When he took count a few minutes later he discovered that he had killed five men and wounded a sixth, who escaped in the thick of the fight.

The woman, who had been knocked unconscious by one of the desperadoes, was soon revived.  She was the stock-tender’s wife, and had been attacked the by gang as soon as they had slain her husband.

The passengers of the Overland stage, which rolled in as Bill was reviving the terrified woman, were given a view of Western life which none of them ever forgot.

Bill was the hero of the occasion, and a real hero he was, for probably never has a man won such a victory against such terrific odds in all the history of the war against the ruffians of the West.

It was at Springfield, Missouri, that Bill had his celebrated fight with Dave Tutt.  The fight put an end to Tutt’s career.  I was a personal witness to another of his gun exploits, in which, though the chances were all against him, he protected his own life and incidentally his money.  An inveterate poker player, he got into a game in Springfield with big players and for high stakes.  Sitting by the table, I noticed that he seemed sleepy and inattentive.  So I kept a close watch on the other fellows.  Presently I observed that one of his opponents was occasionally dropping a card in his hat, which he held in his lap, until a number of cards had been laid away for future use in the game.

The pot had gone around several times and was steadily raised by some of the players, Bill staying right along, though he still seemed to be drowsy.

The bets kept rising.  At last the man with the hatful of cards picked a hand out of his reserves, put the hat on his head and raised Bill two hundred dollars.  Bill came back with a raise of two hundred, and as the other covered it he quietly shoved a pistol into his face and observed: 

“I am calling the hand that is in your hat!”

[Illustration:  He shoved A pistol in the man’s face and said “I’m calling the hand that’s in your hat”]

Gathering in the pot with his left hand, he held the pistol with his right and inquired if any of the players had any objections to offer.  They hastened to reply that they had no objections whatever and we went away from there.

“Bill,” I said, when we were well outside the place, “I had been noticing that fellow’s play right along, but I thought you hadn’t.  I was going to get into the game myself if he beat you out of that money.”

“Billy,” replied Hickock, “I don’t want you ever to learn it, but that is one of my favorite poker tricks.  It always wins against crooked players.”

Not all of the gunmen of the West began straight.  Some of them—­many, in fact—­were thieves and murderers from the beginning.  Such were the members of the McCandless gang, which Hickock disposed of so thoroughly.  All along the stage route were robbers and man-killers far more vicious than the Indians.  Very early in my career as a frontiersman I had an encounter with a party of these from which I was extremely fortunate to escape with my life.