Washington sentinel., 1898-07-30
How the Bowie knife Game TO be
Made.
HayBsy's Magazine

Hdybeg'S magazine
Bowie drank habitually, but
rather in conformity to social re-
quirements than because he cared
Tor LIQUOR. No man ever saw him
the worse for a glass. He was
rarely even flushed with wine.
But few OF the men about him had
either such control Of themselves
or heads so capable of enduring a
drinking bout. When he had
drunk them down they were apt to
pick quarrels, maudlin or bitter,
according to their temperament.
Usually Bowie let them pass.
Most likely he thought the anger
no more than a fume OF the wine.
Perhaps, too, ne was diverted by
it, in the same fashion that, as a
lad, he had been diverted by the
antics ofthe bears he trapped. The
snare he had then set for Bruin
was a hollow cypress knee filled
with sharp iron spikes pointing in
and downward, and bated at the
bottom with a luscious honey
comb. Eager to reach the sweet,
Master Bear thrust in his head,
seized it, and made to rush away
with it, but found it impossible.
His head vas in a wooden mask
full of cruel prickIng points, and
back as Justify as he might, the
points went with him. Then when
he stood upright to paw it away.
he heard shrill boyiSh laughter,
shriller cries, at last the ping OF a
bullet or the swish of a knife
thrust; then he sank to rise no
more.
Possibly some memory of this
came to Bowie when, upon a fine
summer day, he found himself un-
armed, vet attacked, shot, and
left for dead. 1t was in what was
on the surface political quarrel.
Bowie was not ambitious tor him
self, but had an inveterate habit of
backing and defending friends of
his own party. Most likely some
pang Of personal affront or grew
ance gave edge and acridness to
the clash Of opinions. There are
human temperaments that mind a
blow less than the memory of
contemptuous laugh. Bowie had
had perhaps laughed once too
often, and came near to paying for
il with his life. Three months of
wrestling with fever, delirium,
weakness as OF a child, and he was
was up, riding hard, betting high,
swearing great oaths, altogether
himself again. But with a differ
ence. He began to speculate in
land, with fair success; further. he
was never unarmed. 1t was be-
fore the time OF bull dogs, swamp
angels, and the like hip pocket
friends. Either the horse pistol
or the hair trigger duelling pistol
was i'll to carry about ones daily
concerns. Bowie found a way
out of that. For his hunting he
had made a local blacksmith forge
him a sharp, keen knife from what
had been originally the black
smiths own rasp. 1t had a two
edged blade, nine inches long, OF
a family curved outline, and thick
enough at the back where it
Joined the handle to serve sturdy
hammering. For this he caused
a neat spring sheath to be made.
attached it to a belt and wore it
constantly. He found it a friend
IN need, and trusty beyond words.
More than once it saved his life
in desperate ARRAYS. The time
was heady and turbulent. party
feeling ran high; duels were plenty
as blackberries. To the public
mind they were a necessity. The
man who would not fight eat the
drop OF hat, and drop it himself"
was soon made to feel that he had
very much better not have been
born.
There were progressive duels,
too, from which the popular mind
no more revolted than it does in
this era from progressive whist or
euchre. 1t was one OF them which
gave Bowie and his knife to fame.
In some way there had come to be
bad blood, black and bitter, be-
tween him and a certain Colonel
Norris Wright. After long bick-
ering it was agreed to meet upon
the levee opposite Natchez, Miss
issippi, each with half a dozen
friends, duly armed, and there to
shoot the matter out. There were
a dozen on each side when it came
to fighting. The battle was ar
ranged to begin in threes. the rest
standing by, and coming in only
when those oil the first fight were
dead or disabled. But they had
miscalculated their own self con-
troll. After the first fire there was
a general melee-the reserves to a
man gripped pistols hard, drew
knife belts to a handy clutch, and
went into the combat to do or die.
Seven did die-die in their tracks.
Bowie, it appeared, was like to
make an eighth. He was down,
desperately wounded d, weltering in
his own squirting blood. His chief
antagonist bent over him, possibly
bent on succor, possibly also a
COUP ds gt9ce. Bowie struggled
to his elbow; there was fash as
OF lightning, a hurting thrust, the
sound of a cracking breastbone,
and Wright lay dead, with the
original bowie knife deep in his
heart.