whatever other expenses you run up—don’t be stingy, nor lose your head neither—and carry the rest of it, by hand, to my bride, Mrs. James Butler Hickok, with the compliments of her late loving husband, so-called Wild Bill. Now can you make me that promise, hoss?”
“Why sure I can, Bill,” says I, though not taking it seriously. I shoved the bankroll into my pants pocket, where it would be safely anchored by that Indian knife, the blade of which I kept wrapped in a piece of leather so it wouldn’t cut me. I didn’t have no belt in which to carry the latter, just that piece of rope. “I guess you better give me her address.”
“It’s back at the wagon,” said he, “but you wouldn’t have no trouble in locating her in any event. She’s famous.” He frowned and stroked his handlebar mustache. “You sure you can do this for me? That’s a long trip, but you oughta see more of the country before you cash in your chips. Maybe you won’t like it back East: I didn’t much myself, but I’m right glad I saw it when me and Cody traveled with that show. You’re an American, you ought to see where most of them live, which is real close together.”
His voice had taken on such a melancholy tone that to change the subject to something lighter, I says, “Ever notice how most everybody you meet west of St. Louie turns out to be named either Bill or Jack?”
This had the desired effect. Wild Bill brooded on the matter for a moment, and then he threw back his head and uttered a big guffaw. “You’re a comical little fellow, and that’s a fact, hoss.” Which seemed to amuse him even more, so he was feeling good when he strode into No. 10, as usual attracting the attention of all present. Nobody paid me any mind, bringing up the rear.
I glanced over the little crowd again, but still couldn’t see nobody who looked like a threat to anybody’s life but their own, if they kept drinking like that. Several wasn’t even carrying visible weaponry, which didn’t mean they didn’t have any hid-out, but if so it would take longer to bring it into play, by which time even a somewhat impaired Wild Bill could have emptied five cylinders into their vital areas.
All of them except one or two soon turned to the bar, backs to the game. Speaking of backs, Wild Bill sat down on the empty stool that presented his own spine to the world at large. It was a man name of Charley Rich who had Bill’s habitual seat on the wall side. Wild Bill thought it only a temporary arrangement, for he says, “Let’s swap places, Charley. You got mine.”
Rich snickers and says, “There’s nobody in Deadwood man enough to take you on, even from behind. You know that, Bill.”
So Wild Bill had sat down, but he asks again a little while later, and Rich just shrugged, examining the hand he had been dealt, while Captain Bill Massie says with goodnatured impatience, “Come on, Bill, I wanna win back what you took off me last night.” The other player was Carl Mann, as before, and he too had no interest in the subject.
So Wild Bill begins to play without further complaint, maybe because he was counting on me to do my job behind him. I say this with the guilt that has bothered me ever since, whenever I think of this episode, and not till this moment have I found the nerve to tell of my role, or lack of it, in what happened that August 2nd, 1876, in the No. 10 Saloon. When I recounted the first part of my life to that R. F. Snell, I lied and said I never again saw Wild Bill Hickok after running into him earlier in the year at Cheyenne. I done that because I was ashamed to tell the truth, even three-quarters of a century later. But here it is now, blame me if you will.
Wild Bill proceeded to lose hand after hand this evening, and Captain Massie did win back his losses and more, to the point at which Wild Bill was out of the ready money, and he twists on the stool and calls me over to him, I expecting to be asked for the return of his roll or
“Why sure I can, Bill,” says I, though not taking it seriously. I shoved the bankroll into my pants pocket, where it would be safely anchored by that Indian knife, the blade of which I kept wrapped in a piece of leather so it wouldn’t cut me. I didn’t have no belt in which to carry the latter, just that piece of rope. “I guess you better give me her address.”
“It’s back at the wagon,” said he, “but you wouldn’t have no trouble in locating her in any event. She’s famous.” He frowned and stroked his handlebar mustache. “You sure you can do this for me? That’s a long trip, but you oughta see more of the country before you cash in your chips. Maybe you won’t like it back East: I didn’t much myself, but I’m right glad I saw it when me and Cody traveled with that show. You’re an American, you ought to see where most of them live, which is real close together.”
His voice had taken on such a melancholy tone that to change the subject to something lighter, I says, “Ever notice how most everybody you meet west of St. Louie turns out to be named either Bill or Jack?”
This had the desired effect. Wild Bill brooded on the matter for a moment, and then he threw back his head and uttered a big guffaw. “You’re a comical little fellow, and that’s a fact, hoss.” Which seemed to amuse him even more, so he was feeling good when he strode into No. 10, as usual attracting the attention of all present. Nobody paid me any mind, bringing up the rear.
I glanced over the little crowd again, but still couldn’t see nobody who looked like a threat to anybody’s life but their own, if they kept drinking like that. Several wasn’t even carrying visible weaponry, which didn’t mean they didn’t have any hid-out, but if so it would take longer to bring it into play, by which time even a somewhat impaired Wild Bill could have emptied five cylinders into their vital areas.
All of them except one or two soon turned to the bar, backs to the game. Speaking of backs, Wild Bill sat down on the empty stool that presented his own spine to the world at large. It was a man name of Charley Rich who had Bill’s habitual seat on the wall side. Wild Bill thought it only a temporary arrangement, for he says, “Let’s swap places, Charley. You got mine.”
Rich snickers and says, “There’s nobody in Deadwood man enough to take you on, even from behind. You know that, Bill.”
So Wild Bill had sat down, but he asks again a little while later, and Rich just shrugged, examining the hand he had been dealt, while Captain Bill Massie says with goodnatured impatience, “Come on, Bill, I wanna win back what you took off me last night.” The other player was Carl Mann, as before, and he too had no interest in the subject.
So Wild Bill begins to play without further complaint, maybe because he was counting on me to do my job behind him. I say this with the guilt that has bothered me ever since, whenever I think of this episode, and not till this moment have I found the nerve to tell of my role, or lack of it, in what happened that August 2nd, 1876, in the No. 10 Saloon. When I recounted the first part of my life to that R. F. Snell, I lied and said I never again saw Wild Bill Hickok after running into him earlier in the year at Cheyenne. I done that because I was ashamed to tell the truth, even three-quarters of a century later. But here it is now, blame me if you will.
Wild Bill proceeded to lose hand after hand this evening, and Captain Massie did win back his losses and more, to the point at which Wild Bill was out of the ready money, and he twists on the stool and calls me over to him, I expecting to be asked for the return of his roll or
Similar Books
