Outlaws and Peace Officers Page 7
The origin of the difficulty was in bad whisky and ruffian nature. Bill went into a saloon—which was well filled with cattle drivers, who were half drunk and anxious for a fight—and called for a drink without inviting any one to join him. While raising the glass to his mouth one of the ruffians gave him a push in the back which caused him to drop the glass. Without saying a word, Bill turned and struck the rowdy a desperate blow, felling him outside the door. Four of the rowdy’s friends jumped up from their chairs and drew their pistols. Bill appreciated his situation at once, and with wonderful coolness, said: “Gentlemen, let us have some respect for the proprietor. You are anxious for a fight, and I will accommodate you if you will consent to step outside. I will fight all four of you at fifteen paces with pistols.” There was a general consent, and the crowd filed out of the saloon. The distance was stepped off, and the four men stood five feet apart, facing Bill. The saloon-keeper was to give the word “fire,” and the arrangements were conducted in as fair a manner as four men can fight one. Bill stood as calmly as though he were in church. Not a flush nor tremor. All parties were to allow their pistols to remain in their belts until the word “fire” was given, when each was then to draw and fire at will, and as often as circumstances permitted. The saloon-keeper asked if all were ready, and receiving an affirmative reply, began to count slowly, pausing at least ten seconds between each count: “one, two, three—fire!” Bill had fired almost before the call had died from the saloon-keeper’s lips. He killed the man on the left, but a shot also struck Bill in the right shoulder, and his right arm fell helpless.
In another instant he had transferred his pistol to his left hand, and three more successive shots dropped his antagonists. Three of the men were shot in the head and instantly killed. The other was shot in the right cheek, the ball carrying away a large portion of the cheek bone. He afterwards recovered, and may be living yet. The names of the four were: Jack Harkness, the one who recovered; Jim Slater, Frank Dowder, and Seth Beeber.
Bill was lionized by the others in the crowd in a moment after the fight; his wound was carefully bandaged and his wants administered to; but he considered it safer to quit the county at once, and returned to Kansas, going direct to Hays City, where he remained until he recovered the use of his arm, none of the bones having been broken, and in the latter part of the same year he was made city marshal, as he was the only one capable of dealing with the lawless class which had often overrun the town and set law and decency at defiance.
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In 1868, Wild Bill was engaged to guide a party of thirty pleasure-seekers, headed by Hon. Henry Wilson, deceased ex-Vice-President, through some of the Western territories. Mrs. Wilson, wife of the Vice-President, was among the party, and being of a most vivacious and entertaining disposition, added greatly to the enjoyment of the trip. Wild Bill’s introduction to her resulted in a pleasing episode at the conclusion of the trip. She requested Bill to carefully scrutinize the party, and then give her his impartial opinion of Yankees. Bill replied that it was not customary for him to form rash conclusions, but if it were her wish he would deliver his opinion upon their return.
The thirty days roaming through the canyons and over the mountains furnished a most enjoyable diversion to the entire party. There was scarcely a day passed but that Bill gave them samples of his unerring aim, killing enough game with his pistol to provision the company. The ladies, who composed nearly one-half the party, never tired of praising him, listening to his stories of border life, and wondering at his marvelous escapes. Bill naturally felt elated, and could not refrain from evincing his very deep interest in the pretty girls from the states. The gentlemen exhibited equal interest in the exploits of Bill, and gave him full credit for his performances. There was one thing about the party which Bill could not comprehend, viz.: the tight-legged pants which they wore—which at that time were the prevailing fashion in the East—and gave to the wearer the appearance of skeleton legs, wrapped with checked bandages, or a grasshopper dressed in an overcoat.
Upon the return of the party, Mrs. Wilson, in bidding Bill good-bye, asked for a fulfillment of his promise. He rather reluctantly responded, “Well, madam, I always like to keep my promise, but in this instance I should like to be excused.” But no excuse would answer; his disinclination only excited a more anxious interest in Mrs. Wilson to obtain his opinion.
Being pressingly importuned, Bill at length gave his opinion as follows: “If you Yankee women have as small legs as the sample of Yankee men we have here, then I have a d—d poor opinion of the tribe.”
The frankness with which Bill spoke, no less than his remarks, threw the entire party into disorder.
The young ladies hid their faces, and the men generally exhibited their umbrage, but Mr. and Mrs. Wilson were fairly convulsed with laughter. The sting was taken out of Bill’s opinion by Mrs. Wilson exclaiming, “Well, Mr. Hickok, that is just my sentiment.”
After Bill’s return from the trip with the Wilson company of wealthy “Yankees,” he resumed his duties as city marshal of Hays City. It would be difficult for anyone not familiar with the terrorism of border life to form an approximate estimate of the condition of society in Hays City when Bill became the custodian of its peace. Saloons and gambling hells were the most flourishing branches of business, and never closed their doors. The Sabbath was ignored, and the revelry of ruffians continued day and night. The population, it is true, was not a large one, but it was an exceedingly vicious and lively one. There were, of course, many good citizens, but, to use a border expression, “they never aired themselves,” yet it was through their instrumentality that Bill became marshal. Among the most violent and dangerous of the rowdy element in Hays City was Jack Strawhan, a large, double-fisted bully who boasted that he could clean out the town, and who had his record well made by killing several men.
Some months previous to the occurrence about to be related, Strawhan had visited Ellsworth, and after getting fighting drunk, he and his gang undertook to “clean out the place,” as they expressed it. Capt. Kingsbury, the gentleman before referred to, was sheriff of Ellsworth county at the time, and being a man of equally desperate pluck, he called his deputy, Whitney, and Wild Bill, who was also in Ellsworth on that day, to his assistance, and after a slight skirmish arrested the gang. Strawhan was so violent and abusive that it became necessary, owing to there being no secure jail in the place, to tie him to a post, his arms being thrown around it and fastened in front. This position was a punishment as well as a secure one, and he was kept there until thoroughly sober and subjugated.
This severe treatment caused Jack to take a public oath to kill Kingsbury, Whitney, and Wild Bill at the first opportunity, and every one who knew the man felt that he would keep his word.
The day of fate arrived in 1869, and under the following circumstances: Wild Bill was in Tommy Drum’s saloon, in company with a crowd of drinking characters, indulging, as was his wont, when Strawhan entered by a side door. Bill’s eyes were always on the lookout for danger, and they caught Jack the moment he stepped upon the threshold. Bill made a pretense of not noticing his bitter enemy, but quietly grasped his pistol and kept talking, unconcernedly, as before. Strawhan thought his opportunity had come, and that Bill was off his guard, but the moment Strawhan attempted to level his pistol, Bill wheeled and shot him dead, the ball from his weapon entering Strawhan’s right eye, felling him without a groan. Bill then turned back to the counter of the bar, and asked everybody in the saloon to take a drink, never giving the slightest heed to the body of the man which lay on the floor dead, with his face smothered in a pool of blood. Everyone drank. The coroner was sent for and the crowd gave their testimony. Bill was acquitted the same day, and serenaded by the authorities at night. Whitney escaped death at Strawhan’s hands, but was killed by a Texan named Ben Thompson, in 1873.
Shortly after the event just related, Bill Mulvey, a notorious rough and desperado from St. Joseph, Mo., struck Hays City, and got on what we term in the W
est, “a great big tear.” He paraded the streets with a revolver in each hand, howling like an enraged tiger, and thirsting for someone’s blood. He was met by the squire and constable, both of whom endeavored to make him keep the peace, but their efforts were so far futile that he turned upon them and drove both out of the town. Wild Bill, who chanced to be in a saloon in another part of the place, where he was unconscious of the disturbance, was notified, and at once started to arrest Mulvey. Approaching his man quietly, in a most amiable tone he told Mulvey that he should have to arrest him for disturbing the peace. Mulvey had his pistols in his hands at the time, and in an instant they were leveled at Wild Bill’s head, with the injunction, “March before me.” Bill fully appreciated the danger of his position, but his remarkable self-possession and coolness never deserted him. Before turning to march in front of Mulvey, Bill raised his left hand, and with a look of dissatisfaction, said: “Boys, don’t hit him.” This remark had the desired effect, for as Bill had not shown his pistol, Mulvey turned to see who Bill had spoken to, and to protect his rear. In the twinkle of an eye, Bill whipped out his pistol and shot Mulvey dead, the ball entering the victim’s head just behind the ear.
The West was thus relieved of another desperate character, and Wild Bill received a vote of thanks from the citizens for his conduct.
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Bill’s fortunate escape from death in his fight with the McCandlas gang at Rock Creek was no more remarkable than one of his fights at Hays City which occurred in 1870. During this year, the 7th U. S. Cavalry was stationed at that post, and many of the soldiers, partaking of the desperate nature which distinguished the place, gave the authorities great trouble. Bill’s duties as city marshal caused an antagonism which finally culminated in a most desperate fight with fifteen of the soldiers, the particulars of which are as follows: On the day in question, several of the soldiers became very drunk, among them a large sergeant who had a particular aversion to Bill on account of his having arrested, at diverse times, several of the members of his company. The sergeant was in Paddy Welch’s saloon with several of his men, indulging in a noisy carousal. Welch sent for Bill to remove the crowd, but when he arrived the sergeant insisted on fighting Bill in the street. He confessed that he was no match for Bill in a duel, but dared him to meet him in fistic encounter. To this proposition Bill consented, and taking out his two revolvers he passed them to Welch, and the two combatants, followed by the crowd inside, stepped out of the saloon and into the street. Although the sergeant was much the larger man, he was no equal for Bill, and in a moment after the fight began the sergeant was knocked down, and Bill was administering to him a most severe thrashing. The soldiers, fourteen in number, seeing their sergeant at great disadvantage, and in danger of never getting back to camp with a sound body, rushed in to his assistance, some with clubs, and others with stones, seemingly determined to kill Bill. Paddy Welch was near at hand, and seeing the desperate position he occupied, ran into the crowd and succeeded in placing the two revolvers in his hands. In another moment he discharged a shot which killed one of the soldiers, and would have done more terrible execution but for the crowd that was on him, which prevented him from using his hands.
When the first soldier fell dead there was a hasty dispersion of the others, but only to get their pistols, which were near at hand, and to renew the attack. For a few minutes there was rapid firing, and three more of the soldiers fell, one of them dead, and the other two mortally wounded. The odds were too great for Bill, and though he was struck with seven bullets, he managed to escape from the crowd and get out of town. Night coming on very soon after the fight was over enabled Bill to cross Smoky river and secrete himself several miles from the town, where he remained lying in a buffalo wallow for two days, caring for his wounds. He was hit three times in the arms, once in the side and three times in the legs. None of the wounds were serious, but he was compelled to tear up his shirt and drawers for bandages to stop the flow of blood.
On the following day after the fight, Gen. Sheridan ordered a detachment of cavalry to go in pursuit of Bill, and, using his own words, “to take him dead or alive,” but, although the pursuit was entered into earnestly, they never found the object of their search.
After getting able to travel, which was on the third day, Bill managed to drag his sore and hungry body down to Bill Williams’s ranch, where he was tenderly cared for. No one can imagine the suffering he endured during the two days he lay in the buffalo wallow. His wounds, though but flesh injuries, gave him excruciating pain. He drew his boots, which were filled with blood, and was unable to put them on again. He lost his hat during the fight, and, after tearing up his underclothes, he literally had no protection from the chill and damp of the night. When he attempted to rise from the ground, the agony he suffered was as intense as mortal could bear; but notwithstanding the pain he endured, the excessive hunger which began to oppress and weaken him, compelled him to make the effort to reach Williams’s ranch, which he succeeded in doing, as before stated.
After remaining at the ranch a few days, Bill sent for his friend Whitney, then sheriff of Ellsworth county, he having succeeded Capt. Kingsbury, and by him Bill was taken to Ellsworth. But the constant dread of detection made it advisable for Bill to leave Ellsworth, which he did in a few days, by the kindly assistance of Jim Bomon, a conductor of a freight train on the Kansas Pacific railroad, who locked him in a box car and brought him to Junction City. At this place Bill received proper surgical attention and soon recovered.
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The removal of the Seventh Cavalry from Hays City gave Bill immunity from danger from that quarter, and though he did not return to that place, he accepted the office of city marshal of Abilene, a town one hundred miles east of Hays City, and frequently visited the latter place on business.
Abilene was the point from which all the cattle from Texas for the Eastern markets were shipped. Immense droves were daily brought into the place, and with the cattle came the drovers, a large majority of whom were Texan desperadoes. The town bristled with business, and crimes and drunkenness became so common that by general consent Abilene was called the Gomorrah of the West. Gamblers and bad women, drunken cut-throats and pimps, overshadowed all other society, and the carnival of iniquity never ceased. The civil officers were plastic to the touch of the ruffians, and the town was ruled by intimidation.
When Bill assumed charge of the office of marshal, the law and order class had hopes for a radical change, and yet they were very doubtful of the ability of one man to curb the reckless and lawless spirit of so many vicious desperadoes—men who were familiar with the pistol and did not hesitate to murder and plunder, and who took pleasure in “stampeding” the place.
In two days after Bill entered upon the discharge of his duties, occasion presented for a manifestation of his pluck. Phil. Cole, a gambler, and one of the most dangerous men in the West, in company with his pal, whose name cannot now be recalled, concluded to run the town after their own fashion for at least one day. They began by smashing windows, promiscuously, insulting women, discharging their pistols, and other like conduct. Bill met them while they were in the midst of their deviltry, and undertook their arrest. He knew Phil. Cole by reputation, and was prepared for the fight he expected. Cole told Bill that his arrest depended upon who was the better man, and at once drew his pistol. McWilliams, Bill’s deputy, stepped up and tried to pacify Cole, and at the same time to secure his pistol, but Cole was anxious for a fight and fired at Bill, but missed his mark. Bill returned the fire, but at the moment he pulled the trigger of his pistol, Cole, in his struggle, threw McWilliams in front of him and the bullet from the pistol struck the faithful deputy, killing him almost instantly. Cole’s pal, who, until this time, seemed a mute spectator of the affray, then drew his pistol, and also fired at Bill, the bullet passing through Bill’s hat, and before Cole or his mate could fire again, Bill had put a bullet through the head of each, and the fight was ended. The death of McWilliams was most sincerel
y deplored by everyone, but by none as it was by Bill, and in years afterward he could not have the sad event recalled to mind without crying like a child.
The killing of Cole was a most fortunate event for the better class of citizens of Abilene, because it at once improved the morals of the place. The men who had for years before rioted at their pleasure, defied the law and badgered decency, began to feel that to continue in the same course would be to risk their lives. Nevertheless, the death of Phil. Cole only diminished the lawless excesses—it did not entirely prevent them. Bill never had another occasion to kill anyone in Abilene, but his club fell heavily on many heads determined on vicious acts. His enemies among the Texas cattle men multiplied rapidly, and he realized that there was not a moment that he could safely turn his back to any of them. A cattle king of Texas, whose name we do not choose to mention, as he is still living, was arrested by Bill for violent conduct on the street during a spree, and, as he strenuously resisted, Bill was forced to use his club. The man paid his fine on the following day, but before leaving town he declared that he would get even with Bill before many months elapsed.
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The large and wealthy cattle raiser referred to, directly after returning to Texas, selected eight desperate characters—men who he knew would not hesitate to commit any crime for the sake of money—and offered them the sum of five thousand dollars in gold if they would kill Wild Bill and secure his heart. The proposition was made at a pre-arranged meeting, which took place in an old barn on the premises of the cattle raiser, at which each of the employed assassins was required to take an oath not to divulge the name of the man who hired them under any circumstances, except in the event of the refusal of the employer to pay over the sum agreed upon directly upon the delivery to him of Wild Bill’s heart. It was a terrible contract in the eyes of civilization, but an excellent one in the estimation of those a party to it.