“That may be so,” said Joe, “but I doubt it. I heard one tale about the death of Pecos Bill that I believe is the real correct and true account.”
“And what was that?” asked Lanky.
“Well, Bill happened to drift into Cheyenne jest as the first rodeo was bein’ put on. Bein’ a bit curious to know what it was all about, he went out to the grounds to look the thing over. When he seen the ropers and the riders, he begun to weep; the first tears he’d shed since the death of Slue-Foot Sue. Well, finally when a country lawyer jest three years out of Mississippi got up to make a speech and referred to the men on horseback as cowboys, Bill turned white and begun to tremble. And then when the country lawyer went on to talk about ‘keepin’ inviolate the sacred traditions of the Old West,’ Bill jest went out and crawled in a prairie-dog hole and died of solemncholy.”
Lanky looked at Red and Hank. They had not missed the point, but they chose to ignore it.
Joe talked on. “After several years,” he said, “when all Bill’s would-be rivals was sure he was dead, they all begun to try to ruin his reputation and defame his character. They said he was a hot-headed, overbearin’ sort of feller. They was too scered to use the word, even after Bill died, but what they meant was that he was a killer.
“Now, Pecos Bill did kill lots of men. He never kept no tally his self, and I don’t suppose nobody will ever know jest how many he took off. Of course I’m not referrin’ to Mex’cans and Indians. Bill didn’t count them. But Bill wasn’t a bad man, and he hardly ever killed a man without just cause.
“For instance, there was Big Ike that he shot for snorin’, that Bill’s enemies talked up so much. But them that was doin’ the talkin’ would forgit to mention that Bill had been standin’ guard over Mexico steers every night for six weeks and was gittin’ a bit sleepy.
“Then there was Ris Risbone. Ris was one of these practical jokers, and he ramrodded an outfit that fell in behind Bill’s on the trail. Ris had a dozen or so jokes, and when he pulled one, he slapped his knees and laughed and laughed whether anybody else was a-laughin’ or not. One day Ris rode up to Bill’s chuck-wagon when there wasn’t nobody there but the cook, and he was asleep in the shade of the wagon with his head between the wheels. Ris slipped up and grabbed the trace chains and begun rattlin’ ’em and yellin’ ‘Whoa! Whoa!’ The pore spick woke up thinkin’ that the team was runnin’ away, and that he was about to git his pass to Saint Peter. He jumped up and bumped his head on the wagon; then he wakes up and looks around, and there stands Ris slappin’ his knees and laughin’. Jest then Bill rides up, but he never said nothin’.
“When the outfits got to Abilene, Bill was in the White Elephant with some of his men, fixin’ to take a drink. Jest as Bill was about to drop his fish-hooks in his glass, Ris poked his head in at the winder and yelled, ‘Fire! Fire!’—and Bill did.
“In one killin’, however, Bill acted a bit hasty, as he admitted his self. One day he called Three-Fingered Ed out of the saloon, sayin’ he’d like to speak with him in private. Bill led Ed out into a back alley, and there they stopped.