Forty Times a Killer (15 page)

Just a week after the Paramore killing, a posse of Negro policemen came down from Austin, vowing to collect John Wesley's scalp and tack it onto the door of the nearest outhouse.

Wes was told by kinfolk that the lawmen were camped near the De Witt County farm of a man called Monroe and that they were constantly drunk and had abused the fellow's wife and teenaged daughter.

This last enraged Wes and he strapped on his guns determined to uphold the honor of white, Southern womanhood.

My knight rode forth, but I was again sick in bed at the Clements home and couldn't follow him.

Since I wasn't there, I'll pass over what followed quickly.

As I heard it from Wes, he rode into the drunken Negro camp and cut loose with his
avenging six-guns
. He killed three of the vile riffraff and put the rest to flight.

Needless to say, he returned to a hero's welcome.

“Wes, surely that makes two score,” Gip Clements said as the whiskey ran freely.

It seemed that the whole of Gonzalez County had turned out to honor Wes.

Despite being ill, my pride in him swelled. I recall that a hush fell over the house as the merrymakers strained to hear the answer to Gip's question.

And Wes, as usual, rose to the occasion. He struck an orator's pose. “I do not count blacks, Mexicans, or Indians in my score. So the number of white miscreants, carpetbaggers, low persons, traitors, and troublemakers I have put in the grave must stand at twenty-two.”

This brought a chorus of delighted huzzahs and the fiddler struck up “Home with the Girls in the Morning.” I cheered louder than anyone else.

 

 

Again I must beg my reader's indulgence, as I pass lightly over Wes's marriage that took place around that time . . . for no other reason than he took it so lightly himself.

His bride was a dark-haired lass named Jane Bowen who was fourteen at the time. Wes four years older.

“I'm not a family man, Little Bit, preferring the company of rough men,” he told me after the wedding. “Jane's duty is to have children and I will support them the best I can.”

I've heard some people say that they were a devoted couple.

They were not.

Wes was a negligent husband. He and Jane seldom slept together under the same roof, even after she gave birth to their first child when she was fifteen.

Oh, how I wish, for the sake of the ladies, that I could pen a romance worthy of Miss Charlotte Bronte or Miss Jane Austen and cast John Wesley and his bride aglow in the light of love as they embarked on their path to marital bliss.

Alas, I cannot.

Thus, we must leave poor Mrs. Hardin—of the unkempt hair and the
Oh my God, what have I done?
look in her eyes—alone and lonely in her small home above her father's general store, and go on to more manly pursuits.

 

 

On June 8, 1872, Wes told me that he was driving a herd of grade horses to Louisiana for sale to the army.

Though still thin and wasted, I had recovered from my illness and asked if I could follow along.

As always, Wes was reluctant. “Little Bit, I'm riding with Jess and John Harper, rough men who are quick on the trigger and take no sass.”

“I can keep my mouth shut and pull my weight,” I said.

That made Wes smile. “How much weight, Little Bit? I swear you don't go seventy pounds.”

“I can cook. You know that.”

“Yeah, you're pretty good at rustling up grub.”

“Well?” I said.

I guess I caught Wes in a good mood because after three months of marriage he was eager to take to the trail again.

“All right, you can ride with us, but don't ask me for wages, or the Harper brothers either. After the drive, if I think you've been worth it, I'll pay you something.”

“Sets fine with me,” I said.

“How's the leg?”

“It will hold up.”

“How's the leg?”

I hesitated a moment, then said, “It's been better . . . and worse.”

“Same thing applies as I told you the last time. You fall behind and we're leaving you.”

“I'll stick.”

“You'd better.” Wes smiled. “Them Apache bucks would love to get ahold of you, Little Bit.”

We never did reach Louisiana.

Wes got bored with the drive and gave up when we reached the Sabine River. He sold the herd to the Harper brothers for what they would pay, then we headed back for Texas.

Oh, I almost forgot, at a burg called Hemphill in Sabine County, Wes put a hole in a lawman's shoulder for giving him backtalk. It wasn't a fatal wound, so it's hardly worth mentioning here. But that officer surely scampered after Wes plugged him.

My leg was troubling me, so Wes decided we should stop off at Trinity Station and rest up for a spell. The town was a shabby, dusty little settlement without snap or character, but it was close to the Trinity River and was a stop on the Houston and Great Northern Railroad. For the life of me I couldn't figure out why.

Most of the houses and stores clustered around the station, but the pride of the metropolis was the John Gates Saloon at the corner of Caroline and Parke streets. A banner slung across the building's false front proclaimed 5¢ BEER & 10-PIN BOWLING

“Hell, that's the place for us, huh, Little Bit?” Wes said. “I like to bowl.”

As I climbed off my horse at the hitching rail, the breath caught in my throat and I was filled with a sense of foreboding ... dread you might say. I wanted to tell Wes how I felt, but I knew he'd laugh at me and call me an old woman, so I bit my tongue.

Hell, the panels on the saloon's timber door were shaped like a cross. I took that as a bad omen.

And it was.

That day, poor, timorous, craven creature that I was, I almost caused the death of John Wesley Hardin, the greatest man of his era.

 

 

The John Gates was a saloon like any other, its raw whiskey and warm beer like any other. The only thing that set it apart was a space at the rear set aside for bowling.

I prevailed on Wes to leave his pistols behind the bar, since the risk of running into the law in Trinity Station was remote.

He readily agreed and handed his Colts to the bartender. With a whiskey at his elbow, he looked around the saloon . . . and saw someone he knew. “You see that fellow over at the table with the shotgun at his side?”

I looked at the man in the French mirror behind the bar. “I see him.”

“His name is Phil Sublett and he killed a carpetbagging black man by the name of George Stubblefield with that there scattergun.”

“Then he's a patriot,” I said.

“Damn right he is. And a farmer.”

Sublett glanced over at us and Wes raised his glass. “Howdy, Phil.”

Sublett, a tall, thin man with a goatee and roughly cut brown hair, joined us at the bar. He had hard, blue eyes that never looked at you directly, as though he constantly found items of interest in the corners of the room. “Howdy, Wes. It's been a while.”

“Seems like.” Wes introduced me. “This here is Little Bit.”

Sublett gave me a quick, disinterested glance, and dismissed me. “Been hearing things about you, Wes.”

“People talk.”

“They say you put the crawl on Wild Bill Hickok.”

Wes puffed up a little. “He tried to corral me, but now me and William are on the square.”

“Glad to hear it,” Sublett said.

“You're farming, I heard.”

“Not for much longer. I'm tired of pushing a plow, staring at a mule's butt all the damned day.”

“You should go into the cattle business, Phil,” Wes said. “A man on a hoss can see forever if his eyes are good.”

“Something to keep in mind. Let me buy you a drink and maybe we'll bowl later, huh?”

“Sounds good to me,” Wes said, fingering his gambler's ring. “What are the stakes?”

“Two-bits a game too much for you?”

“Hell, that's for maiden aunts playing Old Maid,” Wes said. “Lets make it fifty cents.”

“I'm your daisy.” Sublett's unsmiling face was stiff.

I realized then that this man was no friend of Wes. I thought maybe he was jealous of Wes's reputation and fame and was glad my friend's guns were behind the bar.

After Wes and Sublett left for the bowling pins, I took a bottle to the table, stretched out my bad leg and concentrated on the whiskey.

As Wes and Sublett yelled and argued the rules, I got slowly drunk . . . then faster drunk . . . then I-don't-give-a-damn drunk. I even lowered my pants and poured whiskey over the open wound on my thigh . . . and passed out from the sudden shriek of pain.

I don't know how long I was unconscious, but when I raised my head I heard John Wesley yell, “Damn you for a cheat, Sublett! Keep it up and I'm gonna put a bullet in your damn belly!”

They had switched from bowling to cards.

Wes was a bad gambler and a sore loser. I'd feared something like that could happen. I didn't know that he'd stashed away a sneaky gun or I'd have felt a sight worse.

“And damn you for a scoundrel, Hardin!” Sublett roared. “Come outside and give me six feet of ground.”

Wes held a small revolver of the bulldog type with its muzzle jammed into Sublett's belly.

I figured that a killing was only seconds away, but during the time I was out, other men had come into the saloon. I heard shouts of, “No, that won't do!” and, “Put away your weapon!”

Well, to my surprise, Wes calmed down and shoved the bulldog into his pocket, saying that his temper had gotten the better of him.

Urged by the crowd to shake hands, he and Sublett did just that and everyone repaired to the bar where some rooster ordered rum punches all round.

But Phil Sublett didn't stay. Shotgun in hand, he walked out of the saloon and into the darkening street, his face thunderous with anger.

Wes had lived by the gun for so long that he had the instincts of a hunted wolf.

I watched bleary-eyed from my table as he got his guns from the bartender and shoved them into the shoulder holsters.

As lamps were lit in the saloon against the crowding darkness, Wes drank little, his gaze fixed on the door.

Then came the moment of hell that I dreaded.

Sublett's voice echoed from outside, harsh and challenging. “Hardin, get out here and meet me like a man!” he yelled. “You'll eat supper in hell tonight, by God.”

A silence fell on the saloon . . . except for my drunken sobs, the consequence of my fevered thoughts.
Phil Sublett, the failed farmer who envied John Wesley enough to kill him, was outside with a murderous shotgun . . . he planned to slaughter a man of virtue . . . a man much finer than himself . . . my Quentin Durward . . . my knight without compare . . . my hero . . . my friend . . .

Wes stepped to the door.

I stumbled to my feet. “No, wait,” I said, slurring my words. “I'm coming . . . I'm going . . . I mean, I . . .”

Wes threw me a look, ignored me, and stepped outside.

A moment later, I heard the blast of a shotgun and the sharper bark of Wes's Colts.

“Wes!” I screamed, foolish drunkard that I was. “I'm coming!” I staggered to the door, fell, and scrambled to my feet again.

“You, get back here!” a man yelled.

But I ignored him and lurched outside.

Wes stood in the shadows to the right of the saloon door. A lantern at the corner of the building cast a shifting circle of light onto the street and entrance to an adjoining alley.

I stumbled to Wes, tears in my eyes, and grabbed him by the lapels of his coat. “John Wesley,” I yelled, “I'm with you! Together we can whip this whole damn town!”

Wes cursed and pushed me away. I stumbled back and pulled him with me . . . into the lantern light.

Sublett's shotgun roared and Wes staggered, hit hard.

The damned, yellow-bellied assassin then turned tail and ran. Wes, leaving behind a trail of blood, went after him.

Rapidly sobering, I stumped after him.

How well I remember that night.

There was no wind. It was as though the town held its breath, waiting for what was to happen. A yellow dog with amber eyes snarled at me as I thudded past and its gleaming fangs were white as ivory. Ahead of me, I saw Sublett turn into an unfinished timber building.

Wes, bent over and reeling, went after him.

Then a shot.

Followed by silence.

Wes staggered out of the building and stood with a supporting hand on the doorjamb. He saw me and said, “I put a hole in him, but he's gone.”

“Are you hit, Wes?” I asked, knowing full well he was.

“I'm done for. He got me in the belly.” He dropped to a sitting position, scarlet blood leaking through the fingers of the hand that clutched his stomach.

A crowd gathered around him. I kneeled beside him, but Wes threw my arm off his shoulder and yelled, “Get the hell away from me. You've killed me.”

As you might guess, that was a wound, but then Wes was hurting and thought he was at death's door, so I forgave him.

He looked around at the concerned faces of the people. “My time is short.”

“No!” a woman screamed.

“You good people are witnesses to my last will and testament,” Wes said.

“I'll get Dr. Carrington,” the screaming woman said.

“No, not yet. Listen to me, all of you.”

The crowd of maybe two-dozen quieted down.

Wes said, “My money belt holds two thousand dollars in gold and there's another five hundred in silver in my saddlebags. Give the money to my wife in Gonzales County, along with whatever my horse, saddle, and guns will bring.” He grimaced as a wave of pain hit him. His voice got weaker. “Tell my dear Jane that I honestly tried to avoid this trouble. But my foeman done for me with a scattergun. Such is the way of cowards.”

Then, before unconsciousness took him, he said, “Bury me in Gonzales County. Don't let my body lie in foreign soil.”

Willing hands carried Wes to the doctor's office, bloody, like a gallant matador gored in the arena. I followed, heavy of heart.

Dr. Carrington, an intelligent man of middle age, said that the big silver buckle Wes wore on his money belt had taken most of the shotgun blast and saved his life. However, two buckshot had succeeded in doing their deadly work. They had ripped into his belly and were lodged between his backbone and ribs.

“They have to come out,” the doctor said. “I can give you something to dull the pain.”

John Wesley, that fearless stalwart, said, “I'll have no truck with opiates. Cut away, Doc, and be damned to ye for a butcher.”

Well, that's not really what Wes said, on account of how he fainted when he heard the diagnosis. But had he been conscious, he would have said something of that ilk, I'm sure.

Thus I may be accused of putting words in my hero's mouth that he did not utter. But then, how else am I to express his noble, gallant and generous nature?