Ladies found Wild Bill the handsomest man west of the Mississippi. His steely, piercing eyes could be the ruin of the chastest woman, turning to the glittering steel when faced with danger. “He is a naturally fine-looking fellow, muscular and athletic, as lithe and agile as the Borneo Boys of circus fame. Ah, Wild Bill, the Adonis of the Prairie!”
General Custer’s wife, Libby, looked upon the “Knight Chivalric” as one of the finest specimens of “rugged American manhood.” A Kansas lady vowed that she always thought John Wilkes and Edwin Booth the most beautiful men in the world—until she met Wild Bill.
HOWEVER…
“The man they call Wild Bill is an effeminate-looking fellow, his hair is falling in auburn ringlets over his shoulders like that of a girl. In contrast, his nasal organ is quite out of proportion. They call him the ’Human Ant-Eater,” and the ‘Cyrano de Bergerac of the Plains.’ Hickok shot and killed a man for calling him ‘Duck Bill.’ ”
WELL, BUT…
He was called the “King of the Pistoleers,” the “Knight Chivalric,” and the “Pistol Dead Shot.” He once bagged two Indians galloping away from him at top speed, one riding behind the other, with a single bullet, coolly waiting until both horses and riders were perfectly aligned. His bullet never failed to find its target. No man in the whole wide world was as adept as our hero at wielding a six-gun. Inside a Kansas saloon Hickok performed a Homeric feat, never repeated since. Two ruffians, killers of ill repute, assailed him simultaneously from front and rear. Watching the ruffian behind him in the reflection of the barroom mirror with one eye, the other fixed on the assailant before him, the champion “triggernometrist” shot both of them through the heart with his brace of ivory-handled Colts.
As marshal in Hays City, Wild Bill had a row with Captain Tom Custer, brother of the famous general. Not wishing to face the “Sir Galahad of Pistols,” the vindictive officer hired two murderous miscreants to kill the man who had humiliated him. They found Hickok inside the Free Soil drinking establishment. One of the soldiers tackled the bold marshal from the front, the other caught him from the rear. Hickok got one arm free, pulled his Colt, putting it over his shoulder, and killed the trooper behind him. Then he took care of the fellow in front with equally deadly effect.
To demonstrate his skill with his fabled ivory-handled “dragoons,” Wild Bill tossed his wide-brimmed hat high into the air, using it as a convenient target. He shot an even-spaced row of holes along the outside of the rim as it was falling and before it touched the ground.
Hickok was able to hit the ace of spades, at fifty paces, with all six bullets, drive a cork into a bottle at seventy-five yards, and hit spinning silver dollars while racing his horse. He could hit a fly crawling on a wall.
HOWEVER…
“Old Bill couldn’t hit the side of a barn at fifty paces. He was snail-like slow with a Colt. He was a successful killer because he shot the other fellow when he wasn’t looking. He fired at a man sitting across from him at a table—and missed. As marshal Hickok had a fatal flaw, he often shot the wrong man, shooting a friend or harmless bystander instead of the bad hombre he was aiming at. When it came to telling an honest fellow from a felon, Wild Bill couldn’t tell shit from honey.”
It is said that on one occasion Bill pursued two murderers running away from him in opposite directions, up and down the street, sending them up the flume simultaneously, which he could have done if nature had fitted him with a third eye at the back of his head.
WELL, BUT…
“He was absolutely fearless. Fear was not a part of his make-up. He was afraid of no man, nor death, nor the devil and all his minions. Any man who by his own force and fearlessness beats the dark forces of savagery and crime, so that civilization may be free to take another step forward on her march to progress—is he not the greatest and truest type of the frontiersman? Such a one was Wild Bill.”
Asked how many men he had killed, Hickok replied: “I suppose I have killed considerably over a hundred, but, by heaven, never without good cause. I was twenty-eight years old when I killed my first white man. I never included Indians in the list of those I sent to the far side of Jordan. This fellow was a cardsharp and counterfeiter. I was then in a hotel in Leavenworth, and seeing some loose characters around, and as I had some money about me, I thought it better to retire to my room. I soon heard men at my door. I pulled out my revolvers and bowie knife and held them ready, but concealed, and pretended to sleep. The door was opened and five men entered the room. One whispered, ‘Let’s kill the son of a bitch. I bet he has money.’ I kept perfectly still until just as the knife touched my breast, I sprang aside and buried mine in his heart, and then used my revolvers on the others, right and left. One I killed, another I wounded, and then, gentlemen, I dashed from the room, and with the help of some soldiers, captured the whole gang of them—fifteen in all. Would you not have done the same?”
“Single-handedly, ‘Magnificent Bill’ wiped out McCanles’ gang of Confederate cutthroats and robbers, no fewer than ten of them, with his trusty rifle, his silver-ornamented revolvers, and keen bowie knife. Remark our hero striking savage blows, following the devils up from one side to the other of the room into the corners, striking and slashing until all were dead. He had sent to the Nether World six of the desperadoes with his Dragoon Colts, and dispatched the other four blood-thirsty devils with his knife.”
While traveling by rail one night, Bill had a narrow escape. Eight bloodthirsty bravos, determined to murder the marshal who had so often thwarted their evil designs, had secretly boarded the train. But Bill was on his guard. He left the car in which he was sitting, and with a pistol in each hand, went to that in which he knew he would find his would-be assassins. He threw open the door, and walked up to them, covering the gang with his pistols.
“Now, you scoundrels,” Bill addressed them, “get out of this car, or I’ll put a bullet into each of you. Leave the train instantly!”
His tone was so quiet that it would, of itself, have attracted no attention from bystanders, but they saw shoot in his eyes, and prudently retreated backward to the door of the car.
“Jump!” he commanded as they hesitated a moment on the platform, and the muzzles gleamed ominously in the flickering light of the next car. The train was rushing over the level prairie at a fearful rate, but death awaited them here, while that jump might give each a chance for life. Into the darkness then, each man leaped as the train sped onward; one was killed outright, three badly hurt in the fall; but if they had not jumped, there would have been none that escaped.
And then there was Wild Bill’s famous fight with Conquering Bear. “Bill jumped from his hiding place, crying out defiance to the thunder-struck warrior: ’Defend yourself, you treacherous, lying red-skin!’
“Bill drew his pistols and tossed one to the savage chief. But Conquering Bear knew too well the deadly aim of his antagonist and refused to fight with pistols.
“ ‘If you don’t fight, I’ll shoot you like the good-for-nothing dog that you are,’ Bill hissed from between his teeth, and the trembling Indian chose the bowie knife as the weapon to be used. The field of battle was prepared, but Conquering Bear stood motionless.
“ ‘Cowardly, stinking coyote! If you don’t come and fight, I’ll shoot you down in your tracks!’
“Aroused, the Indian leaped into the ring and the fight began. As the white man made a pass with his keen-edged blade, the Indian drew back as if to make a rush at him; now with a tigerish thirst for blood, each leaps upon the other, his left arm grasping his antagonist’s body, his right hand holding his knife, the two blades edge to edge. So they cling together, each striving to secure some advantage, however trifling; but in vain; they are too evenly matched. The gray eyes gleam like steel as they turn with every movement of the savage, and the dark orbs of the Indian are no less watchful. Then Conquering Bear again springs forward, and once more two flashing blades clash in the sunlight. Both by vigorous passes endeavor to surprise their enemy.
At last Bill sees his opportunity and cuts at the Indian’s heart, but a medal on the broad, tawny breast received the blow, and the knife glanced aside, though not without inflicting a deep gash in the Indian’s side. But the thrust, so nearly successful, has exposed Bill’s own body, and the savage makes a desperate lunge at the white man’s heart. The scout’s left arm, however, has served as a shield for the more vital part, and the flesh is stripped from the bone from the shoulder to the elbow. Still they fought on, though growing weaker every moment, as the blood flowed from their terrible wounds. Conquering Bear saw that victory must come quickly if it precede death, and once more made a pass at the scout’s heart; but the blow was skillfully parried, and in another instant the keen edge of the white man’s knife was drawn across the tawny throat; for a moment the swarthy form swayed in the air, the head thrown backward, then fell to earth, the blood gushing from the ghastly wound. So ended the fight. There was none braver than James Butler Hickok, known to the world as WILD BILL.”
HOWEVER…
“It is disgusting to see the eastern papers crowding in everything they can get hold of about ‘Wild Bill.’ If they only knew the real character of the man they so want to worship! ‘Wild Bill’ is nothing more than a drunken, reckless, murderous coward, who is treated with contempt by true bordermen, and should have been hung years ago for the murder of innocent men. He shot an old teamster in the back for a trifling provocation, and was booted out of a Leavenworth saloon by a boy bartender—a fine example of his ‘bravery.’
“And about that yarn of the Old Ant-Eater wiping out a dozen of McCanles’ ruffians all by himself—he gunned down David McCanles, who was unarmed, while hiding behind a curtain, shot the second man from behind a door, and shot the third fellow in the back while the poor sot was running away.
“The whole McCanles deal is pure hogwash. Wild Bill is depicted with his bowie knife up to the hilt in one bushwhacker’s heart, with half a dozen men upon the floor in picturesque attitudes, two of the three remaining desperadoes have their knives puncturing his waistcoat, and the final one of the ten is levelling terrific blows at his head with a clubbed musket. We congratulate Bill on the fact that it is rather not true. It would have been too risky even for Bill, the ‘Great Scout of the Plains.’
“One who knows says that Bill’s brave deeds exist only in the fevered, prostituted brains of eastern scriveners. The farther away the writer is from the object of his veneration, the more heroic become the ‘heroic deeds of Wild Bill, the “Achilles of the Western Prairies.” ’ ”
WELL, BUT…
“No finer physique, no greater strength, no more personal courage, no superior skill with firearms, no better horsemanship than his—especially horsemanship. Admirers call him the ‘Centaur of the Plains.’ His fabled equestrian skills seem to fuse man and horse into one single living sculpture.
“His extraordinary black mare, Nell, was a noble animal with traits to match his own. Bill had trained her to perform tricks which would have put the most famous circus horse to shame. If Hickok slowly waved his hand over her head with a circular motion Nell would fall down as if struck by a cannon ball, and whenever the Great Scout would mention the precious mare’s sagacity she would wink affirmatively to the great amusement of all present. Obeying Wild Bill’s low whistle she jumped upon the billiard table of the Lyon House. One well remembered feat was Bill mounting Nell inside Hoff’s saloon and with one bound, bursting through the batwing doors, alighting in the middle of the street.”
HOWEVER…
“Old Nell was black, all right, but she was a ‘He,’ not a ‘She,’ a broken down old nag, blind in the right eye, and ripe for the knacker. As to Wild Bill’s equestrian feats, they included frequently toppling from his horse, particularly if he had filled himself to the top with cheap whiskey. As for jumping in one bound from the interior of Hoff’s whiskey mill, through the door, over a wide porch and over a five foot fence and boardwalk in front, some fifty feet in all, that’s a tall fish story.”
WELL, BUT…
“Bill was the darling of the weaker sex, whether virtuous matron or sporting woman. Withal, he was a model of comportment, a true gentleman in every sense of the word. His moral standards were high. He had none of the swaggering gait, or the barbaric jargon ascribed to him by the Beadle penny pamphlets. With his fine, handsome face, free from blemish, his light mustache, blue-gray eyes, and magnificent forehead, he was irresistible to the fair sex, yet never stooped low enough to perform a ‘mean action.’ And he was well-groomed always, affecting a black frock-coat and the finest, whitest linen shirts. His boots were made of kid, or the thinnest finest calf. He paid as much as fifty dollars for a pair.
“He kept house with his life-long love, Calamity Jane, but only after they were duly wed and received the blessings of an ordained clergyman. ‘Oh, dearest Bill,’ Calamity whispered in Wild Bill’s ear, ‘I love thee and will be thine forever. And I shall be to you a true wife. Do not believe the vile tales told about me. I am yet chaste and no gossip or scandal shall henceforth touch me. But let us keep our marriage secret. There are jealous men who would kill you for having won Calamity’s heart, and there are jealous women who would poison me for having robbed them of the hope of winning your love.’ ‘It shall be so,’ said Bill. When Calamity Jane finally shuffled off her mortal coils her last words were: ‘Bury me next to my darling Bill!’ ”
HOWEVER…
Hickok’s morals were much the same as those of Achilles, King David, Lancelot, and the Chevalier Bayard, though his amours were hardly as frequent as David’s or as inexcusable as Lancelot’s.
“He always had a mistress. I knew two or three of them. One I believe was a redhead to whom he gave twenty-five dollars to make her leave town. There was Nan Ross, but Bill told her he was through with her and she moved on. When Mrs. Lake, the widow of ‘Old Lake of Circus Fame,’ came to Abilene, she fell for him hard, fell all the way clear to the basement …
“He was a libertine and a rowdy, but the tales that Calamity Jane was his paramour, or even his wife, are pure horse manure. Whatever can be said against Bill, he was fastidious and picked his women for their looks. The idea of taking up with a drunken, foul-mouthed whore like Calamity, with that ugly mug of hers, is just plain humbug. One man said of Bill that his looks and movements were so feminine that some suspected him of practicing that vice which shall forever be nameless. They are wrong, but Bill is great lover?—that’s ridiculous!”
WELL, BUT…
“Cat-eyed, he was. He slid into a room, keeping his back to the wall always, watching every man and every movement like a hawk. Not the slightest detail escaped him. He looked like a man who lived in expectation of getting killed. Nobody ever was able to tackle him from behind. Over the years he had developed the habitual alertness to shoot fast and to shoot first. Whenever Hickok sat down at a table, whether to eat or to play a game of cards, he always positioned himself with his back to the wall. This he did quite automatically. It had become second nature to him.”
HOWEVER…
On August 21, 1876, Wild Bill sat in on a game of poker at Nuttal and Mann’s saloon in Deadwood. He had settled down with his face to the wall and his back to the swinging doors. It was the first time he left his back uncovered and also his last. He was holding a pair of aces and a pair of eights, known ever since as the “dead man’s hand.” A tinhorn gambler named Jack McCall came up behind him and shouted, “Take that!” and neatly drilled a hole through Wild Bill’s cerebellum. The bullet passed through Hickok’s head and came to rest, permanently, in the wrist of his poker partner, Captain Frank Massey. Frank later made it his habit to enter saloons with the exultant cry: “Gentlemen, the bullet which killed Wild Bill has come to town!”
The physician who inspected Hickok’s body wrote: “I have seen many dead men on the field of battle and in civil life, but Wild Bill’s was the prettiest corpse I ever saw.”
A Western Duel
One cold night a strange
r entered the Legal Tender Saloon, finding an assortment of gents warming their backsides at the chimbley fire. The newcomer shed his bear coat, jumped high in the air, clicking his heels, flapped his wings, and screamed like a painter. “I’m the Wrath of God,” he yelled. “I’m the bad man from hellfire Creek who can whup his weight in wildcats. I’m the ring-tailed roarer spilin’ fur a fight. Who want’s to cut his wolf loose?” He looked expectantly from one man to the other but could find no takers.
After a long silence an old trapper, his cheek full of an oversized chaw of ’baccer, spoke up: “Stranger, we fight nothin hyar but Injins, but if yore so danged eager for a fight, let’s have a spittin’ contest. I bet you a prime beaver plew I kin outshoot you at ten paces.”
“Stranger, yore a beauty,” said the bad man from Hellfire Creek. “It’s a deal. Let’s see you do it.”
They put up the pot, the ring-tailed roarer a five-dollar piece, the old trapper his beaver plew. They put a dime on the floor and measured off ten paces with a piece of chalk. The man who could whup his weight in wildcats bit off a chunk out of his twist of ’baccer and started chawin’, and after masticating for a long spell gathered up the ambeer in his mouth and spat. His wad landed within an inch of the dime. The Wrath of God jumped high into the air, clicked his heels, and crowed like a rooster.
Legends and Tales of the American West Page 30