That his reputation, whether truthful or legendary, was growing there can be no question. By 1867 he was accounted to be one of the best gunmen of his time and place, quite possibly for the simple reason that he had survived so many fights. For all the shadowy overtones of his story, he was also reputed to be a devotee of righteousness and order, although this facet of his character may or may not actually have existed. He was well known to be a gambler, and his victims were all (except the McCanleses) supposed to be cheaters at cards. Whether his vivacity with Mr. Colt’s revolver was intended to rid the earth of dishonest men or merely to avenge a lost hand is beside the point, for his acceptance of the position of marshal of Hays City indicates that for a time, at least, his inclinations lay in the direction of law and order. From Hays City he went to a similar post in Abilene, where he bore the star until 1872. During all this time he was forced to kill but a bare minimum of unworthy citizens, his ever growing repute as a dangerous man with a gun apparently frightening would-be desperadoes out of his orbit. Three notches were all that he placed upon his weapon during his service in those two hell cities of the prairies—definitely a world’s record in reverse. [Illustration: One of the Black Hills’ many streams] [Illustration: The Badlands: Desolate, empty, and seared] Apparently the inactivity came to bore him, for he soon gave up police work to return to the army for two years as a scout. This harsh calling also failed to satisfy whatever inner wants were making themselves felt, and in 1874 he resigned to join a traveling show with Buffalo Bill. In 1875, however, he was to be found no longer behind the chemical lights, but idling his time away in Cheyenne. During this restless interlude he married a circus rider named Agnes Lake. Shortly after the ceremony, which took place in 1876, he followed the trail to Deadwood, arriving in April and setting up camp with another ex-army scout. The motives which drew him to that thriving boom town were, in all probability, those which drew the thousands of others—mere curiosity and the hope that something might turn up. Indeed, during the four months of his Deadwood hiatus he did very little but play poker in the famed saloon known as Number Ten. That he was as accomplished a gambler as he was a gunman was doubted by no one, and through his ability with the pasteboards he apparently kept himself in such funds as he needed. He did not attempt to look for gold, nor did he seek any official post in the town. He merely played the long hours away at cards.