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A REWARD OF $5,000 IN GOLD OFFERED FOR BILL’S HEART

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.

In a few days after the arrangement was concluded, the sum of fifty dollars was placed in the hands of each of the hired assassins as forfeit money, to pay expenses of the trip to Abilene, and the eight villains then started out upon their mission.

After reaching Abilene, as was customary among the Texans who visited the place, the party got on a big drunk, and, while in this condition, one of the number explained the nature of his trip to an acquaintance who, by chance, was a secret friend of Bill’s. The information was very soon imparted to Bill, and the villains were foiled in the following manner: Bill decided to go to Topeka by the train, and to have the assassins made acquainted with his purpose. He knew they would follow him, because they would consider it safer to kill their man by luring him onto the platform of a train, where a knife thrust would finish their work without the knowledge of the other passengers, than to attack him in the boundaries of his official jurisdiction among his friends. Accordingly, Bill got on the evening train going east, and saw the eight villains get into the coach in the rear of the one he entered. Bill wisely concluded that no attempt would be made upon his life until a late hour, when the passengers would generally be asleep, and quietly kept his seat until about eleven o’clock, when the train was passing a dark and deep cut a few miles west of Topeka. He concluded now was the time to act; so, drawing his two revolvers, he entered the car where the eight would-be murderers sat. In an instant all was attention, but confusion soon followed, for Bill raised his pistols and commanded the assassins to file out of the car before him. They saw at once that hesitation meant death, and without attempting the purpose for which they came, every one of them hastily arose and did as Bill commanded, leaping from the rapidly-moving train apparently without a thought of the danger in so doing. Three of them were so badly hurt in the fall that their companions had to carry them off, and one of the most notorious of the party died two days afterwards of his injuries. The parting injunction which Bill gave them forced them to abandon the idea of getting his heart. Said he: “If any of you gray-backed hell-hounds ever cross my track again, I’ll make blood-pudding out of your infernal carcasses.” Bill would undoubtedly have attacked the men had it not been for the presence of so many passengers, some of whom would certainly have been killed in the conflict.

If this pamphlet should, perchance, be read by four men – known to be living – and one in particular, there will be a scene not wholly unlike that which transpired when Banquo’s ghost arose before the startled vision of Macbeth.

BILL THOMPSON’S FATAL SURPRISE

Wild Bill got off the train at Topeka, and returned to Abilene the next day. A week later he went up to Ellsworth, to which place he was a frequent visitor, being attracted to that town by a woman whose name we omit to mention, by her request. This woman was the keeper of a house of ill-repute, but her beauty made her a most attractive person, and her real admirers were numbered by hundreds. She is now pursuing the same calling in Kansas City, but though still a fine looking woman, very few traces of her former beauty remain. She is wealthy, however, and what she now lacks in natural appearance, she compensates for by artificial means, and is still a leader of her kind. Bill’s love for her was undoubtedly genuine, although he never asked her hand in marriage. Bill Thompson, a big bully, and handy with his pistol, was also a worshiper at the same shrine, and hated Wild Bill more inveterately than any other man on earth. This hatred was, perhaps, not so much inspired by the rivalry between them for the woman’s smiles, as it was caused by the fact that on one occasion Wild Bill had arrested and severely handled Thompson, while the latter was carousing in Abilene. Thompson had repeatedly made threats which reached Bill’s ears, and caused him to be watchful. A collision occurred between the two in a restaurant in Ellsworth, under the following circumstances: Bill had entered the place and called for an oyster stew. He took a seat in a small alcove, in which was a table, with his back to the saloon, a position he was never known to assume before or since. The moment the waiter was entering with the stew, Bill turned in his seat at the very instant to see Thompson enter a side door with pistol in hand. Bill slipped out of his chair and dropped onto his knees, with the view of using the chair as a sort of breastwork. The instant he moved, a ball from Thompson’s pistol whistled passed his ear, and struck the plate on the table in front of him. Before another shot could be fired from the same course, Bill jerked one of the two derringers he nearly always carried, from his pants pocket, and, whirling on one knee, sent a bullet squarely into Thompson’s forehead. The man fell forward on his face without uttering a sound, stone-dead; the dish of soup in the waiter’s hand tumbled onto the floor and broke into fragments. Resuming his seat again at the table, merely rising from his kneeling position, Bill told the affrighted waiter to bring him that oyster stew he had ordered, but the restaurant speedily filled with morbid people, and there was too much excitement to admit of serving stews thereafter. Bill was the least excited of any, and after waiting a few moments, and seeing that he could not get what he called for, he went out of the place and took his oyster stew at another restaurant. Of course he was arrested, but as it was a clear case of self-defense, he was at once discharged.

MAKES TWENTY MEN ASK AN APOLOGY

In a few weeks after the killing of Thompson, Bill again visited Ellsworth, and during this visit he met with an episode in which his influence among the desperado element was clearly evidenced. Reaching the town late in the evening, he had gone direct to the house kept by the woman just referred to, and after taking supper and playing a few games of cards with her, he retired to bed. About eleven o’clock at night, loud and boisterous noises, coupled with threats to tear the house down if admittance were refused, awakened everyone in the house. One of the girls raised a front window and asked the crowd what they wanted. The reply came that they intended to clean out the house, and to open the door quick, or they would break it down. The crowd numbered twenty of the worst men Ellsworth could produce, and as they were two-thirds drunk, everyone in the building except Bill became very much alarmed, and fearful that some fatal consequences would be the result. Bill arose from bed, and telling everyone in the house to leave the settlement of the trouble to him, descended the stairs in his night clothes, with his two derringers in his hands. A light was burning in the hall, and while the men were pounding on the door, and swearing that they would burn the house and everyone in it, Bill unlocked the door and threw it open. As he did so, he placed himself upon the threshold, and told the crowd that he would give them just ten seconds to leave the place, adding: “Or I’ll turn this place into a great big slaughter-house.” The surprise depicted on the faces of those twenty men was a fit subject for a painter. They all tried to apologize at once. Said the leader: “I’ll take my oath, Bill, if I’d a-knowed you was here I never would a-come; we never meant any harm, and as you are a gentleman, and we’re drunk, we owe you an apology. We’ll leave this minute.” They all added in chorus: “That’s so, Bill, and we beg your pardon a thousand times.”

“Then get out of here!” responded Bill.

And they went at once.

BILL’S FIGHT WITH PHIL COLE’S COUSIN

About one year after the killing of Phil Cole at Abilene, Wild Bill had occasion to visit Wichita, Kansas, on some private business. He made the trip on horseback, there being no other mode of travel between the two places. Bill was acquainted with no one in Wichita, and habit caused him to make his first stop in the place before a saloon, where he hitched his horse and went in. There was no one in the saloon at the time of his entrance; so Bill took a seat expecting the proprietor had just stepped out and would be back in a short time. While he was sitting beside a table reading a newspaper, a stranger stepped in and enquired:

“Is your name Wild Bill?”

“That is what they call me,” responded Bill.

“Then take that,” said the stranger, drawing a pistol and shooting at Bill. The muzzle of the pistol was so close that the flash burned Bill’s face and the bullet struck him at the base of the hair on the left side of his forehead and cut out a furrow of flesh and hair. Bill fell unconscious, but the saloon-keeper coming in a moment after the shot was fired, threw some water in his face and consciousness was soon restored.

The stranger jumped on his horse after discharging the shot and rode off furiously towards the south.

It was hardly ten minutes after the shooting before Bill had recovered sufficiently from the stunning effects of the shot to mount his horse and start in pursuit of his unknown assailant.

Bill was mounted on an excellent horse, and as he had no difficulty in ascertaining the route taken by the stranger, the ride was a fast and furious one. The pursued and pursuer, after a running ride of thirty miles, came in sight of each other, and a desperate fight was now prepared for. The stranger supposed he had killed Bill and was being pursued by some officer of justice; but Bill was urged on by his excessive hunger for revenge, and it soon came – terrible enough. When about fifty yards apart, Bill discharged his pistol at the stranger, but the ball struck and disabled the horse. There was then an exchange of shots and the stranger lay dead on the ground with a bullet in his brain. Not satisfied with killing the man, Bill stooped over the prostrate body and drawing a bowie-knife from its sheath, he cut a slice out of the stranger’s head which he considered would correspond with the wound in his own. This bloody trophy Bill carried with him for years afterwards – a dried piece of flesh and hair.

The stranger proved to be a cousin of Phil Cole, the gambler, and from facts gathered afterwards, it was shown that he had long sought an opportunity to avenge his cousin’s death. The revenge was, however, visited upon the head of the avenger.

HE REMOVES TO KANSAS CITY

Bill served the time for which he was chosen as marshal of Abilene, and in the spring of 1872 removed to Kansas City. It was at this place the writer – then connected with the daily Journal– met him and formed an intimate acquaintance, which afforded abundant opportunity to learn his real character as a man. Bill was frequently importuned for the particulars of his marvelous adventures, and permission to write his life, but he always positively refused. The last time this request was made, he returned the following reply: “Well, Buel, I expect my life has been a little interesting, and it might please some people to read about my adventures, but I don’t want a word written about me until after I’m dead. I never fought any man for notoriety, and am sorry that I’ve got the name I have. Since Ned Buntline made a hero out of such material as Bill Cody (Buffalo Bill,) I’ve thought it time to drop out of sight. I took Cody when he was left alone in the world, a young lad, and partially raised him. Well, I don’t want to say anything against the boy, but his pluck wouldn’t go at par. I’ve kept a little diary of all my exploits, and when I’m dead I’ll be glad if it falls into your hands, and from it you may be able to write something interesting. When I die it will be just as you now see me, and sickness will not be the cause. For more than ten years I’ve been constantly expecting to be killed, and it is certain to come before a great while longer.”

During this conversation Bill appeared to be unusually sad, and when he referred to his death it was with a seriousness which indicated that he had been notified of his tragic end by some terrible presentiment.

He was an expert poker-player, and followed no other calling while in Kansas City. The place was fairly filled with gamblers, and up to 1875 the voice of the keno caller could be heard in nearly every other building on Main street, between Missouri avenue and Fourth street. The Marble block, and houses on the west side of the square, were particularly the haunts of gamblers. Murders and rows were not infrequent, but Bill kept out of all difficulties. He was both feared and respected. His carriage was that of a peaceable gentleman, and during the three years he made Kansas City his home, he was a party to but one row, and that was of minor consequence. This difficulty occurred in the St. Nicholas Hotel bar-room, owned by Joe Siegmund, now the proprietor of a hotel in Malvern, Arkansas. A foppish fellow, half-drunk, being told that the party drinking at the bar was Wild Bill, went up to him, and, in a most provoking manner, asked Bill if he was the desperado who had been killing men indiscriminately out West. The impertinent inquiry called forth from Bill an equally insulting reply. The fellow, evidently bent on a row, then began to talk of shooting, and his ability “to lick any border ruffian that ever lived.” Bill walked up to him slowly, and as the senseless fop was attempting to draw a pistol, he caught him by one ear and slapped his face until the fellow howled for mercy.