Bat Masterson met his maker on October 25, 1921—not in a gunfight, but at a desk.
The 67-year-old ex-lawman was a columnist for the New York Morning Telegraph (he’d worked there since 1904), writing mostly about racing and boxing and the Wild West. He’d just finished his latest column when he quietly slumped over at his desk, dead from a massive heart attack. He had shoes on, not boots. He wore a suit, not buckskin or denim.
That last column? Bat dealt with the disparity between rich and poor in America.