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 b............