She didn’t give me no trouble, on account of I convinced her the wedding ceremony was going to be held there, for Wild Bill liked to do things up right and wanted to get married in a big town. Omaha was real big by then and had a gloomy home for the mentally defective, run by people who you would have took for the patients had they not been wearing uniforms. So it wasn’t no pleasure to hand Caroline over to them, I’ll tell you, but it had to be done, and I don’t believe my sister was unhappy with the arrangement, for she immediately took that home for her own house and them attendants for her servants and become so involved with her wedding plans that she never even said goodbye to me.

That is how I happened to miss Wild Bill’s real wedding, which took place in Cheyenne while I was gone, and I never did see his wife.

I never went prospecting with Wild Bill, either. In fact, I never laid eyes on him again. He come back from his honeymoon alone, leaving Agnes in Cincinnati, and went on up to Deadwood in the Black Hills where they was scratching for gold in that celebrated gulch, only he didn’t do no mining. He played poker. On the afternoon of August 2, 1876, he took a seat with his back to the door, and in come a man named Jack McCall and shot him dead. Nobody knows why he left his spine unguarded that day, for the first and last time, unless it was that he had reached the point in life where he had to have confirmed what he always suspected.

Anyhow, what he was holding when he died has ever since been called the dead man’s hand: two pair, aces and eights. R.I.P., J. B. Hickok.

It was April when I deposited poor Caroline in the nuthatch, and seeing as how Omaha lays on the Missouri River, I decided to go by boat up into Dakota Territory, maybe as far as Pierre, and then overland to the Hills. The river was just opening up from the winter, and I got me passage on a sternwheeler and rode it as far as Yankton, where I changed to another boat by the name of Far West. I did that so I could be at Custer’s Last Stand.

I’m kidding. But you know how them things look later. The way it really happened was that the first boat had a little layover in Yankton, in the course of which I heard a lot of talk about the Far West and its captain, a man named Marsh who was famous along the Missouri. There used to be quite a body of legend about riverboating-captains who could navigate in a heavy dew, etc.-and Marsh was part of it, not having been hurt any by being a friend of an author named Mark Twain who wasn’t noted for understatement.

Now I didn’t have nothing for nor against Marsh, but what interested me was to learn that he was taking the Far West all the way up the Missouri and then down the Yellowstone, carrying supplies for the campaign against the hostiles who had, now it was spring, run off the reservations in considerable numbers and was thought to be in the Powder River region. Which of course was up in Montana and nowhere near the Black Hills. Actually, the Indians never did much at all to defend the Hills and I believe already counted them as lost by this time. They had in reality run away again, and the Army was going to hunt them down and whip them as at the Washita. You understand it was all wild country up on the Powder: there weren’t no settlers there, nor even gold miners. It was the native place of many of them Indians, but it was not the reservation they had been assigned.

The latter was an important point to the Government, because it constituted a defiance of law. And then a lot of people had got sick by now of uppity redskins. It was after all the one-hundredth year since the Declaration of Independence, and they had opened a Centennial Exposition in the city of Philadelphia, featuring a deal of mechanical devices such as the typewriter, telephone, and mimeograph machine; and it did not seem logical for such a country to be defied by a bunch of primitives who had not invented the wheel. So President Grant okayed the campaign against them. He had earlier tried to treat the redskins nice by hiring a number of Quakers to run the Indian Bureau, but that had not worked out on account of most other people believed that brotherly love was cowardice and the Indians thought it was insanity.

Sitting Bull was up there in the Powder region and Crazy Horse and Gall, and a number of other famous Sioux, with a couple thousand of their followers, and as the spring progressed, more was leaving the agencies every day. If they was not quickly discouraged, it would become the fashion, for though the southern buffalo had been mostly killed off by people like myself, the northern herd was up in Montana and an Indian preferred that sort of eating over the beef he was issued at the reservation, which besides he was often cheated out of anyway by the agents and traders.

So the Army was sending General Crook from the south, Gibbon from the west, and Terry from the east, converging on the area where the Powder, Tongue, and Bighorn rivers flow into the Yellowstone. The idea was to gather the hostiles before the three prongs and if they showed fight, to hash them up. There was infantry, cavalry, and Gatling guns, and the Far West would penetrate as far up the rivers as it could, farther than any other boat ever had, for it was built for the purpose with a real shallow draft and two steam capstans for pulling off sandbars.

All this I found out in Yankton, but even bigger news to me was that Custer had come back from Washington and though Grant was sore at him for testifying against his brother, he had reluctantly agreed to let him go fight Indians. The other generals wanted Custer along, you see, owing to the reputation he had made in wiping out Black Kettle’s village.

It has been ever so long since I have mentioned Old Lodge Skins and the Human Beings, whom I had not seen for eight years. The Southern Cheyenne had been quiet for a length of time now, down on their reservation in Indian Territory. The Washita and the other campaigns of ’68 and ’69 had settled the question for them: they since lived on Government handouts and scratched at a little farming and a few of them let their kids take schooling.

But if I knowed anything at all, it was that Old Lodge Skins and his band had not stayed down in the Nations. I could swear they had went back up to the Powder; either that, or the old man had gone under, for God knows he was old enough, but he wouldn’t tolerate no farming nor do I believe he would stand for little Human Beings learning rot in a white man’s school.

So Custer would be going once again to do to these people what he had done before. I commenced to look at it again as a personal matter. There I was in Yankton, southern Dakota Territory, in May of 1876, and the Far West was getting up steam to negotiate the upper Missouri and go help Custer to slaughter the Sioux and Northern Cheyenne.

I went onto the vessel and to the captain’s cabin, and I says to Marsh that General Custer had telegraphed me to come as a scout for him, owing to my experience in that position at the celebrated Battle of the Washita where we wiped out Black Kettle and his cutthroats; and besides, I was ready to pay the fare.

Marsh says it was all right with him if I could find a place on deck to pitch my bedroll among the supply boxes and barrels lashed there, for the cabins was full up with all manner of persons, military and civilian, and there was even a sutler on board to sell whiskey when they reached the troops.

So the Far West dug its paddlewheel into the muddy water of the Missouri, and we headed north for the biggest Indian battle of them all. You know how a fellow says: but we never realized it at the time. Everybody knowed the tribes was gathering and that Custer would find them. Where we was wrong was in supposing they would run again; or if forced to fight, would lose.