Here let him rest, but the bivouac of an advancing empire will soon
dispel the primeval sounds with which he was so familiar. The soughing
of the primitive forest in which he lived such a stirring life with his
trusty rifle, is mingling with the hum of a more perfect civilization,
and will soon be heard no more. The forest birds are drifting westward,
and their songs, which for centuries have made musical the deep
solitude of that vast region, will be cadenced into the whirr of a
different life. The rough sounds of a border settlement, with its
dangers and privations, will give place to the melody of a maiden’s
voice, and other generations, like the recurring ocean waves which
wash out the sand marks on the beach, will destroy the vestiges of the
early settlement, and point to Wild Bill’s grave as the spot where
sleeps a hero-pioneer--a man whose heart was as gentle as a child’s
prayer, and as brave as God could make it. If he had faults they were
tempered with so much compassion and affection that we lose sight of
them entirely. An appreciation of the services Wild Bill rendered the
civilizers and pioneers of the West belongs to those who come after us.
“No man is appreciated until he is dead.”