The Pistoleer (33 page)

They hadn’t been in town long, however, before we heard dark rumors that Charles Webb, a Brown County deputy sheriff, was calling John Carnes a coward for his refusal to arrest Wes Hardin and Jim Taylor. He was threatening to come to Comanche and serve state warrants on them himself. I was present in Jack Wright’s saloon when Jim Anderson relayed the rumor to John Wesley and Jim Taylor at the bar. They both laughed. Taylor loudly proclaimed that if Charlie Webb came for them, the only thing he’d succeed in arresting would be his own life.

Toward the end of May, the Hardin brothers began promoting a set of horse races to be held on the twenty-sixth, which would also be Wesley’s twenty-first birthday. Joe drew up a racing flier, had hundreds of copies printed, and hired a dozen men and boys to distribute them throughout Comanche and all the neighboring counties. He also turned a handsome profit on the advertisements placed in the fliers by a goodly number of local businesses. By then, the latest rumor out of Brown County was that Charlie Webb had arrested an entire cattle crew at Turkey Creek and pistol-whipped its ramrod, who he had insisted was none other than Wesley Hardin. When he was told the tale in the Wright saloon, Wesley spat ferociously. “You really
believe
he thought that fella was me?” he said. “I tell you, for somebody I ain’t never laid eyes on, that sonbitch is starting to chafe me raw.”

O
n the day of the races the entire county turned out, as well as a good many visitors from the neighboring regions. The town square was clamorous with people and horses and dogs. The streets were crowded with wagons, and from the moment they opened their doors that morning the saloons did a floodtide business. A huge red banner announcing “Races—May 26” had been stretched across the courthouse façade for several days, and Carl Summers’s string band was strumming and fiddling on a low platform in the courthouse yard. At ten o’clock all the contestants paraded their racers around the square to permit the spectators a close look at them. The betting was loud and furious and kept up as everybody headed out to the track about a mile northeast of town.

Three races had been matched, and the Hardin Gang was represented in each one. Joe’s beautiful chestnut mare, Shiloh, was entered in the first race, Wesley’s Rondo was in the second, and Bud Dixon’s handsome buckskin Dock was running in the third. An air of festivity pervaded the Hardin entourage. Not only was it John Wesley’s birthday, but the whole family was still celebrating the birth of Joe Hardin, Jr., who’d entered the world a few days earlier.

Spectators were lined six deep along the track from starting line to finish. Their exuberant yowling could probably be heard all the way over in Brown County. Shiloh and Rondo won their matches easily, but Bud Dixon’s Dock was severely tried by a speedy black from Eastland County. It was a thrilling race all the way to the finish line, but Dock crossed first by a neck. The Hardin brothers won small fortunes in cash bets, and received further winnings in the form of property. Wesley had made the most and the biggest bets, and he reaped more than three thousand dollars in specie and paper money—as well as a buckboard, a new Winchester carbine, and eight saddle horses. The entire Hardin party was jubilant, and we all rode back to town whooping like Indians.

T
he celebration in Jack Wright’s saloon was a boisterous and thoroughly sodden affair. The place was awash in whiskey. Preacher Hardin stopped in and seemed appalled by the proceedings. He took Joe aside and spoke to him in serious aspect. Joe stared down at his feet and nodded, and a moment later they left together.

Carl Summers and his band had been coaxed into the saloon with an offer of free drinks in exchange for a steady flow of music. Wesley bought round after round for the house. He was unrestrained in his celebration. At one point he drew his pistol and shot the glass eye out of a deer head mounted on the rear wall of the saloon. Jack Wright remonstrated with him about the damage to his trophy, and was placated with a shiny double eagle. Jim Taylor suggested to Wesley that he should perhaps slow down his drinking. “If there’s a scrap,” he said, “you don’t want to be shit-brained.” Wesley waved off his concern and ordered another round for the house.

Sometime later Deputy Frank Wilson shouldered his way up next to Wesley at the bar and shouted through the din that Sheriff John wanted a word with him. Wesley hollered, “Sure!” but insisted that Frank have a drink first, which he did, and then they went outside. I followed along with Jim Taylor and Bud Dixon.

The square had cleared considerably. A few wagons were still in the street, with tight-lipped women and tired-looking children waiting for the man of the family to finish up his celebrating and take them home. A small group of men—none of whom I recognized—stood in the street flanking the building. Wesley spotted them instantly and stopped short, his demeanor suddenly and remarkably alert. At the bottom of the steps, Frank finally caught sight of them too.

“Brown County?” Wesley asked. Wilson nodded grimly. “Listen, Wes,” he said in a low voice, “Sheriff John thinks you ought maybe head on home—you know, before things get out of hand. You know John’s your friend, Wes. He’d appreciate the favor.”

Wesley cast another look at the Brown County party in the side street. They wore dark expressions, and I caught sight of guns under coat flaps. “Sure, Frank,” Wesley said. “I’ll just fetch a cigar and be on my way.” Then Bud Dixon said, “Here’s that damn Brown County deputy.”

Charles Webb was strolling our way down the street as casually as if he were on his way to supper. He had both hands behind his back and his open coat revealed a pair of six-shooters on his hips. Jim Taylor whispered, “Now ain’t that a sight!” Wesley fixed his gaze on him as intently as a hawk. As he came abreast of the saloon, Webb gave us an indifferent glance, then nodded a greeting to Frank Wilson as he passed him by.

“Say, you there!” Wesley called out.

Webb paused and looked up at him. “Are you talking to me?” His manner was self-possessed but without hostility. He was not young, yet looked hardy and capable, and his eyes were black and quick.

“Is your name Charles Webb?” Wesley asked.

Webb stepped nearer the gallery and scrutinized him closely. He stroked his mustaches with his left hand but still kept his right behind him. “I don’t know you,” he said.

“My name is John Wesley Hardin. I am told you have made threat on my life.”

“Say now, men—” Frank Wilson began, but Webb cut him off, saying, “I’ve heard of you. But I have never made threat on your life. You’ve been listening to the talk of idle fools, Mr. Hardin.”

“What’s that behind your back?” Wesley asked. His own right hand was inside his vest. I heard my blood humming in my skull and set myself to leap out of the line of fire. Jim Taylor and Bud Dixon eased away from either side of Wesley, and the men in the side street seemed to contract toward the corner of the building.

Webb grinned and slowly brought his hand around and displayed the unlit cigar in it. I felt my breath release and heard Bud Dixon’s low chuckle. Wesley lowered his hand and said, “Well, Deputy, I reckon we got no matter between us.”

Charles Webb shook his head, still smiling, and said, “Never did, son.”

“I was about to take a drink before heading home,” Wesley said. “Can I stand you to one?”

“My pleasure,” Webb said.

Wesley turned to go inside and Webb went for his gun. Someone yelled “Wes!” and I was jostled hard and fell back against the wall as Wesley lunged sideways at the same instant Webb fired. I heard a woman scream and Wes grunted and there was a simultaneous discharge of firearms and a bullet thunked into the wall inches from my head. Webb fell to one knee and his face was smeared red above one mustache and Wes and Jim and Bud all shot him again at the same time and he pitched over on his back. Then Jim Taylor and Bud Dixon ran down and stood over him and emptied their pistols into him.

Frank Wilson stood rooted with his hands up. “Not me, boys!” he pleaded. “Not
me
!” The square had cleared completely. Jim Taylor grabbed up Webb’s pistols, tossed one to Bud Dixon, and they both hopped back up on the gallery. Wesley was stuffing a bandanna against the wound he’d taken in the side from Webb’s first shot. Some of the men in the side street peeked around the corner of the building, guns in hand, and more men were coming fast from the other end of the street. “It’s all Brown County!” Bud said.

Sheriff John was hurrying over from the jail with a shotgun in his hands, and from farther across the square came Joe and Preacher Hardin. “Best take cover, boys,” Wesley said—and I ran behind him and Jim into the saloon.

The last of the customers were bolting out through the side and back doors. Jack Wright stood behind the bar, holding a pistol. Jim Taylor leveled his gun at him and said, “Our side or theirs, Jack?” Wright said he only wanted to defend himself if he had to, and Jim let him be. Alec Barrickman and Ham Anderson had taken cover behind an overturned table. They looked scared but ready to make a fight of it.

The street resounded with outraged accusations of murder and shrill exhortations to hang Wesley. “Listen to that,” Wesley said, grinning ruefully at Jim Taylor. “You boys put ten pounds of lead in the bastard to my two rounds, and it’s me they’re calling to hang.”

“It’s the price of fame, bubba,” Jim said, reloading his pistols. “You’re welcome to it.”

I crouched down behind the far end of the bar, cursing myself for running into the saloon instead of into the alley alongside the building. That’s what Bud Dixon had done, and he’d gotten clear. I peeked around the counter: through the space under the swinging front doors I saw Sheriff John at the foot of the gallery steps, trying to get the crowd under control. He said he’d already telegraphed the State Rangers for assistance and they were on their way.

“It’s a damn mob,” Wesley said, standing alongside the front window with a ready pistol and taking fast looks outside. His side was slick with blood.

Suddenly the shouting grew more strident and there was a cursing scuffle. I glimpsed Sheriff John struggling with several men. His shotgun was wrested from him and he was roughly pulled from my line of vision. I saw Reverend Hardin trying to break through the crowd, but he too was wrestled out of sight.

A large rock crashed through the front window in a spray of glass, followed by a volley of gunfire that shattered the back-bar mirror and gouged chunks out of the mahogany bar. Jack Wright gaped at the damage and cursed with religious fervor.

“To hell with this!” Jim Taylor shouted. “It’s nothing but peckerwoods out there. If we rush them all at once, they’ll run like rabbits or goddamnit we’ll kill them all!” He looked deranged enough to try it.

“No!” Wesley said. “I got family out there, you crazy galoot!” He ran to the side door and opened it a crack to peek outside. “By damn! Look here!” Taylor rushed over and peered out as Wesley gestured for Ham and Alec to join them.

“Well now,” Jim said, “ain’t
that
a sight!”

“Let’s do it before they get wise,” Wesley said, tugging his hat down tight. “Let’s go!”

He threw the door open wide and they raced across the side street to a line of untended horses hitched at a rail. As they swung up into the saddles, somebody shouted, “Here! Over
here,
goddamnit!” They galloped off as a barrage of gunfire cut loose behind them. Gunfire and curses.

As the front doors banged open I ducked behind the bar and hunkered down—I don’t
know
why,
I
was no outlaw. “Don’t shoot, you dumb shits!” Jack Wright cried out.

Boot heels pounded the floor. A terrible apparition in a red beard suddenly loomed above the bar, glaring down at me from the far end of the twin barrels of a shotgun. The muzzle was bare inches from my face and looked like death’s own portals. My fear was paralytic—I could not speak.

The barrels abruptly flew upward and discharged and blew a hole in Jack Wright’s ceiling the size of a frying pan. Sheriff John had snatched up the gun an instant before the redbeard pulled the triggers.

He shoved the man away and peered over the counter at me. “Holden,” he said, “are you all right?” As dust and splinters and flakes of paint descended gently on my head, I felt the content of my bladder spreading warmly over my lap.

T
he next two weeks were the most violent in Comanche’s young history—a fortnight of marauding and murder and vigilante justice, if justice it can be called. The events that followed did not, of course, possess the orderly coherence with which I now present them. It was a time of furious confusion, erratic report, wild and frightening rumor. Not until after the terrible culmination of those events was I able to reconstruct them in proper sequence and perspective.

W
ithin minutes of Wesley’s escape, the town square was swarming with Brown County deputies. No, not deputies—vigilantes. Vigilan tes is what they were. They were joined by a number of armed Comanche residents who held grudges against the Hardins. The streets were in full clamor to hunt down Charlie Webb’s killers. Less than an hour later, posses were in pursuit.

That evening a contingent of Frontier Battalion Rangers arrived in town. They were under the command of Captain A. E. Waller, who went by the name Bill and who swiftly took charge of the manhunt. His orders from Austin were to capture or kill the outlaw John Wesley Hardin and every member of his gang who was with him when they did, and he duly authorized all vigilante possemen to carry out those orders.

W
esley and his friends rode directly from Comanche to Preacher Hardin’s house, about two miles northwest of town. They were met there by Joe, the Preacher, and Sheriff John. While Jane tended Wesley’s wound, the men discussed the possibilities. They all agreed Wesley had acted in self-defense and should therefore be acquitted in a fair trial, but Sheriff John said if the mob got to him it was likely he’d never be allowed to stand trial at all, never mind get a fair one. It was a blood-smelling mob they were dealing with, he said, and he wouldn’t be able to protect any of them against it. But the Rangers were coming, and Preacher Hardin wondered if
they
could be trusted to be fair with Wesley. Sheriff John said maybe. But when he got back to town and met Captain Waller, he knew there was no chance of that, either.