In a few days after the arrangement was concluded, the sum of fifty dollars was placed in the hands of each of the hired assassins as forfeit money, to pay expenses of the trip to Abilene, and the eight villains then started out upon their mission.
After reaching Abilene, as was customary among the Texans who visited the place, the party got on a big drunk, and, while in this condition, one of the number explained the nature of his trip to an acquaintance who, by chance, was a secret friend of Bill’s. The information was very soon imparted to Bill, and the villains were foiled in the following manner: Bill decided to go to Topeka by the train, and to have the assassins made acquainted with his purpose. He knew they would follow him, because they would consider it safer to kill their man by luring him onto the platform of a train, where a knife thrust would finish their work without the knowledge of the other passengers, than to attack him in the boundaries of his official jurisdiction among his friends. Accordingly, Bill got on the evening train going east, and saw the eight villains get into the coach in the rear of the one he entered. Bill wisely concluded that no attempt would be made upon his life until a late hour, when the passengers would generally be asleep, and quietly kept his seat until about eleven o’clock, when the train was passing a dark and deep cut a few miles west of Topeka. He concluded now was the time to act; so, drawing his two revolvers, he entered the car where the eight would-be murderers sat. In an instant all was attention, but confusion soon followed, for Bill raised his pistols and commanded the assassins to file out of the car before him. They saw at once that hesitation meant death, and without attempting the purpose for which they came, every one of them hastily arose and did as Bill commanded, leaping from the rapidly-moving train apparently without a thought of the danger in so doing. Three of them were so badly hurt in the fall that their companions had to carry them off, and one of the most notorious of the party died two days afterwards of his injuries. The parting injunction which Bill gave them forced them to abandon the idea of getting his heart. Said he: “If any of you gray-backed hell-hounds ever cross my track again, I’ll make blood-pudding out of your infernal carcasses.” Bill would undoubtedly have attacked the men had it not been for the presence of so many passengers, some of whom would certainly have been killed in the conflict.
About one year after the killing of Phil Cole at Abilene, Wild Bill had occasion to visit Wichita, Kansas, on some private business. He made the trip on horseback, there being no other mode of travel between the two places. Bill was acquainted with no one in Wichita, and habit caused him to make his first stop in the place before a saloon, where he hitched his horse and went in. There was no one in the saloon at the time of his entrance; so Bill took a seat expecting the proprietor had just stepped out and would be back in a short time. While he was sitting beside a table reading a newspaper, a stranger stepped in and enquired:
“Is your name Wild Bill?”
“That is what they call me,” responded Bill.
“Then take that,” said the stranger, drawing a pistol and shooting at Bill. The muzzle of the pistol was so close that the flash burned Bill’s face and the bullet struck him at the base of the hair on the left side of his forehead and cut out a furrow of flesh and hair. Bill fell unconscious, but the saloon-keeper coming in a moment after the shot was fired, threw some water in his face and consciousness was soon restored.
The stranger jumped on his horse after discharging the shot and rode off furiously towards the south.
It was hardly ten minutes after the shooting before Bill had recovered sufficiently from the stunning effects of the shot to mount his horse and start in pursuit of his unknown assailant.
Bill was mounted on an excellent horse, and as he had no difficulty in ascertaining the route taken by the stranger, the ride was a fast and furious one. The pursued and pursuer, after a running ride of thirty miles, came in sight of each other, and a desperate fight was now prepared for. The stranger supposed he had killed Bill and was being pursued by some officer of justice; but Bill was urged on by his excessive hunger for revenge, and it soon came—terrible enough. When about fifty yards apart, Bill discharged his pistol at the stranger, but the ball struck and disabled the horse. There was then an exchange of shots and the stranger lay dead on the ground with a bullet in his brain. Not satisfied with killing the man, Bill stooped over the prostrate body and drawing a bowie-knife from its sheath, he cut a slice out of the stranger’s head which he considered would correspond with the wound in his own. This bloody trophy Bill carried with him for years afterwards—a dried piece of flesh and hair.
The stranger proved to be a cousin of Phil Cole, the gambler, and from facts gathered afterwards, it was shown that he had long sought an opportunity to avenge his cousin’s death. The revenge was, however, visited upon the head of the avenger.
* * *
Bill served the time for which he was chosen as marshal of Abilene, and in the spring of 1872 removed to Kansas City. It was at this place the writer—then connected with the daily Journal—met him and formed an intimate acquaintance, which afforded abundant opportunity to learn his real character as a man. Bill was frequently importuned for the particulars of his marvelous adventures, and permission to write his life, but he always positively refused. The last time this request was made, he returned the following reply: “Well, Buel, I expect my life has been a little interesting, and it might please some people to read about my adventures, but I don’t want a word written about me until after I’m dead. I never fought any man for notoriety, and am sorry that I’ve got the name I have. Since Ned Buntline made a hero out of such material as Bill Cody (Buffalo Bill,) I’ve thought it time to drop out of sight. I took Cody when he was left alone in the world, a young lad, and partially raised him. Well, I don’t want to say anything against the boy, but his pluck wouldn’t go at par. I’ve kept a little diary of all my exploits, and when I’m dead I’ll be glad if it falls into your hands, and from it you may be able to write something interesting. When I die it will be just as you now see me, and sickness will not be the cause. For more than ten years I’ve been constantly expecting to be killed, and it is certain to come before a great while longer.”
During this conversation Bill appeared to be unusually sad, and when he referred to his death it was with a seriousness which indicated that he had been notified of his tragic end by some terrible presentiment.
He was an expert poker-player, and followed no other calling while in Kansas City. The place was fairly filled with gamblers, and up to 1875 the voice of the keno caller could be heard in nearly every other building on Main street, between Missouri avenue and Fourth street. The Marble block, and houses on the west side of the square, were particularly the haunts of gamblers. Murders and rows were not infrequent, but Bill kept out of all difficulties. He was both feared and respected. His carriage was that of a peaceable gentleman, and during the three years he made Kansas City his home, he was a party to but one row, and that was of minor consequence. This difficulty occurred in the St. Nicholas Hotel barroom, owned by Joe Siegmund, now the proprietor of a hotel in Malvern, Arkansas. A foppish fellow, half-drunk, being told that the party drinking at the bar was Wild Bill, went up to him, and, in a most provoking manner, asked Bill if he was the desperado who had been killing men indiscriminately out West. The impertinent inquiry called forth from Bill an equally insulting reply. The fellow, evidently bent on a row, then began to talk of shooting, and his ability “to lick any border ruffian that ever lived.” Bill walked up to him slowly, and as the senseless fop was attempting to draw a pistol, he caught him by one ear and slapped his face until the fellow howled for mercy.
* * *
In the fall of 1874, Bill met Mrs. Lake, the widow of William Lake, proprietor of Lake’s circus, who was killed by Jack Keenan at Granby, Missouri in 1873. The meeting was purely accidental, but the consequences were matrimonial. A courtship followed, and in the early part of 1875 the two were married by a justice of the peace in Kansas City.
Within a few months after the marriage Bill became afflicted with sore eyes, from which he suffered intensely, and for the period of nine months was unable to distinguish daylight from darkness. Dr. Thorne, previously noticed as one of Bill’s confidants, was his physician, and succeeded in restoring his sight, but his eyes never regained their former strength, and the vision remained impaired. In the winter of 1875–76, a separation occurred between Bill and his wife, the causes of which we deem it improper to relate. Suffice it to say that those best qualified to decide, claim that no blame attaches to Bill for the termination of his marital relation. No divorce, we believe, was ever applied for by either party, but they never met after the spring of 1876.
* * *
In February, 1876, Wild Bill entered into an engagement with Ned Buntline (Judson), the novelist who created Buffalo Bill and his exploits, to appear as a leading character in a border play he had written for the stage. The troupe was made up in New York, and the principal actors were Wild Bill, Buffalo Bill, and Texas Jack. The business was a most disagreeable one for Wild Bill, who entered into the engagement solely under the pressure of pecuniary needs. The authorities of Kansas City had so vigorously prosecuted the gamblers that the professionals were compelled to abandon their games, and thus Bill became, to use his own expression, “severely money-bound.” Buntline, with a vivid imagination running at all times through carnage and lawlessness, employed his best ability in getting up the posters heralding the appearance of his troupe. Wild Bill was posted in large, blood-red letters as having killed thirty-six men, and the most desperate man that ever set foot on the plains. His nature arose with revolt at such a publicity of his character, and after playing the role of a border bandit for two months, he peremptorily refused to appear on the stage any longer.
* * *
After leaving the Buntline troupe, Wild Bill came to St. Louis for the purpose of organizing an expedition to the Black Hills. The gold fever was at its height, and St. Louis, like all other Western cities, was very much excited over the auriferous discoveries. Bill remained in St. Louis about three weeks, at the end of which time he had succeeded in organizing a party of nearly one hundred men, which was increased to one hundred and fifty by additions received at Kansas City. The party arrived at the Black Hills in the latter part of June, Bill going to Deadwood, and the others distributing themselves among the hills, where they established ranches and began their quest for gold.
Deadwood was a gay place when Bill entered its limits, and the life led by its mixed citizens was exactly suited to his disposition. Every other house was a saloon, and if ever there was a gambler’s paradise, it was there. The female portion of Deadwood’s population was limited, but the few who were there were so active and boisterous as to compensate for ten times the same number of ordinary women. Bill was in his element, although he had no disposition to take a part in the wild orgies of the drunken, maudlin crowd which infested every nook and corner of the place. He liked the freedom the society permitted, but indulged himself only in gambling and an occasional drink.
Bill made many friends in Deadwood, and it was not known that he had any enemies in the Black Hills, but while he was surrounded by friends, he should never have forgotten the fact that his enemies were almost like the leaves of the forest. They were always plotting his destruction and laying snares along his path. The end came at last, just as Bill had himself often predicted.
* * *
On the 2nd day of August, 1876, Wild Bill was in Lewis & Mann’s saloon, playing a game of poker with Capt. Massey, a Missouri river pilot, Charley Rich, and Cool Mann, one of the proprietors of the saloon. The game had been in progress nearly three hours, when at about 4:00 p.m., a man was seen to enter the door and pass up to the bar. Bill was sitting on a stool with the back of his head towards and about five feet from the bar. When the man entered, Bill had just picked up the cards dealt him, and was looking at his “hand,” and therefore took no notice of the newcomer. The man, who proved to be Jack McCall, alias Bill Sutherland, after approaching the bar, turned, and drawing a large navy revolver, placed the muzzle within two inches of Bill’s head and fired. The bullet entered the base of the brain, tore through the head, and made its exit at the right cheek, between the upper and lower jaw-bones, breaking off several teeth and carrying away a large piece of the cerebellum through the wound. The bullet struck Capt. Massey, who sat opposite Bill, in the right arm and broke the bone. At the instant the pistol was discharged, the cards fell from Bill’s hands and he dropped sideways off the stool without uttering a sound. His companions were so horrified that several moments elapsed before it was discovered that Capt. Massey was wounded.
The assassin turned upon the crowd and compelled them to file out of the saloon before him. After reaching the street he defied arrest, but at five o’clock he gave himself up and asked for an immediate trial. Deadwood was, at that time, so primitive that it had no city officers, and there was no one legally competent to take charge of or try the prisoner. During the same evening, however, a coroner was chosen, who impaneled a jury and returned a verdict to the effect that J. B. Hickok (Wild Bill) came to his death from a wound resulting from a shot fired from a pistol by John McCall, alias Bill Sutherland.
Having proceeded thus far, it was determined to elect a judge, sheriff, and prosecuting attorney to try McCall on the following day. The lessee of McDaniel’s theatre offered the use of the theatre for the purposes of the trial, which was arranged to take place at nine o’clock on the following morning. Three men were sent out in different directions to notify the miners in the neighborhood of the murder, and to request their attendance at the trial.
Promptly at the time appointed, the improvised court convened, and Joseph Brown, who had been chosen sheriff, produced the prisoner. F. J. Kuykendall, the pro tempore judge, then addressed the crowd in a very appropriate manner, reminding those present that the court was purely a self-constituted one, but that in the discharge of his duty he would be governed by justice, and trust to them for a ratification of his acts. His remarks were greeted with hand-clappings of approval. The prisoner was then led forward and conducted to a seat on the stage to the right of the judge.
Never did a more forbidding countenance face a court than that of Jack McCall; his head, which was covered with a thick crop of chestnut hair, was very narrow as to the parts occupied by the intellectual portion of the brain, while the animal development was exceedingly large. A small, sandy moustache covered a sensual mouth, and the coarse double-chin was partially hid by a stiff goatee. The nose was what is commonly called “snub;” he had cross eyes and a florid complexion, which completed a more repulsive picture than Dore could conceive. He was clad in a blue flannel shirt, brown overalls, heavy shoes, and, as he sat in a stooping position, with his arms folded across his breast, he evidently assumed a nonchalance and bravado which were foreign to his feelings, and betrayed by the spasmodic heavings of his heart.
The selection of a jury consumed all the forenoon, as it was next to impossible to select a man who had not formed or expressed an opinion concerning the murder, although but few who were in the panel had heard of the tragedy until a few hours before. A hundred names were selected, written upon separate scraps of paper, and placed in a hat. They were then well shaken, and the committee appointed for the purpose drew from the hat one name at a time. The party answering to the name then came forward and was examined by the judge touching his fitness to serve as an impartial juror. Ninety-two names were called from the panel before the jury was made up. The jurors being sworn, they took their seats, and testimony for the prosecution was begun.
The first witness called was Charles Rich, who said that he was in the saloon kept by Lewis & Mann on the afternoon of the 2nd, and was seated at a table playing a game of poker with Wild Bill and several others, when the prisoner, whom he identified, came into the room, walked deliberately up to Wild Bill, placed a pistol to the back of the deceased, and fired, saying: “Take that!” Bill fell
from the stool upon which he had been seated without uttering a word.
Samuel Young testified that he was engaged in the saloon; that he had just delivered $15 worth of pocket checks to the deceased, and was returning to his place behind the bar when he heard the report of a pistol shot; turning around, he saw the prisoner at the back of Wild Bill with a pistol in his hand which he had just discharged; heard him say, “Take that!”
Carl Mann was one of the proprietors of the saloon in which Wild Bill was killed; was in the poker game; noticed a commotion; saw the prisoner (whom he identified) shoot Wild Bill.
The defense called for the first witness, P. H. Smith, who said he had been in the employ of McCall four months; that he was not a man of quarrelsome disposition; that he had always considered him a man of good character; that he (the witness) had been introduced to Wild Bill in Cheyenne, and drank with him; that the deceased had a bad reputation, and had been the terror of every place in which he had resided.
H. H. Pickens said that he had known defendant four years, and believed him to be a quiet and peaceable man. Wild Bill’s reputation as a “shootist” was very hard; he was quick in using the pistol and never missed his man, and had killed quite a number of persons in different parts of the country.
Ira Ford had known the defendant about one year; “like a great many others, he would go upon a spree like the rest of the boys.” Wild Bill had the reputation of being a brave man, who could and would shoot quicker than any man in the Western country, and who always “got away” with his antagonist.
Outlaws and Peace Officers Page 8
