This history of his life was written by himself, while an inmate of the penitentiary, in a lonely felon’s cell, at Fort Madison, Iowa, where he poured out his soul in agony over his past missteps, talks to us of better things, and leaves for us this publication, whether for better or for worse.

“The Life of Polk Wells” is exceptionally full of the frontier life of the West. His adventures amongst the Indians is particularly thrilling and reveal to us many of their singular traits, habits, etc. His boundless friendship to friends, and his excellent kindness to even enemies, is enobling. All we ask of you, kind reader, is a patient reading, a candid, careful sifting of the “wheat from the tares.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

One fellow laughingly remarked, “I guess we have given that long-haired cuss the slip at last.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There was but one object on my memory and upon that object did my affections dwell. I was transported in thought to the little farm house in Missouri where lived my Nora.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I reflected on the probable cause that led to the misdeeds of the men lying asleep within a stone’s throw, and pondered on the great fame of Wild Bill.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The reflections of that lonely night on the Neosho, and more especially the sad face (as I then saw it) of my sweetheart, were constantly before me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“My little friend, forgive me for thus tempting you to break a vow that should ever be sacred to the memory of your mother...."

 

 

 

Wild Bill feared not the devil nor regarded man, yet the word “mother” caused his heart to throb like a pulsating pyramid...

 

 

 

PREFACE

Sentiment moulds public opinion. The expressions of but a single man may change a whole epoch of history. The records of the world itself, which are known to us as history, are but the lives and acts of its citizenship. Each individual makes his or her part of that record, whether knowingly or unknowingly. It has been truthfully said that “it takes all kind of people to make a world.” It likewise takes all kinds of lives to make up her history.

History is seen through many eyes, and the records of her various lives, whether good or bad, must in the aggregate form a true and impartial history of the nation's life. What Borne men would discard from record, others would find most important to impress the public mind. It is with this feeling that this book is made a matter of permanent record. We do not present it to you for your reading and consideration, as an example of perfect life or an exemplary one, far from it. His exciting career of lawlessness, his super daring deeds, has long since fixed his name on frontier record as one foil of pathetic hatred and his very name as one with which to coerce children into good behavior. However, there are thousands of his friends, too, who have found much in his life to admire, for even his enemies freely admit he had a large, warm and kindly heart; that he never once took a penny from a poor person, and was always ready to bestow his last one upon them. He stands charged with many crimes of which he is but the rightful perpetrator, perhaps guilty of some even unknown, but many were false and but the work of a vicious public revenge, which places all crime committed upon the shoulders of he who at that time stands most prominent in daring deeds of outlawry, upon the public mind.

G. A. WARNICA. Publisher
Halls, MO, February 1st, 1907

 

Polk Wells.

During the spring and summer of 1868 I was engaged in various ways, sometimes driving hack about the city, at others collecting beef cattle for the butchers, or scouting with Wild Bill for Indians or other law-breakers. On one occasion we got after three men who had stolen five horses from an old farmer near Junction City. Early twilight of the second day we came in sight of the fugitives’ camp fire on the Neosho River. Leaving the trail we rode direct to the river bottom, which we followed down to within half a mile of our prospective point, when we halted, and, after caring for our horses, proceeded to eat our crackers and dried beef, which we washed down with Neosho water.

Having finished our frugal meal we resumed our journey on foot toward the fugitives and did not halt until almost within the radius of the light of their camp fire. We were close enough to occasionally catch a few words of what the men had to say. One fellow laughingly remarked, “I guess we have given that long-haired cuss the slip at last.”

				Escapes from father by swimming the creek.

“Not much,” said Bill as he mischievously but good naturedly twitched my ear. He had been in the saddle almost day and night for a week, was, of course, very tired and having implicit confidence in me, and after giving me instructions, stretched himself and quickly went to sleep. The men being in a sparsely settled country believed themselves comparatively safe, or they would not have started a fire, yet they deemed it advisable to appoint one of their number to stand guard while the others slept. Their sentinel appeared to be perfectly contented as he made regular puffs from the short stem of his corncob pipe. With the toe of his boot he occasionally stirred the fire which sent up fitful blazes, illuminating the woods for rods around and causing the giant-like trees to assume peculiar and fantastic shapes.

Again my fellow watchman looked at his watch and, turning to his companion, said, “Come Dick, get up, it is half-past twelve o’clock.”

“Oh! H--l, lay down and go to sleep; we are in no danger here.”

“That's my opinion, too,” replied the first speaker, who stretched himself on the ground with head in his saddle and slept soundly.

The silver moon was nearing the horizon and a last ray from that wondrous orb stole through the thick foliage and for a moment rested upon the upturned, handsome face of Wild Bill. He lay so still I thought him dead but, gently placing my hand on his broad chest, the strong regular pulsations of his heart convinced me that he was sleeping the sleep of the brave, the true and the just. The familiar notes of the coyotes had long since died away and the horses, too, had ceased their monotonous “crop, crop” of the grass; so that a death-like stillness reigned over the romantic scene. Being thus left alone, I sat down, leaned against a tree, with face toward the men and delivered myself up to the sweet, though in some respects regretful retrospect.

I had left home in a fit of melancholy, the result of my Nora’s seeming indifference toward me. There was but one object on my memory and upon that object did my affections dwell. I was transported in thought to the little farm house in Missouri where lived my Nora. I mentally gazed into her deep brown eyes and again heard her say in faltering tones, “I would not cross the plains any more if I were you.” This is what she said the day I held her little hand in mine and bade her good-bye.

Swimming the Missouri River, leaving home.

I had told sister Ruth that I was going away because Nora would not play with and kiss me as she used to do while we were children. “Oh! you silly boy,” said my sister. “Nora loves you as she does her own soul, but she cannot grant you the same privileges that she once did.” Ruth was right, of course, but I was unable at that time, by any process of reasoning at my command, to draw an ethical line between Polk Wells the playfellow and Mr. Wells, the lover, for in either stage of life my love for Nora was as pure as it was ardent; hence I saw no excuse for reserve and conventionality.

Her sadness at my departure was apparent and I seemed to gloat on it, but, sitting in the loneliness of the night in the presence of evil men, not knowing what the morning would bring forth, and with her sorrowful face before my mind’s eye, my actions toward her had a recoiling force which struck true with a vengeance; my heart was pierced with the arrows of remorse for having deserted the loveliest creature on earth for the frivolous cause (to her momentous cause) of refraining from an embrace or withholding a kiss.

Oppressed with the bitterness of remorse and loneliness, my thoughts naturally reverted to scenes of childhood and other days on the plains, and my melancholy surroundings recalled the stories of the “Middle Ages,” which I had heard my father read. Mailed Knights and Cowled Padres with their innumerable serfs and crowned kings in their pomp and glory of ancient times all passed in mental review. The transition of my mind from one subject was easy and rapid. I reflected on the probable cause that led to the misdeeds of the men lying asleep within a stone’s throw, and pondered on the great fame of Wild Bill.

				Shot through knee at Riverton (Iowa) bank robbery.

My disjointed reverie was interrupted by the stolen horses making a simultaneous attack on the rich grass, and a moment later a meadow lark—the prairie nightingale—sent forth a stream of melody that warned me of the approach of day. I knew the scout wanted to make some preliminary arrangements before assaulting the enemy, so I touched him on the shoulder and said, “Bill.” One spring landed him at my side, and, with his eyes flashing in the darkness, he said, “What time is it? Is everything all right?”

I pointed up to the lark still filling the air with his lovely song, and then to the streaks of light athwart the eastern sky. My companion was familiar with every foot of this country and decided, therefore, to place the enemy between us and the river, the ground in that direction being less thickly covered with timber, rendering it next to impossible for the men to escape the unerring aim of Wild Bill in case they should run when apprised of his presence. After administering a gentle reprimand for my failure to waken him at midnight as per order, the scout said, “FolIow me.”

Reaching the objective point we lay down in the tall grass to await broad daylight. Presently the men arose and started a roaring fire, on which they placed juicy steaks from the quarter of some farmer’s bullock. The odor of the broiling meat almost drove us mad with hunger. One of the men (whistling the “Arkansas Traveler”) went out to inspect the horses and finding them all right returned to camp, singing the burlesque song on “Brigham Young.” His parody on the original chorus created a hearty laugh and evoked the general term of praise, “well done, my boy.” The change of airs showed the mood and versatility of the man.

This easy transition, however, from the sentimental to the ridiculous is common with the criminal, who, when in doubt, sings something befitting the state of his feelings, but who, when confidence is restored and prosperity apparent, exhibits the lively aspects of his nature by singing something in harmony therewith. While the men were eating their hard-tack and steak, we were worming our way through the tall grass toward them, and their faces being toward the river enabled us to approach within a few rods of them; here we waited until the light of day had consumed the firelight, when we arose, and, in catlike bounds, sprang upon our prey.

Bill shouted “surrender.” The men leaped to their feet, intending, no doubt, to resist or run, but seeing four large pistols leveled at them dropped their guns and meekly submitted to the inevitable. We secured the men and returned to Junction City, where they were properly disposed of and the stolen horses delivered to their rightful owners.

The reflections of that lonely night on the Neosho, and more especially the sad face (as I then saw it) of my sweetheart, were constantly before me. I hastened to settle up my business matters preparatory to an early start to old Missouri, “therefore,” I thought, “I must bid Wild Bill good-bye tonight, as I will not have an opportunity of doing so in the morning.”

		Polk Wells captured at Randolph, Wisconsin.

When I entered the room Bill was preparing to spend the night in a gambling house. He, after being apprised of my fears and intentions, looked me full in the face for a moment, then said, “Come, let us go down and have a game of poker or faro (his favorites), and that sad look and melancholy feeling of yours will disappear.”

“No, Bill,” said I. “I cannot do that. I would gladly follow you through fire, and even into a gambling house if necessary to accomplish some worthy end but never for the purpose you suggest.” I then told him of my experience with faro while in Helena, Montana, and of the vow to which I invoked, as a witness, the spirit of my dear mother.

He paced the floor for a minute, then turning to me with tears coursing down his sunburned cheeks, said, “My little friend, forgive me for thus tempting you to break a vow that should ever be sacred to the memory of your mother. I once made a similar pledge to my dear mother, but have shockingly violated it, from the fact that the gambling room and cards possess charms that I cannot resist, and I find comfort in them not attainable elsewhere; though I would not for anything encourage you in this direction at least, to follow in my footsteps. It has been my opinion all the while that you were a gambler, or I should not have made the proposition I did.”

Polk Wells after 14 years confinement in the penitentiary.

Instead of going to the hall, we spent the night together in his rooms. Wild Bill feared not the devil nor regarded man, yet the word “mother” caused his heart to throb like a pulsating pyramid, brought tears to his eyes, and changed his prospective night’s debauch into one of quietude and real enjoyment. Having had ample opportunity to observe the peculiarities and noble traits of character of this famed man, I am prepared to say that he was a hero of heroes, enstamped with valor divine, a star of beauty, a jewel coined synonym of the true, master of the most perfect marksmanship attainable by finite capacity, uncultured, yet wise as the serpent, an Apollo in form, a Hercules in strength, quick to resent a wrong, yet forgiving and generous to a fault, and, when in seclusion with a friend, as loving as a girl and as playful as a child.