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.