Sudden Finish of a “Bad Man’s” Reign.
In the early spring of 1877 the then wild-and-woolly little mining city of Joplin, Mo., began to hear rumors of a great find of shallow lead on the banks of Creek, just across the State line in Kansas. Short is a little stream that rises in the western part of Jasper County, Missouri, and, after meandering around a few miles, empties into Spring River, in the eastern part of Cherokee County, Kansas.
The new discovery of lead was on this stream some nine miles from Joplin. At that time zinc mining was still in its infancy. In fact, there were thousands of tons of high-grade zinc ore, which, under the name of “black jack,” had been thrown out from the lead with which it mingled and lay in the old dumps of the region. But the new strike was of lead only, and shallow lead was the one thing sought after by the miners of those days.
Then there followed a “stampede” worthy to be classed with those we have read about as occurring in the gold fields. One year from that day there was on that ground a thriving little city that claimed a population of 5,000 people.
There flocked in every blackleg and professional “bad[{56}] man” from a wide section of country. Gambling of all grades flourished unchecked in the broad light of day. Half the buildings were saloons, and a large share of the other half were brothels. The crooked little trail along which the buildings of the place were scattered was very appropriately dubbed “Red-hot Street” by the miners, and it played fully up to its name for many weeks.
Naturally, such surroundings and conditions bred crime. There was quarreling, fighting, and bloodshed. One or two men dropped out of sight, but their disappearance caused hardly a ripple of inquiry. They were mostly of that sort who “die with their boots on,” and no one mourned their loss. Gradually the evil elements grew bolder, and under the lead of the bolder spirits among them, took advantage of the general disorder to rob and plunder at every opportunity.
At the head of these plunderers was one of those characters of whom we read in stories of wild Western life, and whose likeness we may still see exploited upon the screen of the moving pictures. He was a typical “bad man” of the Western mining country. A tall, finely formed fellow, with a handsome, dare-devil face. He wore his hair well down onto his shoulders, sported high-heeled, red-topped boots, “toted” a pair of big revolvers, and when under the influence of liquor, which was practically all the time, he was a dangerous man. The respectable element feared him and the coterie which followed his lead. But there was no organized authority to appeal to for protection, and nothing was done, while the gang went on their way unchecked and grew in insolence and outrage day by day.
This wild leader of a wild band called himself “Tiger Bill” and boasted loudly of the men he had killed in other places and as to the valiant things he proposed to do on Short Creek. But the men of the place were mostly too busy to pay any attention to the vaporings of Tiger Bill, and as time went on he waxed more truculent and boastful than ever.
But he was destined to meet disaster at the moment when his prestige was greatest, and from a source the very last that either the desperado himself or any one else would have thought capable of resistance to his will. Among the dozen or so plank sheds along Red-hot Street, that had up the name of “Restaurant,” was a rough box of a place presided over by a little German.
He was a meek-looking, pink-and-white little man, with weak eyes sheltered behind a pair of large spectacles. He was an industrious fellow, who attended strictly to his business, and whose only name, so far as we knew, was Gus.
One morning Tiger Bill rose in an unusually ferocious frame of mind. The luck had been against him at cards the night before, and his morning potations had not sufficed to soothe his ruffled spirits. Walking along Red-hot Street, he spied little Gus hard at work in his shed. The sight seemed to fire Bill’s soul with a desire to exploit his fame in the place. He felt assured that the inoffensive little German was a tenderfoot ready to his hand,[{57}] on whom he could demonstrate his valor and satisfy his desire for blood and fame in perfect safety to himself.
“It’s a long time,” he remarked to the henchman at his side; “it’s a long time since I had a man for breakfast. Watch me get the little Dutchman.”
So saying, he strode into the place, with his revolver held ostentatiously in his right hand. Walking up to the rough board counter, he said:
“Here, you little, sore-eyed cuss, give me half a dozen raw oysters. Do it pretty quick, too, if you know what is good for yourself.”
Gus hastened to fill the order. Not a sign did he show of fear, but some remarked later that he served the oysters with his left hand.
“Here,” shouted Bill. “What do you mean sticking such oysters as them under my nose?”
And at the word he dashed the contents of the dish full in the face of the German. As he did so, he threw up his hand holding the revolver. Beyond question he meant to kill Gus.
But Tiger Bill never fired that shot. Quicker than even his trained and murderous hand, quick as a flash, indeed, the little German’s hand came up, and it held a big, old-fashioned Colt revolver, and in an instant the desperado was as dead as he could reasonably expect to be, with a bullet hole drilled neatly through his head.
A great crowd instantly rushed in. Bill lay dead upon the floor, his right hand still holding the revolver; behind the counter stood Gus, quietly wiping off the mess of oysters from his face and the counter.
“Good Lord, Gus, what have you done?” shouted one.
“Mine Gott,” replied Gus. “Vat must I do? He vas schlapped me mit der oysters of der face already, und he vas his gun have ready to shoot. Next time maybe he takes a tenderfoot, maybe! Eh?”
There was nothing further to be said. Gus had stated the question perfectly. So they picked up what was left of Tiger Bill, and, clad as he was, and “with his boots on,” they thrust him into a hole in the woods. Then the decent element, always in a large majority, rallied, and elected men to serve as a committee to control the town until such time as a regular government could be established.
One of the first duties that committee discharged was to send forth notice that if any of the Tiger Bill crowd or their sympathizers were caught in Short Creek that night there would be one of the largest and liveliest hangings in history. That notice was enough; without Tiger Bill, the courage of the bunch was wholly a minus quantity, and they stayed not upon the order of their going, but went.