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Updated: June 14, 2025
"That's me," said the tall man who was leaning on the bar near me, "that's my name." "Are you the Williams that stopped Judge Shannon yesterday?" "I don't know his name," came the careless reply, "but I stopped a man in a buck-board." Plucking out my revolver, and pointing it low down on his breast, I said: "I'm sent to arrest you; you must come with me to Kiota."
One afternoon in July, 1869, I was seated at my desk in Locock's law- office in the town of Kiota, Kansas. I had landed in New York from Liverpool nearly a year before, and had drifted westwards seeking in vain for some steady employment. Lawyer Locock, however, had promised to let me study law with him, and to give me a few dollars a month besides, for my services as a clerk.
It owed its importance to the fact that it lay on the cattle-trail which led from the prairies of Texas through this no man's land to the railway system, and that it was the first place where the cowboys coming north could find a bed to sleep in, a bar to drink at, and a table to gamble on. For some years they had made of Kiota a hell upon earth.
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