Regrettably, too many Americans (and likely many Europeans as well) have learned much of what they know of the old west from dime novels. Because I believe this phenomenon is especially pervasive when considering the common perceptions of the shootist, or, more prosaically, the gunman, this presumption can be illustrated through a review of several of the more lurid examples specific to the genre. However, before beginning this exposition, it would be useful to review a brief history of the dime novel itself.

Irwin P. Beadle & Co. (later Beadle & Adams) published what is considered the very first dime novel in 1860. Titled “Malaeska: The Indian Wife of the White Hunter,” it was the initial book in a series called “Beadle’s Dime Novels.” Produced as an inexpensive paperback, it established a style and format that would continue for many years. Although originally considered an experiment, the company ultimately sold millions of copies of its various dime novels, prompting many others to produce similar books and thereby igniting a successful publishing market that has extended into the 1900s.

The earliest dime novels were roughly four by six inches and typically 100 pages in length, but publishers soon began trying out other formats. As an example, “nickel weeklies” were produced to cost less than dime novels by using larger pages with multiple columns to squeeze more text into fewer sheets of paper. Examples of this variation include Beadle’s “Half-Dime Library” and Street & Smith’s “Tip Top Weekly.” Intended to appeal to a diverse audience of readers, the earliest dime novels presented stories of adventure and romance on the American frontier. Other popular settings included historical events, such as the Civil War, and the sea. In later years tales of the west — particularly cowboys, Indians, and outlaws — became increasingly popular. Usually published in a numbered series and often updated with a new title every week, most dime novels incorporated illustrated covers (some in color) foretelling the daring exploits to be found within the fragile pages.

And now let us examine a few examples from my modest collection of dime novels (and nickel weeklies). “The Masked Avenger or Death on the Trail,” an 1873 book from Beadle’s Dime Novels, No. 286, written by Colonel Prentiss Ingraham, has a cover illustrated with said avenger shooting a man at some distance while kneeling precariously on a rocky outcrop. The avenger sports a large ring in his left ear and a bandana trails rakishly from beneath the back of his sombrero. The first few paragraphs of the novel set the tone for the remainder of the story:

A bivouac of bandits! A wild, picturesque scene, never beheld except on the far frontier, where civilization’s footprints have left few traces, or in the wildest recesses of Mexican scenery, where the robber and the renegade, the Comanche and the wild beast have their haunts.

An encampment of robbers! men (sic) outlawed from the marts of the world where honesty is enthroned; men who have dyed their hands in human blood, and bartered their souls to Satan.

More evocative description follows, but near the end of the first chapter, the author finally provides indisputable proof of the Masked Avenger’s shooting prowess:

Ere an answer could be returned there came the distant report of a rifle; a small puff of smoke broke from the foliage on the hillside, and with a cry of agony, Red La Roche sunk to the ground, while a stream of blood trickled from a small bullet-wound in his temple.

We can only assume that the Masked Avenger was indeed aiming for Mr. La Roche’s temple, a remarkable shot by any standard, and that he employed a small caliber round that did not explode from the other side of the man’s face as would have been the result with the minie ball commonly employed during the Civil War. At the beginning of chapter two, we learn that the Masked Avenger was not kneeling on a rocky outcrop as shown on the cover, but instead took the astonishing shot while mounted on a horse. The author also appears confused about the extent of foliage on the hillside.

Devoid of foliage, the little spur of the hillside was a rocky pedestal upon which stood the horseman, for both steed and rider, being photographed against the blue sky, appeared more like statuary than objects of life, as, having reloaded his weapon, the man sat motionless in the saddle, one hand firmly holding the bridle-reins, the other grasping the deadly rifle, as if to bring it into immediate use again, should occasion require.

Now the reader is even more astonished, as it is discovered that the Masked Avenger was not only sitting on a horse, but took the shot with one hand because his other hand was “firmly holding the bridle-reins.” The author describes the Masked Avenger’s colorful attire a few paragraphs later:

Attired in a Mexican suit of black velvet, embroidered with gold braid, and ornamented adown (sic) the sides of the pants pants (sic) with gilt bell-buttons, the erect and graceful form was displayed to remarkable advantage, fully exhibiting the power and agility of the man, whose face was completely hidden by a closely-fitting mask of steel, such a covering for the face as the knights of old were wont to wear when clad in full armor.

I am not a shootist myself — I have only fired a rifle and a revolver once each as part of my research — but I imagine the shot was made even more difficult with a “closely-fitting mask of steel” in the way. But now on to the second example, a nickel weekly published in 1901 as part of Frank Tousey’s “Pluck and Luck Complete Stories of Adventure” series titled “Jack Hawthorne of No Mans (sic) Land; or, An Uncrowned King.” The author is listed as NONAME: one can only assume that the book’s content was too controversial for the times and that the writer preferred anonymity to public scorn. The full-color cover displays a saloon scene in which a young cowboy with flowing golden locks and wearing buckskin and sombrero is brandishing a six-shooter aimed at a bearded man crawling on the floor while the bartender and five other men casually witness the fracas in the background. The dialogue beneath the illustration reads: “I said you were going to crawl, and now I’ll prove it,” he continued. “Get down on your hands and knees, and crawl for that door, or as surely as I’m Jack Hawthorne, I’ll have you carried out, feet first; crawl, I tell you!” I don’t agree with much of the punctuation, but Mr. NONAME evidently believed that a generous sprinkling of commas and semicolons improved clarity.

Chapter 1, subtitled “Wasp’s Nest,” begins with these harrowing words:

“I think I have the drop on you, Black Harry, but if you are not entirely convinced of the fact, just lower your hands a little and I’ll prove it by laying you out cold!”

Skipping ahead more than a few paragraphs but still on the first page of the opening chapter, which is impressively dense with text….

At the middle of one of the card tables, and therefore the most conspicuous, stood Jack Hawthorne of No Man’s Land, with a self-cocking six-shooter held firmly in his extended right hand, the muzzle pointed directly at Black Harry’s heart.

And skipping ahead again to the middle of page two where we are regaled of Jack Hawthorn’s proficiency as a shootist….

The moment he was strong enough to hold weapons in his hands, he began to study their uses, and his wonderful proficiency amounted almost to magic.

Indeed, many who knew him, and who had the shoots of superstition still sprouting in their ignorant hearts, said openly that he practiced black art, and was a veritable imp of the devil.

Of every known weapon he was a complete and perfect master.

With the revolver, even the quickest were slow when compared to him, and he would send a ball as unerringly from one position as another.

Jack was the only man in the region who never allowed a weapon to show upon his person.

To meet him upon the road one would suppose him to be unarmed, and yet, if the occasion required, he would stretch out his arms, while a six-shooter, small of size, but of large caliber, would seem to materialize in his grasp.

The report would follow instantaneously, and the missile, without any apparent effort on Jack’s part, would strike exactly upon the object he had intended, no matter how small.

He had been known upon one occasion to actually shoot a revolver out of the hands of a man who had “got the drop on him,” effectually disarming his adversary with no injury being inflicted beyond a natural numbness of the hand and wrist, resulting from the sudden shock.

After reading this stirring little description, I can see that the Masked Avenger was a rank amateur when compared to Jack Hawthorne of No Man’s Land. And now to my third and final example, a juicy nickel weekly published by Street & Smith in 1902 (only five years ago) titled “Nick Carter and the Kidnapped Heiress or The Recovery of a Great Ransom.” The writer’s attribution is “By the author of NICHOLAUS CARTER” at the beginning of chapter one, but no other name is given. The full-color cover illustration shows four outlaws, two with guns slung from their belts, overpowering a young man dressed in dark brown suit and black felt bowler and holding a revolver in his left hand. The young man has been forced against a large boulder, and the third man looms above him with a rope in his hands, ostensibly to tie the young man up. Three other men can be seen in the distance, apparently panning for gold. The caption beneath reads: “Patsy was seized violently from behind.” The book begins innocuously enough with these lines:

“Mr. Carter, can I trust you?”

It was in the great detective’s own house that this question was asked.

“Well,” was Nick’s quiet answer, “if you had any doubt on the matter, why did you come to me?”

His caller looked nervously at the floor.

“There’s no use in talking to me,” Nick went on, “unless you do trust me.” A detective can do nothing for a client who does not give him his confidence absolutely.”

“Of course,” the other assented; “I did not mean to offend you.”

“You haven’t offended me.”

“I am so disturbed by it, you see. So much depends on secrecy. It is so terribly important that I found it difficult to make up my mind to consult anybody on the matter; and yet I know by your reputation that you are a perfectly trustworthy man. There is nobody in the States more so.”

With this pompous endorsement completed, we must now look to Canada or Mexico to find a more trustworthy individual. Later in the book, a different detective, an associate of Nick Carter with the unlikely moniker of “Patsy,” demonstrates his credentials as a shootist:

Quick as a flash, therefore, without moving from his place, and before Bloody Sam could cock his revolver again, Patsy drew one of his own barkers and fired.

Nobody in the room knew what he was about till they heard the bang! and saw the puff of smoke that rolled away from in front of the detective.

“I don’t dance for anybody in Helena, see?” said Patsy, quietly.

“Wow, ouch! damn!” (sic) howled Bloody Sam, as his revolver flew from his hand.

Patsy’s bullet had struck it on the butt.

It not only caused Bloody Sam to drop the weapon, but it numbed his fingers.

And the bullet did another thing.

Glancing from the place where it stuck Sam’s revolver, it flew across the room and hit another man on the cartridge belt, doing no harm, but startling that man fearfully.

Shooting a revolver out of a man’s hand and causing numbness appears to be a pattern in these books. But, as far as I know because I have only read a dozen dime novels, not even Jack Hawthorne perfected the art of the ricochet. It also appears that publishers of dime novels must have paid their writers by the paragraph, which is the only reasonable explanation for….