Bat Masterson - King of the Gunplayers by Alfred Henry Lewis

Bat Masterson - King of the Gunplayers

Smothering Ebullient Cowboys

As sheriff, Mr. Masterson's duties carried him over sixteen unorganized counties, besides the county of Ford. His more immediate responsibility; however, was the good order of Dodge, and to prevent ebullient cowboys, when the Autumn herds came up, from "standing" that baby hamlet "on its head." It took judgment and nerve and forbearance and military skill; but Mr. Masterson accomplished the miracle, and did it, too, at a minimum of bloodshed. In the words of a satisfied citizen and taxpayer:

“He never downed a man who didn't need it, and kept Dodge as steady as a church."

The Cowboy, 1888, photo by John C.H. Graybill

This image available for photographic prints HERE!

Scores of lurid spirits, whose lives were forfeit by every Western rule, have been spared to live a quieter life by the forbearing Mr. Masterson. Mr. Sutton, a lawyer and a present resident of Dodge, was out recently in the papers with a story in illustrative point. Three cowboys, moved of whisky and a taste for violence, dashed down the single street of Dodge, their six-shooters blazing like roman candles. Most peace officers would have harvested these boys; Mr. Masterson was more leniently inclined, since thus far the young merrymakers had not succeeded in hitting anybody. Sure of its aim, Mr. Masterson's pistol barked three times. Two of the ponies fell, and Mr. Masterson dragged their riders -- sprawled all abroad in the dust of the street -- off to the calaboose.

The third pony lasted until he reached the south side of the Arkansas [River,] and then dropped dead. Thereupon, its rider stripped off saddle and bridle, “stuck up" the incoming buckboard, and compelled the driver to turn nose-about, and land him at a nearest ranch more than forty miles away.

There was a lady aboard the buckboard who sang in the theatres. She was coming north from Mobeetie to fill a Dodge engagement. As shortening those tiresome forty miles, the dismounted cowboy -- pistol in hand, eye on the buckboard driver, who might at any moment rebel -- told the cantatrice that he thought she ought to sing. With that, she thought so too; and so, for forty miles she warbled "Silver Threads Among the Gold," and kindred melodies of concert hall vogue at the time. This boy got clear away, while the ravens and the coyotes, at their feast over his dead pony, gloried in the fatal accuracy of the Masterson guns.

As demonstrating his huge strength, Mr. Masterson once seized a recalcitrant cow puncher who, seated in his saddle, was making ready to "shake up the village." The cowboy was himself as strong as whalebone, and gripped his pony with legs of iron. Throwing his soul into the business, Mr. Masterson gave that adhesive cowboy such a wrench -- the boy meanwhile clinging to his mount like grim death -- that both pony and boy were thrown heavily to the ground.

It was not always convenient, nor even feasible, to spare the blood of the wrong doer. The following might furnish an example in line. Mr. Kennedy rode up to the Alhambra, kept by Mr. Kelly, the then Mayor, and took a shot at that publican and magistrate with his Ballard. Mr. Kennedy missed Mr. Kelly, and killed a lady who had come to the Alhambra to have part in the nightly ball. Mr. Kennedy -- it was eight o'clock in the evening -- on the heels of the homicide, dug spurs into his pony's flanks, and flew southward through the darkness. He was heading for the Canadian [River] two hundred miles away.

Mr. Masterson saddled a fleetest horse, and started ‘cross country for the ford where the flying Mr. Kennedy must cross the Medicine Lodge [River.] There were three or four trails, and direct pursuit in the dark was out of the question. Mr. Masterson reached the ford in the gray of the morning, bettering Mr. Kennedy's time by an hour. He hobbled his horse, and threw himself in behind a convenient knoll, to wait the coming of the murderous flying one. At last, the latter drew near, eye scanning the ribbon of trail to the rear, pony worn and panting. No wonder, this last; seventy miles, at a swinging hand gallop, is no mere canter.

"Hold up your hands!" cried Mr. Masterson.

Mr. Kennedy almost leaped from the saddle with the surprise of it; he wasn't looking for an enemy in front. The next moment, however, he pulled himself together, and drove a bullet at Mr. Masterson from the Ballard. Mr. Masterson was quite as brisk. The retort of his big buffalo gun made one report with the Ballard; Mr. Kennedy's shot went wide, while the 50-caliber bullet from the buffalo gun tore its fearful way into his side. As he fell, an accidental yank on the Spanish bits brought the tired, broken pony with him.

Mr. Kennedy rolled a dying eye upon Mr. Masterson.

"You blankety-blank-blank!" said Mr. Kennedy; "you'd ought to have made a better shot than that!"

"Well, you blankety-blank murderer!" quoth Mr. Masterson, “I did the best I could."

Mr. Masterson's brother Ed was made Marshal of Dodge, somewhat against the wish of Mr. Masterson. The latter feared that the "bad men," who came and went in Dodge, would "out manage" his brother, whose suspicions were too easily set at rest.

Continued Next Page

Dodge City, Kansas, 1876.

This image available for photographic prints HERE!

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