Killer Colt

I
n his nondescript clothing—black coat, black neck cloth, dark vest, white shirt, and gambroon pantaloons—he is a man of the crowd, indistinguishable from the countless other top-hatted gentlemen striding along the pavement at that bustling hour. Insofar as the teeming sidewalks allow, he moves at a resolute pace. Damp and unseasonably cold, it is not a day for the sort of leisurely ramble favored by his fellow worker in the city’s booming printing trade, young Walter Whitman, recently arrived from the country and intoxicated by the hectic life of the great metropolis.
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What sensations impinge on Mr. Adams as he proceeds on his errands can be extrapolated from the writings of Whitman and other contemporary chroniclers of that distant time and place: the ceaseless rush of traffic, the clatter of hackney cabs, carriages, and coal wagons, the incessant din of horseshoes against cobblestone, the shouted imprecations of teamsters and omnibus drivers, the cries of newsboys and fruitmongers, the snorts of scavenging pigs, the pervasive scent of horse manure, the jostle of the human throng—merchants and lawyers, peddlers and stockjobbers, clerks and copyists, office boys and apprentices, rowdies and beggars, shopgirls and seamstresses, promenading dandies with velvet waistcoats and fashionable young ladies in gaily trimmed bonnets and cassimere shawls.
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City directories of the period tell us something about the businesses that line Mr. Adams’s path. J. C. Booth’s clothing and gentleman’s outfitting emporium, offering a “very extensive assortment of hosiery, cravats, scarves, gloves, suspenders, and linen collars.” The leather goods store of Levi Chapman, “maker of the celebrated Magic Razor Strop.” Philip
Franklin’s umbrella shop, featuring “parasols, sun shades, and walking canes of all descriptions.” John Wilson’s saddle, harness, and trunk manufactory. The warehouse of Brown & Decker, dealers in whale oil, lampblack, and sperm candles. Ball & Tompkin’s tinware and cutlery establishment. And more: druggists and drapers, cobblers and corset makers, stationers and snuff venders, sellers of consumption cures and importers of “foreign wines and choice teas.”
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How much of his surroundings Mr. Adams takes in as he makes his way uptown can never, of course, be known. He has walked these streets a thousand times, and he is focused, in any case, on the business at hand.

On that chill autumn day, the newspapers are still filled with sensational details of the death of the “Beautiful Cigar Girl,” Mary Rogers, whose brutalized corpse was found floating off the New Jersey shoreline several weeks before and whose murder, despite the concerted efforts of the city constabulary and the ingenious speculations of Edgar Allan Poe, will forever remain unsolved. Other events, too, occupy the papers, including the upcoming murder trial of Alexander McLeod, a Canadian lawman whose arrest by U.S. authorities for the killing of an American citizen has provoked threats of war from the British government. But these and other penny-press sensations will shortly be supplanted by the case in which the unwitting Mr. Adams is about to be fatally involved.
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