Wild Goose Bill Dies in the Doorway of the Hollis King Ranch

Samuel Wilbur Condon, known personally or by reputation to almost every man, woman and child in the Pacific Northwest as "Wild Goose Bill," was born in Orange, N.J., about sixty years ago. Of an adventurous disposition, he struck out early for the West in search of fortune. He stopped for a time in Illinois, but soon pushed on to the gold fields of California. Thence he drifted northward, and thirty years ago was freighting across the trackless plains of the Big Bend, from Walla Walla to the placer camps along the Columbia.

From his knowledge of the country he finally settled as a squatter in a valley through which a little creek ran, and married an Indian woman according to the rude forms of marriage practiced among her tribe. His frontier ranch, marked on the early maps by explorers as "Wild Goose Bill's Place," stood on the ground now occupied by the town of Wilbur. For many years he lived there with his wife, by whom he had three children — two grown sons and a helpless, crippled boy of 8 or 10, on whom the father lavished all his affection.

In the summer of 1893 Condon employed Mrs. Dunn, who had separated from her husband, to care for the stricken child. It was not long before she had alienated Condon's affections from his Indian wife, whom he induced, by the gift of a band of ponies, to return to her people on the reservation. Condon was passionately fond of his new companion and insanely jealous of her; of late she had fed the fires of that jealousy more assiduously than she cultivated his love. In September Mrs. Dunn secured a final decree of divorce, and Condon was frequently heard to declare that he intended to marry her as soon as the statutory six months had expired. A few weeks ago, however, she became enamored of a fellow named Jim Bratton and went to live with him at the Hollis King ranch, where he was employed. Her desertion preyed on Condon's mind, and he drank deeper than usual.

The town of Wilbur was thrown into a fever of excitement about four o'clock Tuesday evening, when Bert Burns rode in from the country with news of the tragedy that had occurred Monday noon at the King ranch: "Wild Goose Bill" and Bart Parks had lost their lives, and Millie Dunn had received two bullets in her left arm.

According to the story told by Burns, Condon came Monday noon to the house occupied by Bratton and the woman, and shook hands with those present — Bratton, the woman, and Bart Parks, a young man well known through this section who formerly drove the stage between Wilbur and Conconully. After a few words Condon drew a six-shooter and fired two shots at the woman, who was sitting on a bunk; one shot took effect in her left arm, shattering the bone. At this point Parks, who was reclining on a bunk at the opposite side of the room, opened fire with his revolver, emptying six chambers. Condon then turned on Parks and fired one shot, inflicting a mortal wound, and attempted to escape through the door. Parks, wounded as he was, grasped a Henry rifle within reach and fired at the retreating Condon, who fell dead just outside the door. Parks said to the woman, "Well, I guess he's got me, but I fixed the old man anyway," and shortly after expired. Bratton, who probably had reason to suppose himself the particular object of Condon's wrath, suddenly recalled an old proverb, took to his heels and got beyond the range of the bullets.