William Mathewson: The Other "Buffalo Bill" and Billy the Kid’s Forgotten Kin
In the pantheon of Old West legends, names like Wyatt Earp, Wild Bill Hickok, and Buffalo Bill Cody resonate with a particular mythic force. Yet, the American frontier was populated by countless figures whose lives, though equally adventurous and impactful, have largely faded into the periphery of popular memory. One such man was William Mathewson, a frontiersman of extraordinary skill and a life rich with the very experiences that define the era, yet often overshadowed by the very legends he brushed against.
Known to many as the "other" Buffalo Bill and distantly related to the infamous Billy the Kid, Mathewson’s story is a tapestry woven from the threads of buffalo hunting, Indian diplomacy, law enforcement, and the relentless push of civilization across the Great Plains. His life offers a more nuanced, and perhaps more authentic, glimpse into the complex realities of frontier existence than many of the more polished narratives we’ve inherited.
Born in 1837 in Pennsylvania, William Mathewson’s destiny was set westward from an early age. His family’s migration through Ohio and Illinois instilled in him the rugged self-reliance necessary for the challenges ahead. What’s often overlooked, or perhaps misunderstood, is his familial connection to Henry McCarty, better known as Billy the Kid. Mathewson was a distant maternal cousin to McCarty, a link that, while not directly influencing Mathewson’s path, adds a fascinating layer to his story. Unlike his outlaw relative, Mathewson chose a life on the side of order, even if that order was often forged through the violent crucible of the untamed West.
Mathewson’s true claim to fame, and the origin of his enduring nickname, came during the brutal, often indiscriminate, slaughter of the American bison in the 1870s. Before William F. Cody cemented the moniker "Buffalo Bill" through his theatrical exploits, Mathewson was already widely known by that very name. He earned it through sheer, unparalleled prowess as a buffalo hunter, not for showmanship, but for survival and commerce.
Operating out of frontier towns like Wichita and Dodge City, Mathewson was a professional hunter supplying meat to railroad construction crews, military outposts, and later, hides to the burgeoning leather industry. His marksmanship was legendary, often recounted in tales of him dropping dozens of bison in a single stand, aiming for the lead animals to cause a stampede of confusion. Unlike many who simply shot for sport or the tongue, Mathewson was meticulous, ensuring that as much of the animal as possible was utilized. "I never killed a buffalo unless I had a use for it," he once reportedly stated, emphasizing a pragmatic, rather than purely destructive, approach to the hunt.
The scale of his operations was staggering. Mathewson and his crews were responsible for thousands upon thousands of buffalo, a testament to his skill but also a stark reminder of the ecological devastation that transformed the Great Plains. This period was not merely an economic enterprise; it was an act of profound historical consequence, stripping Native American tribes of their primary food source and effectively breaking their resistance to westward expansion. Mathewson, like many of his contemporaries, was a cog in this historical machine, his actions driven by the demands of a rapidly expanding nation.
Beyond the hunt, Mathewson was also a pivotal figure in the complex, often fraught, relationship between the U.S. government and the Native American tribes of the Plains. His deep understanding of the land, the buffalo, and the various tribal cultures made him an invaluable scout and interpreter for the U.S. Army. He served under notable officers such as General Philip Sheridan and General Winfield Scott Hancock, participating in numerous expeditions and, crucially, in peace negotiations.
One of his most significant contributions came during the 1867 Medicine Lodge Treaty, a landmark agreement aimed at establishing peace between the U.S. and the Cheyenne, Arapaho, Comanche, Kiowa, and Apache tribes. Mathewson, with his reputation for fairness and his fluency in several Native American dialects, played a critical role as an intermediary. He was respected by many tribal leaders, who recognized his genuine, albeit limited, efforts to foster understanding in a time of intense conflict. He understood the plight of the Native Americans, even as he participated in activities that contributed to their displacement. It was a contradiction that many frontiersmen embodied, caught between an appreciation for the indigenous way of life and the inexorable march of American manifest destiny.
As the buffalo herds dwindled and the frontier began to close, Mathewson, ever adaptable, transitioned into roles as a lawman and settler. He served as a Deputy U.S. Marshal and as a sheriff in various Kansas counties, bringing his brand of tough, no-nonsense justice to nascent towns struggling with lawlessness. His imposing physical presence—he was a large, powerfully built man—and his reputation as a deadly shot undoubtedly aided him in maintaining order.
He was part of the generation that helped civilize the Wild West, trading his buffalo rifle for a badge, and the open plains for a plot of land. Mathewson invested in real estate, engaged in farming, and became a respected, contributing member of the communities he had once helped to carve out of the wilderness. He witnessed the transformation of Kansas from a vast, untamed prairie into a settled agricultural state, playing an active role in that evolution.
Unlike many of his more famous counterparts who died violently or in relative obscurity, William Mathewson lived a long and productive life. He passed away in 1916 in Wichita, Kansas, at the age of 79, a respected elder statesman of the frontier, having outlived most of the legends and myths he was associated with. His later years were spent reflecting on the dramatic changes he had witnessed, a living bridge to a bygone era.
Why then, has William Mathewson not achieved the same level of historical recognition as others? Perhaps it is precisely because his life was so multifaceted, lacking a single, easily digestible narrative arc. He wasn’t a showman like Cody, whose Wild West shows cemented his image in the public consciousness. He wasn’t an outlaw whose notoriety guaranteed infamy like Billy the Kid. Instead, Mathewson was a working frontiersman, a man of action whose contributions were practical and often less glamorous than the heroic tales spun for dime novels.
His story also highlights the inherent complexities of the Old West. Mathewson was a figure of contradictions: a buffalo hunter who also negotiated with the tribes dependent on those buffalo; a man of violence who became an enforcer of law; a distant relative of an outlaw who chose the path of order. He embodied the pragmatic, often brutal, spirit of the frontier, a spirit that built a nation but also left a legacy of environmental and cultural devastation.
In remembering William Mathewson, we are not just recalling another forgotten name; we are gaining a richer understanding of the true texture of the American West. He was not merely "the other Buffalo Bill" or "Billy the Kid’s cousin," but a formidable figure in his own right, a true pioneer whose quiet strength and versatile skills shaped the land he loved. His life reminds us that history is often found not in the brightest spotlight, but in the nuanced shadows cast by those who lived, worked, and transformed the world, one buffalo, one treaty, one town at a time.
