Tell you-all a tale of blood? It shore irritates me a heap, gents, when
you eastern folks looks allers to the west for stories red an’ drippin’
with murder. Which mighty likely now the west is plenty peaceful
compared with this yere east itse’f. Thar’s one thing you can put in
your mem’randum book for footure ref’rence, an’ that is, for all them
years I inhabits Arizona an’ Texas an’ sim’lar energetic localities,
I never trembles for my life, an’ goes about plumb furtive, expectin’
every moment is goin’ to be my next that a-way, ontil I finds myse’f
camped on the sunrise side of the Alleghenies.
Nacherally, I admits, thar has been a modicum of blood shed west an’
some slight share tharof can be charged to Arizona. No, I can’t say I
deplores these killin’s none. Every gent has got to die. For one, I’m
mighty glad the game’s been rigged that a-way. I’d shore hesitate a lot
to be born onless I was shore I’d up an’ some day cash in. Live forever?
No, don’t confer on me no sech gloomy outlook. If a angel was to appear
in our midst an’ saw off on me the news that I was to go on an’ on as
I be now, livin’ forever like that Wanderin’ Jew, the information would
stop my clock right thar. I’d drop dead in my moccasins.
It don’t make much difference, when you gives yourse’f to a ca’m
consid’ration of the question as to when you dies or how you dies. The
important thing is to die as becomes a gent of sperit who has nothin’ to
regret. Every one soon or late comes to his trail’s end. Life is like
a faro game. One gent has ten dollars, another a hundred, another a
thousand, and still others has rolls big enough to choke a cow. But
whether a gent is weak or strong, poor or rich, it’s written in advance
that he’s doomed to go broke final. He’s doomed to die. Tharfore, when
that’s settled, of what moment is it whether he goes broke in an hour,
or pikes along for a week--dies to-day or postpones his funeral for
years an’ mebby decades?
Holdin’ to these yere views, you can see without my tellin’ that a
killin’, once it be over, ain’t likely to harass me much. Like the
rest of you-all, I’ve been trailin’ out after my grave ever since I was
foaled--on a hunt for my sepulcher, you may say--an’ it ought not to
shock me to a showdown jest because some pard tracks up ag’inst his last
restin’ place, spreads his blankets an’ goes into final camp before it
come my own turn.
But, speakin’ of killin’s, the most onusual I ever hears of is when
Wild Bill Hickox cleans up the Jake McCandlas gang. This Bill I knows
intimate; he’s not so locoed as his name might lead a gent to concloode.
The truth is, he’s a mighty crafty, careful form of sport; an’ he never
pulled a gun ontil he knew what for an’ never onhooked it ontil he knew
what at.
An’ speakin’ of the latter--the onhookin’ part--that Wild Bill never
missed. That’s his one gift; he’s born to make a center shot whenever
his six-shooter expresses itse’f.
This McCandlas time is doorin’ them border troubles between Missouri
an’ Kansas. Jest prior tharunto, Bill gets the ill-will of the Missouri
outfit by some gun play he makes at Independence, then the eastern end
of the old Santa Fe trail. What Bill accomplishes at Independence is a
heap effectual an’ does him proud. But it don’t endear him none to the
Missouri heart. Moreover, it starts a passel of resentful zealots to
lookin’ for him a heap f’rocious, an’ so he pulls his freight.
It’s mebby six months later when Bill is holdin’ down a stage station
some’eres over in Kansas--it’s about a day’s ride at a road-gait from
Independence--for Ben Holiday’s overland line. Thar’s the widow of a
_compadre_ of Bill who has a wickeyup about a mile away, an’ one day
Bill gets on his hoss, Black Nell, an’ goes romancin’ over to see
how the widow’s gettin’ on. This Black Nell hoss of Bill’s is some
cel’brated. Black Nell is tame as a kitten an’ saveys more’n a hired
man. She’d climb a pa’r of steps an’ come sa’n-terin’ into a dance hall
or a hurdy gurdy if Bill calls to her, an’ I makes no doubt she’d a-took
off her own saddle an’ bridle an’ gone to bed with a pa’r of blankets,
same as folks, if Bill said it was the proper antic for a pony.
It’s afternoon when Bill rides up to pow-wow with this relict of his
pard. As he comes into the one room--for said wickeyup ain’t palatial,
an’ consists of one big room, that a-way, an’ a jim-crow leanto--Bill
says:
“Howdy, Jule?” like that.
“Howdy, Bill?” says the widow. “’Light an’ rest your hat, while I
roam ’round an’ rustle some chuck.” This widow has the right idee.
While Bill is camped down on a stool waitin’ for the promised _carne_
an’ flap-jacks, or whatever may be the grub his hostess is aimin’ to
on-loose, he casts a glance outen the window. He’s interested at once.
Off across the plains he discerns the killer, McCandlas an’ his band
p’intin’ straight for the widow’s. They’re from Missouri; thar’s ’leven
of ’em, corral count, an’ all “bad.” As they can see his mare, Black
Nell, standin’ in front of the widow’s, Bill argues jestly that the
McCandlas outfit knows he’s thar; an’ from the speed they’re makin’ in
their approach, he likewise dedooces that they’re a heap eager for his
company.
Bill don’t have to study none to tell that thar’s somebody goin’ to get
action. It’s likely to be mighty onequal, but thar’s no he’p; an’ so
Bill pulls his gun-belt tighter, an’ organizes to go as far as he can.
He has with him only one six-shooter; that’s a severe setback. Now, if
he was packin’ two the approaching war jig would have carried feachers
of comfort. But he’s got a nine-inch bowie, which is some relief. When
his six-shooter’s empty, he can fall back on the knife, die hard, an’
leave his mark.
As Bill rolls the cylinder of his gun to see if she’s workin’ free,
an’ loosens the bowie to avoid delays, his eye falls on a rifle hangin’
above the door.
“Is it loaded, Jule?” asks Bill.
“Loaded to the gyards,” says the widow.
“An’ that ain’t no fool of a piece of news, neither,” says Bill, as he
reaches down the rifle. “Now, Jule, you-all better stampede into the
cellar a whole lot ontil further orders. Thar’s goin’ to be heated times
’round yere an’ you’d run the resk of gettin’ scorched.”
“I’d sooner stay an’ see, Bill,” says the widow. “You-all knows how
eager an’ full of cur’osity a lady is,” an’ here the widow beams on Bill
an’ simpers coaxin’ly.
“An’ I’d shore say stay, Jule,” says Bill, “if you could turn a trick.
But you sees yourse’f, you couldn’t. An’ you’d be in the way.”
Thar’s a big burrow out in the yard; what Kansas people deenominates as
a cyclone cellar. It’s like a cave; every se’f-respectin’ Kansas fam’ly
has one. They may not own no bank account; they may not own no good
repoote; but you can gamble, they’ve got a cyclone cave.
Shore, it ain’t for ornament, nor yet for ostentation. Thar’s allers a
breeze blowin’ plenty stiff across the plains. Commonly, it’s strenyous
enough to pick up a empty bar’l an’ hold it ag’inst the side of a
buildin’ for a week. Sech is the usual zephyr. Folks don’t heed them
none. But now an’ then one of these yere cyclones jumps a gent’s camp,
an’ then it’s time to make for cover. Thar’s nothin’ to be said back to
a cyclone. It’ll take the water outen a well, or the money outen your
pocket, or the ha’r off your head; it’ll get away with everything about
you incloodin’ your address. Your one chance is a cyclone cellar; an’
even that refooge ain’t no shore-thing, for I knowed a cyclone once that
simply feels down an’ pulls a badger outen his hole. Still, sech as the
last, is onfrequent.
The widow accepts Bill’s advice an’ makes for the storm cave. This
leaves Bill happy an’ easy in his mind, for it gives him plenty of
room an’ nothin’ to think of but himse’f. An’ Bill shore admires a good
fight.
He don’t have long to wait after the widow stampedes. Bill hears the
sweep of the ’leven McCandlas hosses as they come chargin’ up. No,
he can’t see; he ain’t quite that weak-minded as to be lookin’ out the
window.
As the band halts, Bill hears McCandlas say:
“Shore, gents; that’s Wild Bill’s hoss. We’ve got him treed an’ out on
a limb; to-morry evenin’ we’ll put that long-ha’red skelp of his in a
showcase in Independence.” Then McCandlas gives a whoop, an’ bluffs Bill
to come out. “Come out yere, Bill; we needs you to decide a bet,” yells
McCandlas. “Come out; thar’s no good skulkin’.”
“Say, Jake,” retorts Bill; “I’ll gamble that you an’ your hoss thieves
ain’t got the sand to come after me. Come at once if you comes; I
despises delays, an’ besides I’ve got to be through with you-all an’
back to the stage station by dark.”
“I’ll put you where thar ain’t no stage lines, Bill, long before dark,”
says McCandlas. An’ with that he comes caperin’ through the window,
sash, glass, an’ the entire lay-out, as blithe as May an’ a gun in each
hand.
Bill cuts loose the Hawkins as he’s anxious to get the big gun off his
mind. It stops McCandlas, “squar’ in the door,” as they says in monte;
only it’s the window. McCandlas falls dead outside.
“An’ I’m sorry for that, too,” says Bill to him-se’f. “I’m preemature
some about that shot. I oughter let Jake come in. Then I could have got
his guns.”
When McCandlas goes down, the ten others charges with a whoop. They
comes roarin’ through every window; they breaks in the door; they
descends on Bill’s fortress like a ’possum on a partridge nest!
An’ then ensoos the busiest season which any gent ever cuts in upon. The
air is heavy with bullets an’ thick with smoke. The walls of the room
later looks like a colander.
It’s a mighty fav’rable fight, an’ Bill don’t suffer none in his repoote
that Kansas afternoon. Faster than you can count, his gun barks; an’
each time thar’s a warrior less. One, two, three, four, five, six; they
p’ints out after McCandlas an’ not a half second between ’em as they
starts. It was good luck an’ good shootin’ in combination.
It’s the limit; six dead to a single Colt’s! No gent ever approaches it
but once; an’ that’s a locoed sharp named Metzger in Raton. He starts in
with Moulton who’s the alcade, an’ beefs five an’ creases another; an’
all to the same one gun. The public, before he can reload, hangs Metzger
to the sign in front of the First National Bank, so he don’t have much
time to enjoy himse’f reviewin’ said feats.
Rifle an’ six-shooter empty; seven dead an’ done, an’ four to take his
knife an’ talk it over with! That’s the situation when Bill pulls his
bowie an’ starts to finish up.
It shore ain’t boy’s play; the quintette who’s still prancin’ about the
field is as bitter a combination as you’d meet in a long day’s ride.
Their guns is empty, too; an’ they, like Bill, down to the steel. An’
thar’s reason to believe that the fight from this p’int on is even
more interestin’ than the part that’s gone before. Thar’s no haltin’ or
hangin’ back; thar ain’t a bashful gent in the herd. They goes to the
center like one man.
Bill, who’s as quick an’ strong as a mountain lion, with forty times the
heart an’ fire, grips one McCandlas party by the wrist. Thar’s a twist
an’ a wrench an’ Bill onj’ints his arm.
That’s the last of the battle Bill remembers. All is whirl an’ smoke an’
curse an’ stagger an’ cut an’ stab after that, with tables crashin’ an’
the wreck an’ jangle of glass.
But the end comes. Whether the struggle from the moment when it’s got
down to the bowies lasts two minutes or twenty, Bill never can say. When
it’s over, Bill finds himse’f still on his feet, an’ he’s pushin’ the
last gent off his blade. Split through the heart, this yere last sport
falls to the floor in a dead heap, an’ Bill’s alone, blood to both
shoulders.
Is Bill hurt? Gents, it ain’t much likely he’s put ’leven fightin’
men into the misty beyond, the final four with a knife, an’ him plumb
scatheless! No, Bill’s slashed so he wouldn’t hold hay; an’ thar’s more
bullets in his frame than thar’s pease in a pod. The Doc who is called
in, an’ who prospects Bill, allers allowed that it’s the mistake of his
life he don’t locate Bill an’ work him for a lead mine.
When the battle is over an’ peace resoomes its sway, Bill begins to
stagger. An’ he’s preyed on by thirst. Bill steadies himse’f along the
wall; an’ weak an’ half blind from the fogs of fightin’, he feels his
way out o’ doors.
Thar’s a tub of rain-water onder the eaves; it’s the only thing Bill’s
thinkin’ of at the last. He bends down to drink; an’ with that, faints
an’ falls with his head in the tub.
It’s the widow who rescoos Bill; she emerges outen her cyclone cellar
an’ saves Bill from drownin’. An’ he lives, too; lives to be downed
years afterward when up at Deadwood a timid party who don’t dare come
’round in front, drills Bill from the r’ar. But what can you look for?
Folks who lives by the sword will perish by the sword as the scripters
sets forth, an’ I reckons now them warnin’s likewise covers guns.
“And did that really happen?” asked the Red Nosed Gentleman, drawing a
deep breath.
“It’s as troo as that burgundy you’re absorbin’,” replied the Old
Cattleman.
“I can well believe it,” observed the Sour Gentleman; “a strong hour
makes a strong man. Did this Wild Bill Hickox wed the widow who pulled
him out of the tub?”
“Which I don’t think so,” returned the Old Cattleman. “If he does, Bill
keeps them nuptials a secret. But it’s a cinch he don’t. As I says at
the jump, Bill is a mighty wary citizen an’ not likely to go walkin’
into no sech ambuscade as a widow.”
“You do not think, then,” observed the Red Nosed Gentleman, “that a wife
would be a blessing?”
“She wouldn’t be to Wild Bill Hickox,” said the Old Cattleman. “Thar is
gents who ought never to wed, an’ Bill’s one. He was bound to be killed
final; the game law was out on Bill for years. Now when a gent is shore
to cash in that a-way, why should he go roundin’ up a wife? Thar oughter
be a act of congress ag’in it, an’ I onderstand that some sech measure
is to be introdooced.”
“Passing laws,” remarked the Jolly Doctor, “is no such easy matter, now,
as passing the bottle.” Here the Jolly Doctor looked meaningly at the
Red Nosed Gentleman, who thereupon shoved the burgundy into the Jolly
Doctor’s hand with all conceivable alacrity. Like every good drinker,
the Red Nosed Gentleman loved a cup companion. “There was a western
person,” went on the Jolly Doctor, “named Jim Britt, who came east to
have a certain law passed; he didn’t find it flowers to his feet.”
“What now was the deetails?” said the Old Cattleman. “The doin’s an’
plottin’s an’ doubleplays of them law-makin’ mavericks in congress is
allers a heap thrillin’ to me.”
“Very well,” responded the Jolly Doctor; “let each light a fresh cigar,
for it’s rather a long story, and when all are comfortable, I’ll give
you the history of ‘How Jim Britt Passed His Bill.’”