I killed Wild Bill Hickok.

Oh, on the second go-round, Jack McCall was convicted of the killing, and he sure enough pulled the trigger --- but that don't change nothin'.

I killed Wild Bill.

That Wednesday afternoon, August 2, l876, started out pretty much like any other. Custer's massacre happened in June that year, just a week's ride to the northwest of Deadwood, so most of us were stickin' close to town when we weren't out at our claims. Usually four or five of us would drift into Carl Mann's saloon by late afternoon for a more or less friendly poker game.

I was the first to arrive that afternoon and I grabbed me the stool next to the wall, which was where Wild Bill liked to sit. Bill had this inclination to always sit with his back to the wall, and I knew it would purely vex him somethin' awful if'n I took his stool. Figured it might give me a little advantage.

When Wild Bill Hickok strolled into the saloon, people partin' in front of him like water before a riverboat, the first thing he saw was me sittin' in his usual place.

"Charlie Rich, you're sitting in my place," Wild Bill said. "You best move, don't you think?"

Bill's fingers were tapping the butt of his pistol as he said them words, but there was a twinkle in his eyes.

"Well now, Bill," I said, smiling just to plague him. "I don't see your mark on this here stool, so I guess I've got as much right to put my backside here as anyone. Lessin' you're gonna shoot me, of course."

Wild Bill shook his head and sat down beside me. "You're not going to get out of losing your money that easy, Charlie. Now let's get those cards to dancin'."

"Carl," he called over his shoulder, "why don't you and the captain bring your money over here? Today's as good a day to lose it as any other."

Laughing, Carl Mann and Captain Massey came over to the table and sat down to play.

Sittin' next to me, Wild Bill did have a wide open view of the front door, although a rear door was standing open behind him. Several times that afternoon Bill asked me to change places with him, but I was enjoying his discomfort just too blame much.

Near to four o'clock, Jack McCall sauntered into the saloon and walked up to the bar, making a show of ordering a drink from Harry Young, the bartender. McCall was a repulsive lookin' man that we all called Crooked Nose Jack because he'd had his nose broke by being struck with a six-shooter. He was a strange boy. I'd seen him do some generous deeds while sober, but he was a pure demon when he got to drinkin'.

As far as I knew, there'd never been any trouble between Bill and Crooked Nose Jack. Matter of fact, they'd engaged in a pure friendly game of cards earlier that same afternoon. It's certain that if Wild Bill's attention had been directed to McCall, or if Bill woulda had the least suspicion of McCall's murderous design, then Bill's pistol would have had one more notch scratched on its ivory handle. And Jack wouldn't have done no one no harm.

Anyway, none of us thought anything of it when Crooked Nose Jack walked up behind Wild Bill. Exceptin' maybe we were thinkin' he wanted to watch an expert handle the cards.

But when Jack McCall was just a few yards behind Bill, he swiftly drew a beat-up 45-calibre Colt and fired. The bullet blasted a hole straight through Bill's head, come out beneath his right cheek bone, and ended up in Captain Massey's left arm.

Crooked Nose Jack turned and ran for the door. He tried to snap off a couple more shots on his way out, but seems his big rusty Colt, with every chamber loaded, only had one chamber that would fire---the one that killed Bill. What would have been McCall's chances if he'd fired one of the other cartridges when he sneaked up and held his gun to Bill's head?

He'd of been known as Number 37 on Wild Bill's list, that's what.

As it was, when that hunk of lead plowed through Wild Bill's skull, I new saw a muscle of Bill's move. He just plum slid off his stool and onto his side on the floor. Beneath that long moustache of his, his lips were curled in a slight smile, as if he was still enjoyin' my last little joke.

Wild Bill would have lived to see another day if'n I'd let him have his usual spot at the poker table.

I coulda' died that day if Jack McCall's shot had gone wild, or if I'd been sittin' in Bill's place.

But it was James Butler Hickok who lost the big game in Deadwood on that hot August afternoon in l876.

Some time later someone noticed the cards Wild Bill was clutching in his stiff hand.

Two pair. Aces and eights. Clubs and spades. And ever since then, out here in the west, black aces and eights have been known as the "dead man's hand".

But think about this. No one knows what cards I was holdin' in my hand.

No one knows the live man's hand.