Life and marvelous adventures of Wild Bill, the Scout

BILL MULVEY’S LAST ROW

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 West, “a great big tear.” He paraded the streets with a revolver in each hand, howling like an enraged tiger, and thirsting for some one’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.

A FIGHT WITH FIFTEEN SOLDIERS

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 divers 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’ ranche, 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’ ranche, which he succeeded in doing, as before stated.

After remaining at the ranche 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.

A DEATH FIGHT WITH TEXAS GAMBLERS

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 sincerely 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.

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.”