One of our sea legends recites that ship wrecked bells, fallen from the society of men to that of mermaids, are straightway hung on coral steeples, where, when storms roar around the rocks above, they toll for the deaths of the mariners. Was it impossible, we mused, that ancient mariners, with whole cargoes of bells, went down on this inland sea centuries before Rome howled? The earth around us might be as full of musical tongues as of saurians, and only awaiting the savan's spade and sympathetic touch to give their dumb eloquence voice. If the people of those days were navigators, surely they might also have been men of metal. In the far-away past existed numerous arts which baffle modern ingenuity. Stones were lifted at sight of which our engineers stand dismayed. Bodies were embalmed with a skill and perfection which our medical faculty admire, but have scarcely even essayed to imitate. Is it impossible that vessels plowed this ancient ocean with a speed which would have left our Cunarders out of sight? If human spirits freed from earth take cognizance of following generations, how those old captains must have laughed when Fulton boarded his wheezing experiment to paddle up the Hudson! And if our doctor's Darwinian-Pythagorean theory were correct, Fulton's spirit might have brought the crude idea from some ancient stoker.
But while we were thus speculating and giving free reins to Fancy's most erratic moods, the chaplain arrived from the fort, and mounting the freight platform, read the Episcopal morning service. A crowd gathered around, and a voice from the past whispering in their ears, a few bowed their heads during prayer. A drunkard went brawling by, with a sidelong glance and the leering look of eyes whose watery lids seemed making vain efforts to quench the fiery balls. How it grated on one's feelings! In a land so eloquent with voices of the mighty past, it seemed as if even instinct would cause the knee to bow in homage before its Maker.
Monday was our day of final preparation, and we commenced it by making the acquaintance of those two celebrated characters, Wild Bill and Buffalo Bill, or, more correctly, William Hickock and William Cody. The former was acting as sheriff of the town, and the latter we engaged as our guide to the Saline.
Wild Bill made his entree into one court of the temple of fame some years since through Harper's Magazine. Since then his name has become a household word to residents along the Kansas frontier. We found him very quiet and gentlemanly, and not at all the reckless fellow we had supposed. His form won our admiration—the shoulders of a Hercules with the waist of a girl. Much has been written about Wild Bill that is pure fiction. I do not believe, for example, that he could hit a nickel across the street with a pistol-ball, any more than an Indian could do so with an arrow. These feats belong to romance. Bill is wonderfully handy with his pistols, however. He then carried two of them, and while we were at Hays snuffed a man's life out with one; but this was done in his capacity of officer. Two rowdies devoted their energies to brewing a riot, and defied arrest until, at Bill's first shot, one fell dead, and the other threw up his arms in token of submission. During his life time Bill has probably killed his baker's dozen of men, but he has never, I believe, been known as the aggressor. To the people of Hays he was a valuable officer, making arrests when and where none other dare attempt it. His power lies in the wonderful quickness with which he draws a pistol and takes his aim. These first shots, however, can not always last. "They that take the sword shall perish with the sword;" and living as he does by the pistol, Bill will certainly die by it, unless he abandons the frontier.
BUFFALO BILL—From a Photograph.
WILD BILL—From a Photograph.
Only a short time after we left Hays two soldiers attempted his life. Attacked unexpectedly, Bill was knocked down and the muzzle of a musket placed against his forehead, but before it could be discharged the ready pistol was drawn and the two soldiers fell down, one dead, the other badly wounded. Their companions clamored for revenge, and Bill changed his base. He afterward became marshal of the town of Abilene, where he signalized himself by carrying a refractory councilman on his shoulders to the council-chamber. A few months later some drunken Texans attempted a riot, and one of them, a noted gambler, commenced firing on the marshal. The latter returned the fire, shooting not only the gambler, but one of his own friends, who, in the gloom of the evening, was hurrying to his aid. Bill paid the expenses of the latter's funeral, which on the frontier is considered the proper and delicate way of consoling the widow whenever such little accidents occur.