It’s hard to believe ten years have passed since I found a neglected, uncirculated booklet titled Paha Sapa Tawoyake: Wades’s Stories and brought it back to life by re-publishing it. It met with good sales and popularity on both the east and west sides of the Missouri River since William Wade had made his mark on both sides. Each printing would sell out and I’d re-order more. He’d led quite an adventurous life until settling down on his Anchor Ranch near Raleigh, ND. His early life stint on seagoing vessels prompted the “Anchor” handle, since it is where he moored for the remainder of his life. The picture looks over part of the ranch.
He encountered many experiences on and near the Missouri River and set them down in an episodic fashion for us to enjoy today. Here is an interesting one:
Shoot the Hat - At Bismarck, Dakota Territory
If my memory still serves me well, it was in 1876 that I witnessed the following episode. This man from New York City was a very good looking fellow about 30 years old, six feet tall and broad shouldered. Very classily dressed in the height of male fashions which was seldom seen here in those days; very expensive looking suit of clothing, black shiny shoes and a stove-pipe hat made of silk that shone in the sun. His chin sported a very fine Vandyke beard with a well trimmed mustache to match. All this made for a very outstanding figure among the average run of board walk occupants.
There were many men on the main street as the stranger came walking by and nearly every one had one revolver or two hanging from their gun-belt. They were mostly fresh out of the saloons or the Merchants Hotel to witness a dog fight which had just ended when the stranger passed and said, “Good morning, boys.”
One of the group of by-standers, Shang, who had shot and killed a man in Moorhead about two years before, spied the glossy black hat and hollered, “Shoot the hat, boys.” The stranger turned around, took off the hat and set it down in the middle of the street. He stepped a few feet away and with a smile said, “Try your luck, my friends.”
Gleefully the boys opened up on the hat; some of the shots missed but they kicked up plenty of dust in the immediate vicinity of the shiny object. When the stranger retrieved his hat there were seven hits through it. He walked over to the boys who had done the shooting, “Now boys,” he said, “I came out here to look the country over and to indulge in a little safe excitement. I had about come to the conclusion that I would have to go back without proof of something different but you fellows have donated greatly to my trip. Come, boys, I want to treat you all. Where is the best place to go?”
They were soon lined up in a saloon on the west side of 4th Street. Said the tall New Yorker to the barkeep, “These men are all my friends, give them whatever they desire.” When each had been served and the bill paid the stranger removed his plugged hat and said, “Boys, I want to shake hands with you all and thank you. I will wear my hat back to my home on West 14th Street in New York City. I will hang it on our hat rack in the front hall where every one who visits can see it. When I get old and my grandchildren come to see their old grandpa, I can show them the hat and tell them of the good time I had in Bismarck, Dakota Territory. I must say Good-bye now. Our special car will soon be on its way east.”
He never told us his name or did I ever hear who he was, but a large number of those men that “shot the hat that day” could have directed him out of town to lots more excitement than just shooting a hat.
