WILLIAM S. HART
new and just discovered pales into insignificance that other once talked of line between that other and forgotten North and South, which was in those childish days considered as being warlike and dangerous. But here, my friends, we have the real North and South; a line that after nine o’clock at night is not to be passed. So beware all ye who enter here heading southward.
Jane leaves to go to work at the dance hall and Wild Bill looks like a very tame Bill indeed. He gets his flute and dreamily plays.
The gatherings outside the strong light which comes from the windows are growing. At some groups they are bold and do not seem to care whether their words are heard ot not.
She of the heavenly eyes comes along Front Street and is about to enter The Dodge House.
The seeming leader of the hangers on steps forward. He cannot let pass such an opportunity.
“Can I be of service, Miss,” he asks?
“No, I thank you, sir. I have just been looking for the doctor but I cannot find him.”
Brazenly the brute leers at her and replies:
“I’m a doctor. A good doctor. I have been known to effect some fine cures.”
His companions brutishly guffaw and the embarrassed and shocked girl hurriedly enters the hotel. And the leader of the ruffians turns to his companions, and says, “Some gal. I’m goin’ to investigate that!”
“She come in on the train today. An’ speakin’ of the train—that bunch of tin horns wasn’t meetin’ over at the station for nothin’ an’ its up to us to clear ’em out tonight an’ not wait fer ’em to pull their stuff.”
The speaker was Jack McCall, a regular tin horn gambler and a killer.
Jane meets she of the heavenly eyes in the hallway. She is much agitated. Jane sympathetically asks her what is wrong. She replies:
“Oh, please, I am frightened. A very rough man at the door frightened me.”
“Don’t you mind that, Miss. They all kin’ do their talkin’—but if a guy really bothers a woman in thisIN WILD BILL HICKOK
15
burg an’ she don’t want to be bothered, he gets the rope. So don’t you be scared. No one will hurt you.”
She of the heavenly eyes is grateful, and again she inquires about the doctor, saying she cannot find him at his office or his home.
Jane says, “Come here a minute.”
They go back along the hall and Jane calls: “Bill, Bill.”
Bill Hickok opens his door, still in his shirt sleeves and his flute in his hand.
“Say, Bill, “said Jane, This girl wants to find the Doc. Where does he do his playin’ at?”
Bill replies, “You’ll find him at Dog Kelly’s place. He—”. God! he sees her standing at Jane’s shoulder, and he hurriedly adds. “I know where he is. I’ll go get him.”
The girl murmurs her thanks and says, “It is so good of you. Will you please tell him to come to room sixteen.”
“I’ll bring him, Miss. I’ll bring him.” is all Bill can say as he darts for his coat.
The girl thanks Jane and goes along the hall to her room and as Bill joins Jane, she says, “Bill,—if I didn’t know you was a woman hater I’d be jealous.
She affectionately takes his arm and they go out. When they reach the porch, Jane gives his arm a final squeeze and he turns up Front Street towards Dog Kellys, and Jane stands a moment looking after him before heading south across the railroad track to go to work.
Jack McCall steps forward.
The one thing on earth he REALLY wanted was Jane, Calamity Jane, and when he saw her as he often did, show affection for Hickok it almost drove him insane.
“You don’t take much pains to show you are runnin’ after that skunk,” he snarled, “huggin’ his arm that away. Why don’t you reach up on your dainty toes an’ kiss him good bye?”
Jane’s eyes flashed fire. “What you’re sayin’ about me is just funny, Jack McCall. I’m passin’ it by, but16
WILLIAM S. HART
did you have the gall to refer to Bill Hickok as a skunk? Why you poor piece of Gorganzola cheese, Bill could make a hundred dollars a day gettin’ such four flushers as you at two bits a dozen. You’re mighty brave when everyone knows Bill has stacked his guns.”
And she passed on.
The Killer is half drunk and dangerous and what Jane has said cuts like the lash of a whip—for Jack McCall is a killer—Oh! if it were not for the fear of Bill Hickok’s lightin’ draw.
True Bill was not armed but the law of the LAWLESS West would not pardon the killing of an unarmed man. The one who was guilty of such a killing would not live twenty minutes. But no one knew better than Jack McCall that it would only need a hint to Bill Hickok that his guns were needed and they’d be on.
Our Boston friends are parading about the Green Front Gambling Hall, brazenly and their very attitude is so domineering—and the evening is so YOUNG they are getting away with it.
The Killer has again joined his gang. He feels that tonight is the night and is beginning to make his hearers think likewise, when something occurs which supplies and feeds the flame.
The doctor comes and Bill BRINGS him to Room sixteen. Jack McCall motions to two or three of his friends and follows. He is still smarting under the rebuke of Jane, and while he is not really interested in she of the heavenly eyes whom he had told at the door, “I’m a good doctor” —his jealous sense seemed to tell him that Hickok was interested—and he would see.
In the hallway near the door they waited and when a door opened, it opened at Room seventeen, right where they were for the occupants had two rooms. The girl was expressing her thanks to Bill, when she saw McCall. She stopped and shuddered.
All the anger that ever leaped to Bill Hickok’s brain in his whole life was as nothing to this moment.
And as McCall leeringly said, “You needn’t be so darn’d afraid of me, girlie, I won’t bite you.”IN WILD BILL HICKOK
17
Hickok quietly and evenly said, “I’m askin’ you men to git out into the street ahead of me.
The girl unconsciously placed her hand upon the arm of him she intuitively knew to be her protector and said, “Oh! please do not have any trouble because of me.”
Jack McCall saw the trust. He was never trusted. He saw the girl’s hand gently press Hickok’s arm just as that other hand he loved had done.
Jack McCall was half drunk. He was crazy with jealous rage and Hickok was unarmed. He leered on “That stuff (and he actually reached and touched her hand as it clasped Bill’s arm)—“That stuff seems to come natural to both of you. He had the same thing happen to him twenty minutes ago. And you, although you are a newcomer here, you seem to be quite used to doin’ it.”
The veins of Hickok’s neck stood out like whip cord, but miracles of miracles, he was calm. “McCall,” he said, “You men are walkin’ out of here away from the presence of this lady right now.”
McCall had pulled his bluff and got away with it. He walked, but he walked behind Hickok. He would rub it in, with his hand on his gun, and the Mighty Wild Bill walked ahead of him and behind the others.
But when the street was reached. God! What a change. Wild Bill Hickok the greatest living gun man had been called in front of she whom he worshipped and he had never ever loved before. He had been belittled, disgraced and horror of horrors he had stood by and seen the object of his adoration leered at and insulted—and he did not defend her—and this cowardly bunch had seen him take water and did not have manhood enough in them to know that his innate manhood made him do it for the girl’s sake.
But their triumph was short. Hickok walked straight to the nearest man and deliberately reached his gun out of the holster.
“Now, McCall, you worm, you got two guns. Draw.”
And the yellow came to McCall’s throat. He did not dare make a move to draw—although Hickok had laid18
WILLIAM S. HART
the borrowed gun down on the floor at his—Hickok’s feet.
With calm disgust Hickok walked to the stricken thing and took his two guns from his holster and threw them down beside his borrowed gun. And then he struck the cur repeatedly to make him fight, and when he wouldn’t he felled him with a mighty blow as tho he were a stricken ox—and so the flame was fed.
THE FIGHT OF THE WATER BARRELS.
All along Front Street and in front of all the resorts of the South Side were water barrels full of water, so placed for fire protection. And the wicked fightin’ that occured that night was mostly done from behind these water barrels. The streets were soon in total darkness. Those in the street smashed or shot out the lamps and those in the saloons and dance hall did likewise. A light showed figures to shoot at. The Vigilance Committee, had started in to do its work of murder.
McCall was one of those who had worked with the Vigilance Committee—and when beaten and insulted by Hickok—the word was soon passed and they started in to get “The eight tin horns.”
When the smoke cleared away that tragic night, fourteen men were lying dead in the streets.
The grimness of that night was not without its relief, if such a thing as relief could be possible.
The florid gentleman and his six friends had gotten decidedly in wrong. What the dance hall crowd did to those silk hats (they were not allowed in Dodge) was but a fore runner of what happened later when it was seen that the real fight was over, when lamps were relighted.
A bunch of devils grabbed the florid gentleman and his six partners and formed a procession to string them up to the nearest telegraph poles. Out of the Long Branch Saloon they trooped, and as they hustled their victims along, ropes were sent for. There were two thousand ropes within two blocks BUT to prolong theIN WILD BILL HICKOK
19
torture, none could be found. Suddenly those holding the captives were charged by more desperate men.
The Peace Officers who thought it time to end the joke and as soon as they completed the rescue the victims were told by these officers of the law, “Now! Now! run for your lives.” And, as they ran a volley of bullets was let fly over their heads.
The place where they arrived in town was the railroad station, and by instinct they ran there. There was no train out of course until 6 P. M. that night, but Bob Wright and Rath his partner could arrange that. They could run the only engine and crew in Dodge down the track and leave them, then come back and hook on to four cars which would be loaded with hides—and run it out and pick up the seven men, and run special to Kansas City. True•—the seven men would have to pay the price asked by Rath and Wright for their hides. Would they?” “They would, they’d pay double.”
“Did they want to wait for the other man of the party?”
“They did not!”
“Did they want to wait for the lady?”
“They did not. They never wanted to look upon a woman’s face again.”
It was a big order. Wright and Rath were being paid an enormous price for their hides, about a hundred of the rioters and revelers were put to work and the four freight cars were loaded almost to the roof when the engine returned and the devils left but little space for human freight—and soon seven disheveled men were lying upon a pile of hides and trying to get their heads out of the side door—as the freight pounded along. Green hides smell—and NO ONE was singing—“What kind of stockings did the big blond wear?”
In the late afternoon when the Dodge City Times was being peddled by a lone darky—any one caring to do so might have read. “And so after the turmoil of the evening and before going to sleep for the day, the remains of fourteen citizens, one Mexican and one breed injun were escorted en masse to the elevation of Boot Hill—and there interred in pairs; each pair being20
WILLIAM S. HART
supplied with a bottle of the proper cheer for their long, long journey, and thus an unfortunate occurence has ended relations between esteemed gentlemen that were hitherto the warmest personal friends.”
A month has elapsed—and while Elaine Hamilton’s husband’s health has marvelously improved his pocket book has sadly depleted. His employers did not even wait to discharge him until they reached Boston. They wrote him from Kansas City as soon as they got out of a turkish bath and had salve placed on their flesh wounds. They seemed to take a fiendish delight in venting their anger on the innocent and ill Hamilton.
One of the fines in their letter of dismissal showed they lacked a sense of humor for it read, “We are giving up the hide business. It smells of all that is foul and unclean.”
The odor of the train must have still been with them, even after their turkish baths.
There was work with big money for every one in Dodge City but they had to be strong men to withstand the hardship of such work—at times going for days without food and little water.
And Hamilton was an invalid almost all gone from the ravages of consumption—BUT the climate was doing him good. He was improving greatly. It would be a crime if he could not remain and give nature a chance.
He sought employment (such as he could do) every where, but all soft jobs were either filled by woman or old men or boys. The only soft jobs men filled were in the gambling halls. And finally here went Hamilton in quest of employment. He saw Tom Sherman behind his bar and asked him for a position at one of the tables.
Tom said, “What doin?”
Hamilton said, “Giving out the cards that people bet on—like that gentleman there is doing”—pointing to our friend, Wild Bill, who is dreamily dealing his faro for a fight afternoon game.
Tom Sherman with more control over his facial muscles than he had ever shown in his fife, calls: “Bill,IN WILD BILL HICKOK
21
when you finish the deal, turn your box up fer a minute and come over here!”
And when Bill comes; Tom who has been having the joke of his forty years of life asking Hamilton about the points of the good old game of faro, says, “Bill, our friend here is inquiring if he can obtain a position such as you are now employed at—in giving out the cards for folks to make wagers?”
Tom Sherman’s face is a study in itself, his flesh is fairly quivering under the skin with merriment—but it would take a greater actor than Tom Sherman to jump without warning from the heighth of ecstatic levity to out and out astonishment. Tom Sherman couldn’t begin to do it—so his jaw proceeded to drop and his mouth proceeded to open, as Bill talked and acted.
“All right, Tom, I’ve only got a few four bit players over there. I’ll close the game and have the gentlemen deal to me and show me his game.”
And when this was being carried out, any citizen of Dodge City would have given an even five spot for a tin type of Tom Sherman’s face.
Bill Hickok was goin’ nutty that’s all. Yes! That was it. Bill had been actin’ queer for a month an’ now he was sure goin’ nutty.
And so—half in bewilderment and half in fear of seeing his friend Bill become a jibbering idiot an’ start to pl!ay horse right there on the floor—he turned away,—and in the slack business of afternoon play— George Hamilton of Beacon Hill, Boston dealt faro to Wild Bill Hickok at Tom Sherman’s gambling palace in Dodge City, Kansas.
It is not an effort for Wild Bill Hickok to maintain his poise. He manages to stop the deal after the first few turns. The pitiableness of the' situation hurts him. Poor George Hamilton just about knows a spade from a club and that is all. His entire experience at card playing could be probably summed up in a few games at Casino.
Bill’s game was talking, not cards, and soon Bill found out all he wanted to know. Hamilton was broke, down to his last dollar, if he paid his board bill. And22
WILLIAM S. HART
that it would be a CRIME for him to leave Dodge City there was not the slightest doubt in the mind of Wild Bill for he, himself, could see the vast improvement of the man, since the night of his arrival and he had not seen him since, and he could see also the heavenly eyes that might go away. That would be a CRIME. He doubted if he could stand it.
Wild Bill had never spoken to her since that first night. He would stand and respectfully bow as she passed. He lacked the power of speech. But she was not afraid of him. He even dared to think she even liked him for she always smiled at him gently and kindly.
No Sir! The man that sat opposite to Bill Hickok and sat in the dealer’s chair in Tom Sherman’s Dance Hall at Dodge City, Kansas, didn’t have one chance in a million of going away. His health WAS IMPROVING too much.
Bill Hickok’s brain never moved slowly but it moved with express train speed right now. It had to do so. This man Hamilton, the brother of she of the heavenly eyes was not a mendicant. No crap shooter ever rooted harder for a seven or eleven on his first roll of the dice than Wild Bill now rooted for an idea. And the fates were with him. The idea came.
“Mr. Hamilton,” said Bill, “In the early evenin’ when business is light, us house men usually have a little game of stud at the back of the hall. I would like to suggest that you come an’ sit in this evenin’ an’ sort a git your style of handlin’the cards back—and most likely Sherman, in a few days, will put you on a table.”
(Poor Hamilton’s casino training was staring him in the face but he thought he could learn to handle the cards) But! Bill knew what was passing in Hamilton’s mind. He didn’t have to be a mind reader to see it.
“We only play a two bit game, Mr. Hamilton, us house men just play to pass the time of the early evening instead of settin’ in our hotel rooms.”
“Two bit game”—“House men.”
It was the stiffest game in the west and the house men were Luke Short, Doc. Holliday, Shot Gun Collins,23
IN WILD BILL HICKOK
Mysterious Dave and Wild Bill Hickok. Wliew! !!!!!! Blow ye trumpets. Blow! ! ! !
It would take a greater pen than mine to describe that game in the rear of Tom Sherman’s dance hall—a six handed game of stud with five of the six who ate, drank and slept, stud poker—and incidentally thereby gathered the means whereby they lived. The sixth cannot be spoken of—it would take a Shakespeare to describe his emotions. They gave him the winning hole cards—almost face up so every one at the table could see it. Some of their shins bore the imprint of Bill Hickok’s pointed boot toe for m any days after—the result of their open playing. And to make it just a bit harder for the poker faced men and to make our friend Bill sHll more frightened that his victim would detect the ruse־— those upholders of the law—Bat Masterson, Wyatt Earp, Charlie Basset and Bill Tighlman—had all been hunting all day for some one of the poker faced gentlemen—and only succeeded in finding them—j ust then— which of course excused each one—for standing a moment as he had his say, and regretfully departed.
And there is one other who watches constantly, a dance hall girl with a flushed face.
The flushed faced Hamilton saw it not. He only saw his stack of BLUES. And when midnight came and the house men were called to their tables—those stacks of blues contained all the cash Bill Hickok had on hand and a stiff draw on Tom Sherman ahead.
“Will you join me in a drink, gentlemen?” asked Mr. Hamilton, as he feverishly cashed in his chips.
“No, they all were just goin’ on duty an’ needed clear heads.”
After he had departed—five of the stiffest drinks ever poured went down at a gulp.
“God!” said Luke Short, “If I ever start to laugh I’ll have HY-sterics.”
“Bill,” said Doc. Holliday, “I was educated and meant to be a physician but I sure never would know how to prescribe for you. Your charitableness is beyond me.”24
WILLIAM S. HART
“Ugh! hu! “That’s it Doc.” said Mysterious Dave, “I know that it is.”
“Bill—you’re plumb locoed.”
They all started for their tables. Bill Hickok with an empty purse but a happy heart.
But alas it was not long so to be.
“Bill,” said his friend, Bat, “I wanta see you a minute.”
“Don’t kid me, Bat, I can’t stand it,” said Bill.
“I’m not goin’ to kid you, Bill,” said Bat, “I feel sorry for you—fer I feel I’m goin’ to hurt you.”
And the dance hall girl watched and saw that hurt.
“Don’t be a dam fool, Bill. That girl—if she was single would be too dam good for you, but she AIN’T single Bill, she’s got a husband.” She’s married.”
And all thru that long night, every time the little ball whirled round at the roulette wheel next to Bill’s table— it seemed to be malting its circle right inside of Bill Hickok’s heart.
And the dance hall girl’s heart was sad also.
The following weeks brought much sunlight into the life of Bill. It was sun light that hurt as now he knew she was not for him. But she was kind and gracious to him, and when she smiled at him it was all the sunlight that the gun man gambler, Wild Bill Hickok had ever known.
Elaine Hamilton did not know what had happened to increase her husband’s finances. He did not tell her. And no one else outside of those grim men of the west knew and they NEVER talked. But her husband did tell her that he owed his good fortune to the advice of Bill Hickok, and she was grateful; more than grateful, for sne liked this big gambler although she did not admit it, nor knew not why. But she was, oh! so glad of the opportunity of being grateful.
And Jane—Jane the dance hall girl. Jane the amazon looked on. Jane was made of great timber. Probably her like has never nor never will be known AGAIN. A dance hall girl of the first water, loving and loved, generous to a fault, full of dash and fervor. Money to Jane was as water. Born an illegitimate child at anIN WILD BILL HICKOK
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army camp, ancl so grown up as belonging to the camp until the age of fourteen, and with the first budding of womanhood, came those troubles that always come to those unprotected. She became and was Calamity Jane. Born of a calamity, her life so shaped itself that she seemed to live calamity and so she was called, Calamity Jane. And yet she was ever bright, ever gay, her motto being: “only suckers holler”. And so strange a being was this wild girl of woman form that her name still lives thruout America. She has no tombstone but that of Calamity Jane. No matter what was or had been her life—she loved and loved and yet never did love but ONE MAN—James Butler (Wild Bill) Hickok — So from what we have seen and known from these recorded events—the life, the existence of Calamity] Jane was not pleasant at this time.
And it was to become more and more unpleasant. Doc. Holliday himself a victim of the same complaint as Hamilton, had at the earnest solicitation of Bill come to visit, unprofessionally—just to advise George Hamilton—and so an avenue of intercourse sprang up between Hickok, Holliday and Elaine—for Elaine would come to Hickok’s room to discuss her husband’s condition, away from his hearing.
Bill Hickok had but few treasurers. One was a picture of his mother; the other, a picture of Abraham Lincoln, both in the same frame, just as his mother had had it— for Abraham Lincoln and she had gone to school back in Illinois together in her youth.
Elaine was an ardent admirer of Lincoln and she quoted the remarks of Stanton at Lincoln’s death bed—■ “And now he belongs to the ages.”
And Holliday twirled his long, thin fingers that were even then becoming ematiated, and Bill looked downward and listened to the musical tones of her he so loved to hear speak, and Jane leaned in the open door way and listened.
And outside of Jane they all unconsciously wished that—• as it then was could always be.
Hickok was in the throes of the love of his life. Elaine was in love and did not know it—and his friend Holli-26
WILLIAM S. HART
day enjoyed the tranquility that all do when in the presence of those we love to call in our hearts, master—and Hickok was to Holliday as he was to all men, gun men of those days of self preservation, MASTER.
And then came a time when Jane was home first at early dawn and she was fussing in Bill’s room setting it to rights so it would be ready for him to retire when he came in—and she heard voices, two voices—and although one was the dearest to her on earth—to hear them together as she had been doing for weeks, cut her to the heart.
The voices came nearer. They were coming in.
Jane was not jealous save in the highest sense—but she did not want to be caught fixing up Bill’s room. Her room was across the hall. She could not make it. She dodged behind a curtain that cut across one corner of the room and held Bill’s OTHER suit of clothes.
The voices came on—and Bill and Elaine came in. They were subdued and joyously happy.
Elaine only came to get a bottle of medicine that Doc. Holliday had sent. He sent for it for his own use to Kansas City.
Bill picked it up from the little bureau and handed it to Elaine. Their hands touched (What was that spark— who can tell?) The package dropped to the floor. They both stooped to one knee simultaneously to pick it up— and they raised their heads their faces came closely together. The breath of an angel was on his check. All went black to Bill Hickok—and his whole being became numb, so numb that he did not hear the low cry of pain behind the curtain. And when his brain did clear some ten seconds later they were still upon their knees—breast to breast—and her quivering lips were pressed to his.
Slowly but not angrily she arose and placed her hand upon his head as in benediction—and so they stood— three hearts in that room pounding—and the clock ticking. And then Elaine spoke—but she could not go on. The volcano in Bill Hickok’s heart broke forth. Still upon his knees with bowed head—and his big armsIN WILD BILL HICKOK
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clutched about her. He poured out his love the very vitals of a strong man’s soul.
And then when he had ended in a heart rending sob— Elaine spoke again. And, oh! the soft spiritual beauty of those tones. She told him he must guess what was in her heart, but that she must live, as his mother up there in the frame had lived—and he must live like the man beside his mother up there in the frame had lived, and now belonged to the ages.
And so she left him as he kneeled. And as she left him she bent her head and kissed his hair—and Wild Bill Hickok remained as he was, with no movement to tell that he lived and no sound but a low, scarcely audible half crying moan.
And then, he heard a voice in the distance:
"Bill,” it said, and the voice came nearer. "Bill,” it said again. And he looked up and Jane was standing by his side in the place that she had stood.
Slowly Bill came to his feet, and as he did, his eyes rested on the little frame that contained the simple photographs of his mother, when a young girl, and Abraham Lincoln, when a young boy. Long and earnestly, he looked. And then he spoke, slowly, sadly, "Who can say, Jane, that it aint just life repeatin’ itself?”
And then he drew a deep breath and his big frame filled out and squared: "But, Jane girl, il you love right— I reckon,” as some poet man said, "Its’ better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”
The tense girl at his side, said, "I know you play fair, Bill, but if you want the dam weak little lilly-white hussy, why don’t you take her.”
The sad eyes of Bill Hickok looked at her steadily, calmly. "You don’t mean that Jane. You’re just sorry for me, that’s what makes you say it.”
And so one more enters the martyr circle of our little life’s tragedy and enters in her own way.
The muscles of the heroic girl’s face quiver but her gaze is as level and as steady as Bill’s as she looks straight into his eyes.28
WILLIAM S. HART
“You’re wrong, Bill Hickok. I do mean it. You want her and she wants you—and if you’ve got guts you’ll take her.”
Bill Hickok takes his girl pardner by the shoulders and looks long and earnestly, almost angrily, into her eyes, but the pardner does not flinch a hair, her eyes even contain a suggestion of merriment.
“By God, Jane, I’m through with all women!”
“By God, Bill Hickok, so am I!”
It is just before the dawn of a new day that a man is seen walking along Front Street followed by a little paint horse, equipped and packed for the trail.
The man stands across the street from the Dodge House and looks long and earnestly. Then after his silent good bye—• he looks South across the railroad track. It is hard to go without saying good bye to Jane. And he says to the nosing Pinto, “Paint, I reckon it wouldn’t be fair not to say good bye to her.”
He leaves the little horse at the hitching rack and enters. Tom Sherman is in front of his bar. He never works, only in afternoons.
“Tom,” says Bill: “Much obliged for not saying anything about me goin’. I just want to slide way, but I’ll be obliged to you if you’ll bring Jane out to the door I’d like to say good bye.”
“Jane is right behind you,” Bill.
Bill looks. Jane is right behind him seated in bis old chair dealing Faro, dealing bis game, attired in full man’s attire—she is thru with women.
He looks long and quietly—and Jane knows he is looking and makes no sign. He waits until Jane looks at him squarely—and then he turns away without a word and is gone.
Tom Sherman saunters over to Jane, and placing his hand upon her shoulders, says, quietly, “I’d hate to see him go myself, Jane, if it wasn’t for one great reason.’
And the pressure of the hand upon her shoulder grips in affection.
There is a suggestion of a sob in the voice that answers. “Bill’s gone, Tom, but there’s a big part of himIN WILD BILL HICKOK
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left here yet. You know. He learned me how to handle guns.”
The first rays of the rising sun as it comes up from behind the earth is casting its red glow over the hundreds of one by eight rudely lettered wooden boards that rise eighteen inches above the ground on boot hill. Up over the rise along a narrow trail and rising right into the sun comes a little paint horse—and a lone rider, on the crest of the hill. The pony stops and the rider says, “Funny why you should stop here Paint where so many of my friends are. I feel some like being here with 'em all right.”
One long look back—the rays of light are just commencing to strike The Dodge House.
“I reckon it’s just you an’ me from hereon out, Paint. Git along!”
And if ever there was a tear in a strong man’s voice, it was in the voice of Wild Bill Hickok.
Deadwood, Dakota, in the Black Hills was so named by the first discoverers because it was located on a small stream with deadwood trees drifting down and snagging along its banks.
In the early spring of 1876 before the snow had melted, gold was discovered in the hills along Deadwood Creek and the settlement of Deadwood sprang up over night. The whole town of Custer seventy-five miles to the South, moved to Deadwood in a body. Among the crowd of gold seekers and those who accompanied gold seekers were Calamity Jane and Jack McCall and a girl in love with Jack McCall, named Fancy Pat.
Jane was now dressed in full buckskin, carried two guns, looked and acted like a man, associated with men in fact showed no female traits whatever. She danced with girls as other men did.
Fancy Pat who was enamored of Jack McCall had been christened by her mother in that past she knew not of—Patricia—but in the only life she knew they called her pat, and on account of her over dressing they prefixed the word fancy and so she was known in the Dakota Territory as Fancy Pat. She was a small blond30
WILLIAM S. HART
girl, young and still very beautiful but the ravages of the life she led was fast telling its story and her over dressing only accentuated this story, but she loved the worthless Jack McCall and so must appear in OUR story.
When we open in Deadwood the scene is the back room of a gambling hall. Some twenty or thirty girls dressed and ready for work, are standing about. One a chair in the midst of the group delivering a violent address is Fancy Pat. She is all worked up over her subject. She clinches her little fists and stamps her slippered feet and at times almost screams out her words, seeking to convince her hearers.
“She come up on the stage with US didn’t she?” she yells. “And now she is cornin’ in on another load, aint she? Somebody got the dust for bringin’ us in didn’t they? Sure they did—and it was her—and now she’s getting more to bring in another bunch to force us out. It’s a great game, a fine graft.”
“Oh! You’re just sore, Fancy, ‘cause your man follows Calamity around. You can’t prove nothin’.”
“Can’t I? Can’t I?” screams the pretty little termagant, “Just you wait and see—and if you want to look right now—go out and watch the load pull in that’s comin.’ ”
The load did pull in—and it was a strange sight. Girls of the dance halls look so strange in street clothes or daily apparel. They were unloaded—eighteen in all, and when they had been taken to the shacks in the rear of the dance hall where they were to live—
—A big, muscular gum-chewing woman was secretly handing Jack McCall—a fat roll of greenbacks. He who dealt in human flesh was receiving his toll.
And Jane, Calamity Jane was still unconsciously living up to her heritage of Calamity Jane. She was sitting idly playing solitare in the Sixty-Six saloon—with a smoking cigar on the table near her right hand.
While the little blond girl spurred on by jealousy engendered MORE Calamity.
It was on a late afternoon when the play was light that Wild Bill and the little Paint drifted into town.IN WILD BILL HICKOK	31
Bill had been for some time at Cheyenne. The movements of such gun men as he were generally known. When the little spotted horse was first seen coming into town the word was quickly passed, and one would think the whole town had turned out by the time he reached the place which it seems all new settlements have where travelers instinctively stop—The Well.
If Wild Bill Hickok had been quiet and gentlemanly all his life; He was now postively backward. He wore no guns in sight and his whole demeanor showed that he was doing everything in his power to avoid notoriety or to seek trouble.
The real truth no one would or could ever know. But the real truth WAS the spirit of Wild Bill broke the night he left Dodge City, Kansas, three years before.
They made a wonderful picture, Bill and the little Paint Horse, well groomed, with his silver mounted outfit glistening in the sun. One would think they had come but ten miles instead of hundreds.
Bill was really glad and embarrased at his wholesome reception and he was proud of the fame of his now aging Pinto Horse. So he doffed his hat in a wide sweep, and said, “Boys, any of you I have been fortunate enough to meet in the past I’m glad to meet again and any of you I have never met I’m mighty glad to meet you now.”
The crowd liked this. The crowd liked to be catered to by a famous gun man.
McCall, his sweetheart, Fancy Pat, holding his arm, was among the crowd. He was filled with chagrin. He hated Hickok as he hated nothing else on earth. But what could he do to show that hatred, to counteract the impression that he whom he hated was now making. He did not know. His fingers dug into his flesh with eagerness.
But the same relentless fate that seemed to guide the actions of Wild Bill Hickok in big things—did so in small things and they grew to big things.
Although the little Paint had been rubbed and polished a few miles out before entering town, he had not been watered. He had had no water since early morning, for the simple reason they had not forded any streams.32
WILLIAM S. HART
The well bucket was up and two thirds full lying against the top of the well as buckets do. The little Paint proceeded to drink.
The Devil acted! ! !
Here was McCall’s chance. It came from the Devil. He deliberately walked forward and seizing the little horse by the cheek strap, yanked his head away and cruelly jerked on his bit, as those who are cruel to horses sometimes do.
Hickok was paralyzed. He was dumbfounded.
The man who had done this, faced him, and said, “That bucket is for humans.”
“My horse is HUMAN, you whelp,” said Bill.
And McCall hit the ground before Hickok knew it was McCall—while a short skirted dance hall girl threw herself between Hickok and his fallen foe.
“You big brute. You big brute,” she cried, “You killer, you’ll pay for this.”
A bronzed figure in buckskin had worked thru the crowd and now stood facing Hickok. “Don’t mind her, Bill, she belongs to that worm there on the ground and the poor thing loves him.”
Bill looked steadily and spoke but one word—“Jane!”
The following weeks showed that McCall had done what he intended to do. He had started Hickok in wrong.
The men of the west were peculiar in one way. They would not be bullied and while Wild Bill was one of the mildest, squarest men that ever lived, his name and his reputation was against him in any new community where he was not known personally, and in ALL communities there were men who were jealous of Wild Bill Hickok and his reputation. Gunfighters themselves of various degrees of ability and courage.
It so happened that Bill favored the Sixty-Six Saloon with his presence. Jane made that place her headquarters. All saloons and saloon crowds in those days were more or less jealous of their champions who made that particular saloon their stamping ground—so it was natural that those who visited the Idaho Saloon should fail to see the mighty prowess with a gun of Hickok—IN WILD BILL HICKOK
33
the frequenter of the Sixty Six—especially that in so far as the naked eye could see Hickok did not carry a gun. THAT WAS A VERY IMPORTANT FACTOR!
Jane came to Bill and told him of the undercurrent of talk—and that he was not himself; he was drinking too much, and advised him to strap on his guns.
And Bill asked Jane to take a walk and when they arrived at what he thought was a secluded spot behind some shacks he asked Jane to face him and walk backwards until he told her to stop. She did so—and when she asked the reason, he shook his head sorrowfully and said, “Jane, You’re the only human on earth I’d trust. Jane, I’m not drinking too much. I’m not drinking at all. I’m going blind.” “Two paces before I called to you to stop I could see you perfectly and after that you were a blur. Jane, I’m afraid my gun days are over.”
At one of the shacks there was an opening for ventilation covered by a curtain—at the side of the curtain was Fancy Pat. Like a retriever dog straight to her lover she ran with the news.
“God! If it were true. If it were only true! What a revenge—•but even then—McCall was AFRAID. Nothing had ever yet looked into Bill Hickok’s eye in battle and lived. A cold perspiration broke out on his
forehead. No HE dare not risk it.--But straight to
the Idaho he went AND PROPERLY PLACED THE NEWS.
And soon it became the DUTY of the barkeeper at the Sixty Six for the honor of the house to inform Bill that some half dozen gun guys were at that very moment leaning against the Idaho bar saying what they would and could do to Bill—should the occasion arise and otherwise belittling him, his habits and his supposed gun ability.
THE COURAGE OF WILD BILL.
Bill did not speak. He turned away and he did not pause or stop until he stood before six armed men in the Idaho Saloon. Lowly, evenly, he spoke: “I understand you cheap sports have been questioning my courage. Now I come here to live peacable an’ quiet—and you34
WILLIAM S. HART
coyottes ain’t got sense enough to let me alone—so I’m obliged to call your bluff.”
It seemed strange but every one of those six men could swear Wild Bill Hickok was looking straight into HIS eyes—
—As Bill walked to the nearest man and took both his guns from his holsters, he then backed up slowly, five paces, and with each gun hanging at his side said, ‘׳Well!”
The only thing heard was silence.
Slowly and deliberately Bill stooped and laid the guns upon the floor and straightened up and waited.
Silence! Silence! nothing but silence!
And then again, ‘'Well.”
If someone had screamed it would have been a relief but nothing but silence.
As tho they were birds charmed by a rattler they all six watched Bill Hickok disarm them and place all their guns upon the bar without a word.
And then he spoke: “Mr. Barkeeper when these gentlemen awake from their stupor you may return them their hardware.”
Had Bill halted to listen as he was passing out he might have heard the following:
“Where in Hell is that guy that turned him loose on us?”
And he would have heard another mutter: “Blind, Hell, nothing the matter with his eyes. He sees all right. He sees Red!”
Whether she was solely guided by love for Jack Mc-call, as Jane said, or whether she was just naturally a little devil, the fact was there, that Fancy Pat could raise Hell. And she did. The better element of the town was against white slaving but the real ones against it were the girls themselves who were there, and they ruled the town.
Fancy Pat had been busy, very busy and she had gained her object. Jane was to be run out of town, and she would have been run out of town except for her friend, Wild Bill. He stood and faced them all in the open street and he made the only speech Wild BillIN WILD BILL HICKOK
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Hickok ever made—the only speech he was ever known to make and those who live today and heard HIM talk speak of it still. He spoke as one inspired by a higher power. He spoke calmly, truthfully. He spared no one, himself least of all—and when he finished he asked them as simply as a child would ask them—Did they want to throw the first stone?—and they all broke with bowed heads and silently stole away.
Jane, the stoic, Jane the fiery, swaggering male, was a woman now.
She was leaning up against a board shack sobbing, sobbing, great heart rending sobs. Bill touched her gently and reverently and took her in his arms and laid her head upon his breast. “Brace up, Jane, brace up. Let’s try an’ fight it out, Jane—you an’ me together— and maybe we can sort of patch up our ruined lives and live it out.
Some evil spirit must have been responsible for the existence of Fancy Pat—for again she saw and again she heard and again she ran like a ferret to her lover, Jack McCall.
“What!” See what he loved most linked to what he hated most. Not he. Not Jack McCall. His rage made him drink and he drank and drank again, and again. False courage nagged him on and he told Fancy Pat his plan—and if she would help him he would take her away and marry her.
His fuddled brain conceived a plan. There were four men who played stud poker nightly, Hickok always facing the door. The man Riley the Rake that sat with his back to the door was sweet on Pat. McCall said, “Get him to make Hickok take ־his chair—and we’ll leave tonight and go south and get married.”
The kisses of Fancy Pat were never thrown away—and in this instance they were not thrown away on Riley the Rake.
And when it came time for the four past master gamblers to take their seats—Riley the Rake insisted on changing his seat to change his luck and pointed to the fact that the night before he had lost $300.00 in that seat.36
WILLIAM S. HART
Hickok, the new, Hickok with a new hope in his heart, broke the rule of his life. He sat with his back to the door—and the assassin came—and there was no warning until the shot rang out—and Bill Hickok fell forward upon his face and died.
Every one was stunned.
As McCall ran outside and mounted his waiting horse and struck viciously with his gun at the face of a blond girl that was hysterically calling and trying to mount with him to be taken away—a strange woman that no one knew, in a gingham dress, fought her way thru the crowd to Wild Bill Hickok’s side.
The crowd was shouting. “Get him! Get McCall!”
And the strange woman cried out, “No let him go. Let him go. The world ain’t big enough to hold him. He has killed another man that belongs to the ages.”
And then they all see and stand agast. The strange woman is Calamity Jane.
It was the second day of August, 1876—and for forty-seven years—every year on the second day of August the bells toll in Deadwood.
THE ENDCOPYRIGHT BY WILLIAM S. HART 1923
WILL A. KISTLER Co.
PRINTERS
LOS ANGELES. CALIF.