The bullet struck the sidewalk. The second one clipped the hem of Phil Coe’s coat. Coe stood in the glow of the kerosene lamps outside the Alamo Saloon in Abilene, Kansas, a revolver still in his hand, having just fired twice in the direction of the town marshal. Wild Bill Hickok had come to investigate a gunshot.

He had found Coe, drunk and spoiling for a fight, and now Coe had made his intentions unmistakable. Hickok drew both revolvers and fired. His shots were quick and true. Two of them tore into Phil Coe’s stomach, a wound that would kill him three days later.

But Hickok, hemmed in by the crowd of drunken cowboys and lit only by the flickering lamps, saw a third man fall. A third bullet had found another target, someone who had stepped between Hickok and Coe at the worst possible moment. Hickok had accidentally shot Mike Williams. Williams had been a jailer on the Abilene police force that summer.

He was planning to leave town that evening, heading back to Kansas City to be with his ailing wife. Instead, he had been caught in the crossfire of a gunfight that was never meant to involve him. Overcome with grief, Hickok carried Williams into the Alamo Saloon and laid him on a billiard table. Witnesses said there were tears in his eyes.

The man who had built a reputation as one of the deadliest gunmen on the frontier wept over the body of his friend. That night marked the end of Wild Bill Hickok’s career as a lawman. On December 13th, the Abilene city council dismissed Hickok and his deputies. The cattle season was over, and there was talk of banning cattle trading in the town altogether.

The city simply no longer needed his services. Hickok never returned to law enforcement. Why he walked away remained a matter of speculation. Some said it was the psychological weight of killing his own friend.

Others pointed to his failing eyesight, or suggested he wanted to settle down and marry. What was clear was that the events at the Alamo Saloon had changed him. For years, the myth of Wild Bill had been built on stories Hickok himself helped spread. He was a scout during the Civil War, fighting Rebel bushwhackers, and later a marksman and lawman of fearsome reputation.

In the early years he did little to dispel the legends. He enjoyed spinning tall tales and was known for his elaborate storytelling. In 1865, in Springfield, Missouri, he gave an interview in which he claimed to have killed hundreds of men. That sensational account was published in the February 1867 issue of Harper’s New Monthly Magazine, followed by another story in the Weekly Missouri Democrat, this one from Henry M.

Stanley. The boasting made many respectable citizens view him with skepticism. With time, Hickok realized that exaggerating to the press was unwise. By 1868 he began avoiding journalists, though his legend continued to grow anyway.

The truth of his record was impressive enough. Apart from the rebels he killed during the Civil War, Hickok was confirmed to have fatally shot six men. Two of those killings were in self-defense; the others came in his capacity as a lawman. When journalist Nichols asked him how he felt about the men he had killed, Hickok answered that he seldom thought about it.

“The most of the men I have killed, it was one or other of us,” he said, “and at such times you don’t stop to think, and what’s the use after it’s all over? ”

To Stanley he said he only killed when absolutely necessary and never sought to shoot anyone without cause. His skill with revolvers was widely acknowledged. A posthumous tribute from a Chicago Tribune reporter described the secret of his success: the ability to draw and discharge his pistols with a rapidity that was truly wonderful, presenting and firing both weapons simultaneously.

He seemed never to take aim, yet he never missed. Buffalo Bill Cody once remarked that while some gunmen were more accurate than Hickok, few matched his skill with a revolver. Hickok had a unique method of cocking, aiming, and firing as he drew, unlike most men, who would draw, aim, and then shoot, a process that took far more time. Beyond his shooting, Hickok’s strong character allowed him to command respect.

When people saw him, they believed the legend. George Armstrong Custer wrote in My Life on the Plains of Hickok’s immense influence among frontiersmen, noting that his word was law. Custer recalled many instances where Hickok quelled disputes simply by declaring that things had gone far enough, warning that any further disagreement would have to be settled with him. Hickok was not considered aggressive by his peers, but he was always ready to act decisively and took full responsibility for his actions.

Unlike others who relied on friends for backup during confrontations, Hickok stood alone. Even after he stopped boasting to reporters, there were plenty of old-timers who claimed to have witnessed his gunfights. The confrontation that cemented his reputation came in Springfield, Missouri, on July 21, 1865. A card game dispute with Davis K.

Tutt the night before led to a classic face-to-face showdown. Some so-called eyewitnesses later embellished their accounts, but coroner’s records confirmed that Hickok did shoot Tutt, hitting him in the heart from a distance of seventy-five yards. Four years later, in Hays City, Kansas, Acting Sheriff Hickok had to confront Bill Mulvey in August, then the saloon owner Samuel Strawhun the following month. Although Hickok seemed to act in self-defense, his actions received mixed reactions.

On November 11, 1869, The Gazette of Delaware, Ohio, noted that Hickok was either heartily hated or more feared than loved. He lost the election for Sheriff of Ellis County that November, partly because he was a Republican in a predominantly Democratic area. In July 1870, Hickok returned to Hays City, possibly for personal reasons or as a deputy U. S.

Marshal, and shot two drunken troopers of the Seventh U. S. Cavalry. The exact number of cavalrymen present is unclear, but Hickok was fortunate to escape unharmed.

His time in Hays City was eventful, but his reputation truly flourished the following year in Abilene. Appointed town marshal on April 15, 1871, Hickok and his deputies were responsible for maintaining order among the five thousand Texas cowboys who passed through Abilene between May and October. Despite the challenges posed by gamblers, prostitutes, and others aiming to exploit the cowboys, the lawmen generally succeeded. When the city council instructed Marshal Hickok to relocate the undesirables south of the railroad tracks, the resulting area of brothels and gambling dens was dubbed McCoy’s Addition, a jab at cattle baron and mayor Joseph G.

McCoy. The confrontation with Phil Coe on October 5th was a tragedy that seemed almost inevitable, given the risks of being a lawman in a cow town. Hickok understood those dangers. He had faced Coe’s challenge, but he was devastated when his friend Mike Williams inadvertently stepped into the line of fire.

Afterward, Hickok patrolled the streets, disarming potential troublemakers. Within an hour, Abilene was eerily quiet. He insisted on covering the cost of Mike Williams’s funeral and later visited Williams’s widow to express his sorrow and explain the events of that night. Although Hickok was clearly disturbed by the incident, most residents of Abilene did not blame him.

A coroner’s inquest cleared him of any wrongdoing. Unfortunately, the records of that inquest, along with similar documents, were lost in courthouse fires in both Abilene and Hays City. Some newspapers made errors in reporting the events, but overall the accounts were favorable, noting that Hickok had bravely fulfilled his duties. The Abilene Chronicle stated that Phil Coe, viewed by some as a thug and by others as having good impulses, got what he deserved.

Some Texans disagreed and were very upset. Coe’s family reportedly placed a ten-thousand-dollar bounty on Hickok’s head. In November, five Texans attempted to ambush Hickok on a train to Topeka, but he outsmarted them and continued to be seen as a formidable opponent to wrongdoers. While the Coe incident bolstered Hickok’s reputation as a gunfighter, he no longer sought such recognition.

He declined an offer to become the city marshal of Newton, Kansas, for two hundred dollars a month, even though he had earned only one hundred fifty dollars a month in Abilene. The tragic death of Mike Williams and the potential risk to other bystanders may have influenced his decision. Despite knowing that the shooting of Williams was accidental, Hickok was not in the right mental state to accept another law enforcement position. Some speculated that the tragedy had shaken his confidence, but his contemporaries did not believe this.

In March 1873, a rumor spread that Texans had killed Hickok at Fort Dodge, prompting him to write to newspapers to confirm he was alive. He did not seem timid in his declaration: “I never have insulted man or woman in my life, but if you knew what a wholesome regard I have for damn liars and rascals, they would be liable to keep out of my way. ”

While Hickok’s nerve might have remained steady, his eyesight reportedly deteriorated over time. In 1874, it was suggested that he suffered from an eye disorder caused by the colored fire used during his tour with Buffalo Bill’s Combination theater troupe the previous year.

Later accounts mentioned that he received successful treatment with mineral drugs. J. W. Buel, in his 1882 book Heroes of the Plains, hinted that after a trip to the Black Hills in late 1875, Hickok sought treatment for eye conditions like ophthalmia and conjunctivitis from Kansas City physician Dr.

Joshua Thorne. Mari Sandoz, in her book The Buffalo Hunters, claimed that in the 1930s she found a report by an army surgeon at Camp Carlin, Wyoming Territory, indicating that Hickok had glaucoma and would soon go blind. That report, if it ever existed, has never been found. Camp Carlin was only a remount depot, with the nearest surgeon located at Fort D.

A. Russell in Cheyenne, and its records have revealed nothing about Hickok. Some modern medical experts have nonetheless speculated that Hickok might have suffered from trachoma, an eye infection that can lead to blindness if untreated. Regardless of his vision issues, after the shootout at the Alamo Saloon Hickok became more cautious about his reputation as a gunfighter.

In 1875, while in Cheyenne, he spoke to Annie Tallent, one of the first white women to enter the Black Hills, about his burdensome reputation. “I am called a red-handed murderer, which I deny,” he said. “That I have killed men, I admit. But never unless in absolute self-defense or in the performance of an official duty.

I never in all my life took any mean advantage of an enemy. Yet understand, I never, never allowed a man to get the drop on me. But perhaps I may yet die with my boots on. ”

By the mid-1870s, the Western frontier as Hickok knew it was changing, and he decided it was time to start a new chapter in his life.

Throughout his youth he had romantic connections with several women. His first love was Mary Jane, the part-Indian daughter of John Owen, who took him in as a boarder when he arrived in Monticello, Kansas Territory, in 1857. During the Civil War and on the plains in the late 1860s, Wild Bill had several romantic affairs, including one in Ellsworth, Kansas, with Indian Annie, who bore him a son that later died. It wasn’t until March 5, 1876, that Hickok married.

His bride was Agnes Lake Thatcher, a circus performer whose previous husband, Bill Lake, had been murdered years before. Hickok first met Agnes when her circus came to Abilene in 1871, and they stayed in touch for several years before the wedding. Marrying Agnes signaled a new beginning, and Hickok needed money to support his new wife. He had reportedly made a trip to the Black Hills in 1875, and in the spring of 1876 he attempted to organize an expedition of would-be gold miners to the hills from St.

Louis. Upon discovering that others had already organized a similar venture, Hickok delayed his plans and went to Cheyenne instead. By the end of June, he joined his old friend Colorado Charlie Utter and headed to the newly founded mining camp at Deadwood Gulch. Deadwood seemed like an ideal place to make money at the diggings, as Hickok hinted to his wife in a letter dated July 17th.

He mentioned that it might be the first step toward moving elsewhere. Hickok told Agnes he wanted to make a home for them, and she expressed eagerness to join him. In his correspondence with his family in Troy Grove, however, Hickok spent more time gambling than mining. Reports following his death in August suggested he was not a happy man.

Cody, who had met Hickok en route to Deadwood in July, claimed in a September interview that Wild Bill had said he did not expect to return from the Black Hills. Even if Hickok’s shooting skill, vision, and mental state had been in top form, they would not have helped him when a drifter named Jack McCall walked into Deadwood’s Saloon Number 10 on August 2, 1876, and shot him in the back of the head. Wild Bill was denied the chance to prove whether he was still the best pistoleer in the old West. He died at age thirty-nine.

Wild Bill’s niece Ethel Hickok, born in June 1886, nearly ten years after his death, grew up hearing family stories that highlighted his gentle side. She mentioned that her father, Horace Hickok, told her that Wild Bill disliked his reputation as a mankiller. Ethel also recalled how her mother, Martha Edwards Hickok, shared that Wild Bill’s own mother, Polly, became very upset when she heard stories about his gunfights and the men he was said to have killed. According to Ethel, Wild Bill’s brothers Horace and Lorenzo and his sisters Celinda and Lydia all tried to dispel the false stories.

But even those closest to him doubted he could have ever settled down. Ethel said that Lorenzo Hickok, who knew his brother very well, once remarked that if Bill had not died in 1876, his restless spirit and adventurous nature would have kept him roaming the Wild West. Had he continued his wandering, it was likely only a matter of time before another Western troublemaker or outlaw took a cheap shot at the former lawman and legendary pistoleer. As the dust settled in the saloon and the echoes of gunfire faded, the legend of Wild Bill Hickok only grew.

His last gunfight was more than a deadly confrontation. It was the defining moment that cemented his place in the lore of the Old West, the story of a man who met his end not in a blaze of glory but by a coward’s bullet from behind, in a saloon in Deadwood, his hand still holding the cards he would never finish playing.