But, speakin’ of killin’s, the most onusual I ever hears of is when Wild Bill Hickox cleans up the Jake McCandlas gang. This Bill I knows intimate; he’s not so locoed as his name might lead a gent to concloode. The truth is, he’s a mighty crafty, careful form of sport; an’ he never pulled a gun ontil he knew what for an’ never onhooked it ontil he knew what at. An’ speakin’ of the latter--the onhookin’ part--that Wild Bill never missed. That’s his one gift; he’s born to make a center shot whenever his six-shooter expresses itse’f. This McCandlas time is doorin’ them border troubles between Missouri an’ Kansas. Jest prior tharunto, Bill gets the ill-will of the Missouri outfit by some gun play he makes at Independence, then the eastern end of the old Santa Fe trail. What Bill accomplishes at Independence is a heap effectual an’ does him proud. But it don’t endear him none to the Missouri heart. Moreover, it starts a passel of resentful zealots to lookin’ for him a heap f’rocious, an’ so he pulls his freight. It’s mebby six months later when Bill is holdin’ down a stage station some’eres over in Kansas--it’s about a day’s ride at a road-gait from Independence--for Ben Holiday’s overland line. Thar’s the widow of a _compadre_ of Bill who has a wickeyup about a mile away, an’ one day Bill gets on his hoss, Black Nell, an’ goes romancin’ over to see how the widow’s gettin’ on. This Black Nell hoss of Bill’s is some cel’brated. Black Nell is tame as a kitten an’ saveys more’n a hired man. She’d climb a pa’r of steps an’ come sa’n-terin’ into a dance hall or a hurdy gurdy if Bill calls to her, an’ I makes no doubt she’d a-took off her own saddle an’ bridle an’ gone to bed with a pa’r of blankets, same as folks, if Bill said it was the proper antic for a pony. It’s afternoon when Bill rides up to pow-wow with this relict of his pard. As he comes into the one room--for said wickeyup ain’t palatial, an’ consists of one big room, that a-way, an’ a jim-crow leanto--Bill says: “Howdy, Jule?” like that. “Howdy, Bill?” says the widow. “’Light an’ rest your hat, while I roam ’round an’ rustle some chuck.” This widow has the right idee. While Bill is camped down on a stool waitin’ for the promised _carne_ an’ flap-jacks, or whatever may be the grub his hostess is aimin’ to on-loose, he casts a glance outen the window. He’s interested at once. Off across the plains he discerns the killer, McCandlas an’ his band p’intin’ straight for the widow’s. They’re from Missouri; thar’s ’leven of ’em, corral count, an’ all “bad.” As they can see his mare, Black Nell, standin’ in front of the widow’s, Bill argues jestly that the McCandlas outfit knows he’s thar; an’ from the speed they’re makin’ in their approach, he likewise dedooces that they’re a heap eager for his company.