Forty Times a Killer (13 page)

John Wesley had booked us accommodations at the Alamo, but since he'd skedaddled, I couldn't afford two rooms, or even one, so I bedded down in the livery stable.

That night, aided by a lantern and moonlight, I remade the acquaintances of Quentin Durward in the novel the Reverend Hardin had given me and a pint of cheap bourbon. By the time I rolled into my blankets, I'd started one and finished the other.

Come the cold dawn, I woke with a splitting headache. It was a miserable chore to saddle my horse and ride out under a sky ominous with thunderheads.

I didn't linger in Abilene, but rode directly to the Cottonwood, arriving in a pouring rain and soaked to the skin. Wes immediately pumped me for information.

I told him what had transpired after he ran out of the Alamo dining room. “Wild Bill gave me a message for you, Wes. He told me to tell you to stay out of Abilene.”

Wes smiled. “Well, that ain't going to happen, is it? I'll buckle on my guns and head for the Alamo any time I want. I don't back off from any man, except my pa.”

“Bill's taken a set against you, Wes. He's made that clear.”

“Like I give a damn.”

Wrapped up in my own cold, wet misery I said nothing.

We sheltered under a canvas tarp rigged from the chuck wagon and a small, smoky fire burned between us and gave no warmth.

I sat hunched over, a damp blanket across my shoulders. My leg was playing hob and the ulcerous sore had opened again. In pain, dog-tired from the ride from Abilene, I was in need of hot coffee and dry clothes.

I had neither.

Wes, wrapped up in his ownself as usual, didn't notice or care.

He finally drifted away to join the other punchers who kept boredom at bay by drinking, gambling, and arguing about everything and anything. He and four other cowboys gathered under a larger tarp, held in place by tree limbs. Their fire was bigger and a blackened coffeepot smoked on the coals.

Between me and the others lay fifty yards of open, muddy ground—a vast distance for a sick, weak, and shivering gimp like myself.

Driven by a north wind as cold as a stepmother's breath, rain peppered the mud and birds rose out of the trees against a sky that looked like broken coal. I watched a coyote approach the horse line, think better of it and slink away, raindrops silvering his shaggy coat.

I fancied I could smell the coffee, distant though it was, and determined to make the effort. Rising to my feet, I stood for a few moments to let my reeling head settle, then stepped from under the tarp.

Unfortunately, as I bent my head, the brim of my bowler hat hit the edge of the canvas and about a gallon of water poured down my neck, so icy I thought my heart would stop. Thus it was that by the time I reached Wes's tarp, I was wetter and even more miserable than before.

No one greeted me—the assistant to the assistant cook didn't stand very high in the cowboy hierarchy, well below the drag rider in fact—but I heard no objections as I poured myself a cup of coffee and found an out of the way corner to seat myself.

Then John Wesley, that unpredictable chameleon, stepped to my side with a bottle in his hand. He smiled, poured a stiff shot of Old Crow into my cup, and said, “This will warm you up, Little Bit.”

What to make of such a man?

One minute disinterested and uncaring, the next kind and concerned. Was John Wesley a knight in shining armor or an unmitigated knave?

I never did find the answer to that question. With Wes gone and me in my old age, I guess I never will.

 

 

Later that day, a rider on a blown horse galloped into camp with news of a killing. His slicker dripping water, he swung out of the saddle and stepped directly to Wes. “Billy Cohron is dead. Shot in the back.”

Wes knew and liked Cohron and the news staggered him. “Who did it?”

That was typical of Wes. His first thought was of revenge.

“Greaser by the name of Bideno,” the cowboy said. “Him and Billy quarreled about something and then a couple minutes later Bideno snuck up behind him and triggered a shot into him.” The drover's voice broke as he added, “Billy lingered long and he suffered something terrible the whole time.”

Billy Cohron was a likeable fellow and a steady hand who'd come up the trail as boss herder for Colonel O. W. Wheeler. As I recall, he'd been married just a six-month before his death.

The Wheeler herd was bedded down close to our own.

“Where is Bideno?” Wes asked.

“He rode south on a stolen hoss,” the cowboy said. “I guess he's headed for the Nations.”

“When did this happen?” Wes let his breath out in a rush, then his mouth tightened into a hard line.

“Day afore yesstidy,” the drover said.

“Hell, and you're only telling me now?”

The drover, his name was McKenzie, thought about that a moment then said, “Wes, like I told you, poor Billy lingered. Nobody knew right then if he'd live or die, so we loaded him into a wagon and took him to Abilene. That's where he breathed his last, and then everything was confused.”

“Nothing confusing about who shot him though, is there?” Wes asked.

“No, I guess not.” McKenzie reached inside his slicker and brought out a folded paper. “Brung you a letter from Colonel Wheeler. It says it all, or so he told me.”

Wes read the letter silently, then read it aloud for the benefit of the hands who crowded around him.

“To John Wesley Hardin, Esq.

“By now you have heard the news of William Cohron's death at the hands of a foul and treacherous murderer, whose name is not fit to mention here. Given your skill at arms, it is my request, seconded by fellow cattlemen, that you pursue this vile killer and bring him to justice.

“I have sent out riders on swift horses to square you with the herds now coming up the trail, in the matters of fresh horses and provisions. If you are willing to undertake this task, which will be to your credit if you do, please inform this courier.

“May God ride with you and may you seek out and destroy the fiend who robbed us of a fine man, loving husband, and Southern patriot.

“Yours Respectfully.

“Colonel Oliver Walcott Wheeler.

“There it is, boys. This letter touches my heart and stirs my blood,” Wes turned to the courier. “Please inform the colonel that I accept this commission and, as God is my witness, I'll bring this vile assassin to justice.”

It was a pretty speech, and, pursuant to what we were talking about earlier, perhaps indicated how John Wesley saw himself . . . as an avenging knight of the plains.

Not a black knight, mind, but a Sir Galahad in shining armor, pure of body and spirit, and always ready to take up a noble cause . . . so long as there was killing involved.

 

 

For breakfast the next morning I drank coffee laced with whiskey. It was not in me to stand aside and not play Sancho Panza to my delusional Don Quixote. Sick, tired, and used up as I was, I saddled my pony under a vast, scarlet and jade sky alongside Wes and a surly puncher named Jim Rogers then joined the others as they rode out of camp.

“We must catch that murderer before he reaches the Nations,” Wes told us. He looked at me. “Little Bit, we got some long-riding across hard country ahead of us. Can you stand the pace?”

Made brave by the whiskey, I said, “Wes, my horse's nose will be up your sorrel's behind the whole way.”

Brave talk from a cripple, and a sickly one at that, but we were all young in those days, and more than slightly crazy.

The rain had passed and by the time we reached the village of Newton the hot sun had dried my clothes and I felt better.

Johnny Cohron, Billy's brother, was waiting for us outside the Wells Fargo office with another cowboy named Hugh Anderson. The two men joined our avenging posse and we reached Wichita, seventy-five miles south of Abilene, that evening.

I got drunk that night and felt like death when we headed south again at first light.

Colonel Wheeler had arranged horse changes with the herds coming up the Chisholm and we switched mounts every few miles.

Riding those half-broke mustangs was an ordeal for me, but I gritted my teeth and kept at it. I would have no man accuse me of being a quitter.

Wes was jumpy as a frog in a frying pan, worried that we'd lose Bideno. He was still somewhere ahead of us.

But when we rode into the cow town of Sumner City, our luck changed.

Wes asked a passerby if a vaquero wearing a big sombrero, riding a good horse, had blown into town recently.

The man said, “He sure did. Right now he's over to the Silver Spur saloon.” Because westerners are a naturally curious breed, he asked, “He a friend of your'n?”

“No,” Wes said. “No, he sure ain't.”

Our little posse rode up to the Silver Spur and dismounted. Wes sent Cohron and Rogers around the back of the saloon to cut off that avenue of escape. Wes and Anderson stepped into the saloon.

Me, I was left to my own devices since I didn't carry a gun. I followed Wes.

The saloon wasn't busy at that time of day and when Wes and Anderson entered with guns drawn, the bartender quickly realized that something was afoot. He stared at John Wesley, a question on his face.

Wes said quietly, “Mexican. Big hat.”

The bartender nodded and used the glass he was polishing to point to the door that led into the restaurant.

Wes stepped through the door and recognized his man.

Now, in Wes's memoirs, he claims he said to Bideno, “I am after you to surrender. I do not wish to hurt you, and you will not be hurt while you are in my hands.”

Well, I was there and what he really said was, “Get up, Bideno. Take it in the belly like a man.”

The Mexican had a cup off coffee halfway to his lips, but he dropped the cup, cursed, and clawed for his holstered Colt.

Wes fired. Shot Bideno smack in the middle of the forehead.

I heard a
Ping!
as Wes's ball hit a potbellied stove against the far wall after crashing clean through the Mexican's head.

Johnny Cohron took Bideno's bloody sombrero for a souvenir.

And that's all there was to it. Just another routine kill for John Wesley.

Bang! You're dead.

Shortly after we rode back to the Cottonwood, a deputation from Abilene arrived in camp with a purse made up by some wealthy cattlemen. It contained a thousand dollars and a flowery letter that thanked Wes for killing Bideno.

Now, let me tell you something about that. It was the worst thing that could have happened to John Wesley.

Years later, in the harsh Wyoming winter of 1903, I interviewed Tom Horn for a dime novel before he was wrongly hung for murdering a boy by the name of Willie Nickell. I recall Tom saying to me, “The worst lesson I ever learned in life was that wealthy citizens would pay me for killing people they considered undesirables. It was a hard lesson and it led to my downfall and death.”

Well, Wes had learned that same lesson . . . and it would kill him just as surely as it killed poor Tom.

By my count, John Wesley had killed around thirty-one men and he could justify every single one of them. To his mind, all of them were men who needed killing.

I never heard Wes say that his conscience troubled him or that dead men haunted his dreams at night. He believed that thirty human beings lay in dank graves because they were bad, wicked, criminal, or just plain wrong.

It was entirely their fault, not John Wesley Hardin's.

In his own eyes, Wes was not a killer but a lawful executioner dispensing his own brand of justice to evildoers of every stripe.

I pen this now as an old man, but at the time I didn't think on all this so deeply. All I knew was that Wes would lead and I would follow.

That was the nature of things in those days.

 

 

“Little Bit,” Wes said to me a couple days after our return. “Do you not agree that I'm a man of substance, respected by rich and poor alike?”

“I'd say that.”

Since he'd not given any of the posse members, myself included, a red cent out of his reward, he still had a thousand dollars in his pocket, plus most of his trail wages. To me, that was wealth beyond imagining.

“Then there's no reason why I shouldn't visit Abilene is there?” Wes asked.

I smiled. “Just one.”

“You mean Wild Bill?”

“As ever was.”

“I have nothing to fear from him. Since I killed Bideno, I'm bull of the woods in Abilene.”

“Reason enough for Wild Bill to gun you, Wes.”

“I'm a respectable businessman in the cattle industry and I'll soon own a Wild West show. Hickok is drunken trash. He wouldn't dare draw down on me.” Wes used a stick from the fire to light his cigar. “If I kill him, who would blame me? Any future trouble between us will be his doing, not mine.”

I drank from the pint of whiskey I'd bought in Sumner City and set aside for when my leg got to aching real bad and listened to the night. We were so close to the river I heard fish jump. A cool breeze carried the odor of longhorns and trampled mud, the only reminder of the great cattle herd that had been there for a little while.

“Tomorrow,” Wes said, his cigar glowing red in the dark, “we'll ride into town, get noisy, get a woman, get drunk, and be somebody.”

I laughed out loud. “Sounds good to me, Wes, so long as Bill doesn't spoil the party.”

“He won't. He knows better than that.”

I leaned my head to the side. “Think you can take him?”

Wes nodded once. “Damn right I can. Any day of the week.”

My leg brace lay beside me and I picked it up. I slept with it on in those days. With Wes around, there was no telling when we might have to light a shuck in a hurry.

“How is the sore?” Wes asked.

“It's all right.”

“You're lying to me, Little Bit. You look like you got one foot in the pine box.”

“What foot? The good one or the bad one?” I smiled, feeling the drink.

“Hell, maybe both.” Wes lit the lantern close by and held it high. “Let me take a look at that damned thing.”

Orange light splashed over me like wet paint as I dropped my pants and revealed the open, weeping wound at the top of my thigh. It was as big as a man's palm.

Wes stared at the sore for a long while, then said, “That settles it. We're riding into Abilene tomorrow and you're seeing a doctor.”

John Wesley was rich and famous, and oh how I basked in his attention.

He shook his head. “Little Bit, I've asked you this before. Even with the steel brace, how do you stand on that leg? It's as skinny as a carpetbagging Negro's walking cane.”

“It isn't easy. Pains me some.” I reached for the brace, but Wes pushed it out of reach.

“Leave that off until you see the doc.” He saw the doubt on my face and added, “I'll help you into the saddle.” He laid the lantern aside and poured coffee. “Want some?”

I shook my head. “Still got whiskey in the bottle.”

“Well drink it down. We'll pull out of here at first light.” He studied me for a spell, then said, “Damn it, Little Bit, how do you live?”

“Well enough, I guess.”

“No, I mean how do you
survive
? You look like, I don't know, one of them little white-faced goblins in the fairy stories my ma used to read to me when I was a younker.”

“Goblins survive, Wes, and so do trolls and imps and dwarves and gnomes,” I said. “Somehow or other, they manage to live. For me, all survival takes is will and the ability to delude myself.”

Wes grinned. “You want to be six foot tall, don't you?”

“No, just as tall as you.”

“It ain't going to happen.”

“I know that.”

“When I have my Wild West show I'll put you in a tent and show you off as a freak. I could charge folks two-bits to see you and shake your hand.”

“Like Wild Bill taking his bath,” I said.

“No, not like Wild Bill. He's six feet if he's an inch. You're just a nubbin'.”

I corked the whiskey bottle. “Whatever you think is best, Wes.”

“Ah hell, I was only joshing. I won't put you in a tent.”

“Then where will you put me?”

“Why, behind a desk where you belong. Even a crippled goblin can count our profits, huh?”

“That sounds better,” I said.

“Damn right it does,” Wes said.

Before I drifted into an alcohol-troubled sleep, I remember thinking that come tomorrow, maybe the doctor could fix my leg . . . but some of the wounds Wes so casually and thoughtlessly inflicted on me would never heal.