“It would have been just the same,” grumbled Bat, “if a good man’s life had depended on that charge in that gun.”
And now for the last, but not the least dramatic episode by which Bat’s memory and mine are linked with Dodge City—not the Dodge City of cowboy revelry and bloodshed, but the Dodge City of what I can’t help thinking a decadent if more decorous era.
As the town grew civilized, Bat Masterson and I drifted to Tombstone. Jim Masterson, another of Bat’s brothers, remained in Dodge, a partner with Uptograph and Peacock in possession of a saloon and gambling house. Jim had a dispute with his partners about the distribution of the profits, and three or four of their creatures jumped on him. He escaped to his room with the intention of getting a gun and they surrounded the place, keeping him prisoner a whole day. Some of his friends telegraphed for Bat, and he traveled the 1,500 miles to make a fight with his brother’s enemies.
He arrived in Dodge at nine o’clock one morning, and had hardly stepped from the train when the other faction, who knew of his coming, started across the deadline to meet him. When they got to within fifty yards of him they gave him a shot or two by way of welcome, and he returned the fire with such effect as to inflict a mortal wound on Uptograph.
Thereupon Mayor Webster appeared with a double barreled shotgun and arrested Bat, who was afterwards fined ten dollars and ordered to leave Dodge for the rest of his life. You see, Dodge had become so civilized that it had no further use for the men who had been its best protectors in the days of the Texas Terror.
It was not long after Bat’s banishment that this very Webster, the Mayor, fell foul of another frontiersman—no less redoubtable a gambler and gun fighter than Luke Short. Luke and a man named Harris kept a gambling house next door to the one kept by the Mayor, and as Luke was well known in Texas and all over the frontier they enjoyed most of the patronage. In order to harass his rivals the Mayor had an ordinance passed denying women free access to the saloons—a prerogative which they had heretofore enjoyed in Dodge. Moreover, he secured a piano to add to the attractions of his own place and imported a professor to play it.
Short and Harris promptly furnished themselves with a handsomer piano and hired two girls to play and sing. Webster ordered a policeman to arrest these two girls, and they were taken to the calaboose. Luke went over to bail them out, but the policeman refused to accept his bonds. In the argument that ensued the policeman fired at Luke and Luke shot the policeman in the leg.
Thereupon Webster organized a shotgun brigade among his friends, and in the morning they marched Luke down to the depot, bundled him on board a train, and warned him never again to return to Dodge City. Apart from the ignominy of the thing and the natural desire to get square with his enemy, this was a serious matter for Luke, who had been dragged away from a profitable business in the city. So he telegraphed to Bat Masterson, and the pair of them, inspired by mutual friendship and a common grievance, tried to devise measures by which they could force the authorities of Dodge to receive them with the distinguished consideration which they conceived to be their due. Among other measures, they laid their grievance before the Governor of the State, who expressed his entire sympathy with them and advised them to fight their way into the city if necessary.
In this extremity they resorted to get my assistance, and Bat jumped on a train for Silverton, Col., where I was living at the time. (It should be understood that all this happened subsequent to the vendetta which resulted in my leaving Arizona.)
Our train got into Dodge at ten o’clock in the morning and we marched up the street to Luke’s saloon, I with my Wells-Fargo shotgun and my men with their Winchesters. Body of Bacchus! No wonder Dodge City rubbed its eyes. There was Milsap, there was Shotgun Collins, there was Shoot-Your-Eye-Out Jack, who wore his hair down to his waist; and there was Crooked-Mouth Green, whose features had been so mutilated by a bullet that his mouth extended around to the back of his head. Faithful followers and quick fighters, every one of ’em.
We met the District Attorney going up the street and his face wore a careworn, “come ye in peace now or come ye in war” look as he exclaimed:
“My God, Wyatt! Who are these people you’ve got with you?”
“Oh,” said I carelessly, “they’re just some bushwackers I’ve brought over from Colorado to straighten you people out.”
“In whose interests?” he asked.
“Luke Short and Bat Masterson’s,” I replied.
A few paces further on I met Mayor Webster, who shook hands with me with an air of cordiality that the yellowish pallor of his cheeks belied. We all filed into Luke’s saloon and there we were sworn in as deputies by Prairie Dog Dave, the Constable, who was with us blood and bones, as all good people in the town were. Indeed, the city was sick of the Webster reign of terror and glad to see a way out of it, and I soon had a following of a hundred or more fighters ready to do my bidding. It was no mean adventure to be deputized by Prairie Dog Dave, that enabled us to carry our arms without violating the law concerning which Dodge had become so sensitive.
The town council convened a hurried meeting and sent for me to ask my intentions. I told them I want Luke Short and Bat Masterson to return to Dodge at their pleasure. I added that if this were accomplished peacefully I would be so much better pleased, but that if necessary I was prepare to fight for my demands. In reply they offered to compromise. They would permit Luke Short to return for ten days to wind up his business. Bat Masterson they would not permit to enter the town. To this proposition I made no reply, but walked out of the council room. Soon afterward they sent for me again, and again I assured them that there would be no compromise—that Luke and Bat must be free to live in Dodge as long as they wanted to, provided they obey the laws.
Before the council had made any decision I wired to Luke Short to meet me at Kingsley, thirty miles away. I had an idea he might decide to return with me, so I gave orders to my followers to post themselves in front of Wright’s and at other strategic points in case of disturbance. Luke and I dined together at Kingsley and, as I had anticipated, he resolved to come back with me. But we agreed that we would let the other fellows begin the fighting.
Luke and I jumped off the rear platform of the sleeper as the train slowed up, each with a double-barreled shotgun in readiness, and advanced up the street, fully expecting to make a stiff fight for it. But the enemy didn’t appear. That night I telegraphed to Bat, telling him to come on the next train. He arrived in the morning and had no sooner alighted then a deputy sheriff demanded his shotgun, but I would not let him give it up.
I had hard work to persuade Bat to go into Webster’s and shake hands with the Mayor, but he consented at last and the trouble was over in a few minutes. We had conquered Dodge City without firing a shot. It was a great moral victory, for Bat and Luke were unmolested from that time forth. Not that Bat stayed long to enjoy the fruits of his vindication, for he was then City Marshal of Trinidad.
Among other manifestations of exuberance at the successful issue of our invasion the citizens dubbed us “the Dodge City Peace Commission” and had us photographed in a group. Crooked-Mouth Green and my other picturesque henchmen did not figure in the group, as they felt sensitive about submitting their physiognomies to the fierce light of frontier history. Which is really a pity.
As everybody knows, Bat Masterson has now for many years been identified with Denver, where he is appreciated at his true worth. His association with the prize ring and other forms of sport all over the country has brought his name prominently before a younger and more effete generation. And he has fallen into flesh. But to me he will always be Bat Masterson, the quick fighter, the square gambler, the staunch friend and generous foe—the fastest of my frontier friends.
CHAPTER XI.
WYATT EARP
By Bat Masterson
Thirty-five years ago that immense stretch of territory extending from the Missouri River west to the Pacific Ocean, and from the Brazos River in Texas north to t
he Red Cloud Agency in Dakota, knew no braver man nor more desperate man than Wyatt Earp, the subject of this narrative.
Wyatt Earp is one of the few men I personally knew in the West in the early days, whom I regarded as absolutely destitute of physical. I have often remarked, and I am not alone in my conclusion, that what goes for courage in a man is generally the fear of what other will think of him—in other words, personal bravery is largely made up of self-respect, egotism, and an apprehension of the opinion of others.
Wyatt Earp’s daring and apparent recklessness in time of danger is wholly characteristic; personal fear doesn’t enter into this equation, and when every-thing is said and done, I believe he values his own opinion of himself more than that of others, and it is his own good report that he seek to preserve. I may here cite an incident in his career that seems to me will go far toward establishing the correctness of the estimate I have made of him.
He was once engaged in running a faro game in Gunnison, Colorado, in the early days of that camp, and one day while away from the gambling house, another gambler by the name of Ike Morris, who had something of a local reputation as a bad man with a gun, and who was also running a faro game in another house in the camp, went into Wyatt’s game and put down a roll of bills on one of the cards and told the dealer to turn.
The dealer did as he was told, and after making a turn or two, won the bet and reached out on the layout and picked up the roll of bills and deposited them in the money-drawer. Morris instantly made a kick and claimed that the cards were crooked, and demanded the return of his money. The dealer said he could not give back the money, as he was only working for wages, but advised him to wait until Mr. Earp returned, and then explain matters to him, and as he was the proprietor of the game he would perhaps straighten the matter up.
In a little while Wyatt returned, and Morris was on hand to tell him about the squabble with the dealer, and incidentally ask him for the return of the money he had bet and lost.
Wyatt told him to wait a minute and he would speak to the dealer about it; if things were as he represented he would see what could be done about it. Wyatt stepped over to the dealer and asked him about the trouble with Morris. The dealer explained the matter, and assured Wyatt that there was nothing wrong with the cards, and Morris had lost his money fairly and squarely.
By this time the house was pretty well filled up, as it noised about that Morris and Earp were likely to have trouble. A crowd had gathered in anticipation of seeing a little fun. Wyatt went over to where Morris was standing and stated that the dealer had admitted cheating him out of his money, and he felt very much like returning it on that account; but said Wyatt—“You are looked upon in this part of the country as a bad man and if I was to give you back your money you would say as soon as I left town, that you made me do it, and for that reason I will keep your money.”
Morris said no more about the matter, and after inviting Wyatt to have a cigar, returned to his own house, and in a day or so left the camp.
There was really no reason why he should have gone away, for so far as Wyatt was concerned the incident was closed; but he had perhaps lost whatever prestige his reputation as a bad man had given him in camp, and concluded it would be best for him to move out before some other person of lesser note than Wyatt took a fall out of him. This he knew would be almost sure to happen if he remained in town after the Earp incident got noised about; every Tom, Dick, and Harry in camp would be anxious to take a kick at him, and that was perhaps the reason for his sudden departure for other fields where the fact of his punctured reputation was not so generally known. The course pursued by Earp on this occasion was undoubtedly the proper one—in fact, the only one, to preserve his reputation and self-respect. It would not have been necessary for him to have killed Morris in order to sustain his reputation, and very likely that was the very last thing he had in mind at the time, for he was not one of those human tigers who delight in shedding blood just for the fun of the thing. He never, at any time in his career, resorted to the pistol excepting in cases where such a course was absolutely necessary. Wyatt would scrape with his fists, and had often taken all the fight out of bad men, as they were called, with no other weapons than those provided by nature.
There were few men in the West who could whip Earp in a rough-and-tumble fight thirty years ago, and I suspect that he could give a tough youngster a hard tussle right now, even if he is sixty-one years of age. In all probability had Morris been known as a peaceable citizen, he would have had his money returned when he asked for it, as Wyatt never cared much for money; but being known as a bad man with a reputation as a gunfighter, his only chance to get his money back lay in his ability to “do” Earp, and that was a job he did not care to tackle.
I have known Wyatt Earp since early in the seventies, and I have seen him tried out under circumstances which made the test of manhood supreme. He landed in Wichita, Kansas in 1872, being then about twenty-six years old, and weighing in the neighborhood of one hundred and sixty pounds, all of it muscle. He stood six feet in height, with light blue eyes, and a complexion bordering on the blonde. He was born at Monmouth, Illinois, of a clean strain of American breeding, and served in an Iowa regiment the last three years of the Civil War, although he was only a boy at the time. He always arrayed himself on the side of law and order, and on a great many occasions, at the risk of his life, rendered valuable service in upholding the majesty of the law in those communities in which he lived. In the spring of 1876 he was appointed Assistant City marshal of Dodge City, Kansas, which was then the largest shipping point in the North for the immense herds of Texas cattle that were annually driven from Texas to the northern markets. Wyatt’s reputation for courage and coolness was well known to many of the citizens of Dodge City—in fact it was his reputation that secured for him the appointment of Assistant City Marshal.
He was not very long on the force before one of the aldermen of the city, presuming somewhat on the authority of his position gave him over a police officer, ordered Wyatt one night to perform an official act that did not look exactly right to him, and Wyatt refused point blank to obey the order. The alderman, regarded as something of a scrapper himself, walked up to Wyatt and attempted to tear his official shield from his vest front where it was pinned. When that alderman woke up he was a greatly changed man. Wyatt knocked him down as soon as he laid his hands on him, and then reached down and picked him up with one hand and slammed a few cuts and upper-hooks into his face, dragged his limp form over to the city calaboose, and chucked him into one of the cells, just the same as he would any other disturber of the peace. The alderman’s friends tried to get him out on bail during the night, but Wyatt gave it out that it was the calaboose for the alderman until the police court opened up for business at nine o’clock the following morning, and it was. Wyatt was never bothered any more while he lived in Dodge City by aldermen.
While he invariably went armed, he seldom had occasion to do any shooting in Dodge City, and only once do I recall when he shot to kill, and that was a drunken cowboy who rode up to the Variety Theater where Eddie Foy, the now famous comedian, was playing an engagement. The cowboy rode straight by Wyatt, who was standing outside the main entrance to the show shop, but evidently he did not notice him, else he would not in all probability have acted as he did.
The building in which the show was being given was one of those pine-board affairs that were in general use in frontier towns. A bullet fired from a Colt’s 45 calibre pistol would go through a half-dozen such buildings, and this the cowboy knew. Whether it was Foy’s act that enraged him or whether he had been jilted by one of the chorus we never learned; at any rate he commenced bombarding the side of the building directly opposite the stage on which Eddie Foy was at that moment reciting that beautiful pathetic poem entitled “Kalamazoo in Michigan.” The bullets tore through the side of the building, scattering pieces of the splintered pine-boards in all directions. Foy evidently thought the cowboy was after him, for he did not ta
rry long in the line of fire. The cowboy succeeded in firing three shots before Wyatt got his pistol in action. Wyatt missed the first shot which was probably due to the fact that the horse the cowboy was riding kept continually plunging around, which made it rather a hard matter to get a bead on him. His second shot however, did the work, and the cowboy rolled off his horse and was dead by the time the crowd reached him.
Wyatt’s career in and around Tombstone, Arizona, in the early day of that bustling mining camp was perhaps the most thrilling and exciting of any he ever experienced in the thirty-five years he has lived on the lurid edge of civilization. He had four brothers besides himself who wagoned it into Tombstone as soon as it was announced that gold had been discovered in the camp.
Jim was the oldest of the brothers, Virgil came next, then Wyatt, then Morgan, and Warren, who was the kid of the family. Jim started in running a saloon as soon as one was built. Virgil was holding the position of Deputy U.S. Marshal. Wyatt operated a gambling house, and Morgan rode as a Wells Fargo shotgun messenger on the coach between Tombstone and Benson, which was the nearest railroad point. Morgan’s duty was to protect the Wells Fargo coach from the stage robbers with which the country at that time was infested.
The Earps and the stage robbers knew each other personally, and it was on this account that Morgan had been selected to guard the treasure the coach carried. The wells Fargo company believed that so long as it kept one of the Earp boys on their coach their property was safe; and it was, for no coach was ever held up in that country upon which one of the Earp boys rode as guard.
A certain band of these stage robbers who lived in the San Simone Valley, about fifty miles from Tombstone and very near the line of old Mexico, where they invariably took refuge when hard pressed by the authorities on the American side of the line, was made up of the Clanton Brothers, Ike and Billy, and the McLowry brothers, Tom and Frank. This was truly a quartet of desperate men, against whom the civil authorities of that section of the country at that time was powerless to act. Indeed, the United States troops from the surrounding posts who had been sent out to capture them dead or alive, had on more than one occasion returned to their posts after having met with both failure and disaster at the hands of the desperadoes.
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