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On the morning of August 2, 1876, in a small saloon in Deadwood, Dakota Territory, James Butler Hickok sat down to a game of poker.
He was in his element. Cards were his trade as much as the revolver at his hip. His long hair, once golden and thick, had faded, and though he was still a striking figure, the years had been unkind.
Hickok had always preferred to sit with his back to the wall, an instinct honed by years of living on the edge. But that morning, for reasons that remain unclear, he took a seat facing the bar.
He was in his element. Cards were his trade as much as the revolver at his hip. His long hair, once golden and thick, had faded, and though he was still a striking figure, the years had been unkind.
Hickok had always preferred to sit with his back to the wall, an instinct honed by years of living on the edge. But that morning, for reasons that remain unclear, he took a seat facing the bar.
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