The Pistoleer (36 page)

“Even if it’s lawmen who catch me,” Wes said, “they’ll either hand me over to the mob or the mob’ll take me from them by force.”

I argued that there were some lawmen who’d never let a mob take a prisoner from them. He laughed and asked me how many mobs I’d seen in action. I had to admit I hadn’t seen a serious one yet. “Well,” he said, “after you see your first serious one, I’ll be interested in hearing how easy you think it is for even a brave lawman to hold off Captain Lynch.”

He had written to Jane in Comanche, writing in a code they had and using her daddy’s name on the envelope. In her return letter she said that when Captain Waller got the news of the Clinton lynching, he had released the family from arrest and told her she was free to go home. All she needed was somebody to come get her and Molly. But she warned him not to come himself, since the county was still full of Rangers and bounty men who would shoot him on sight. J.D. left for Comanche on horseback early the next morning. He would buy a wagon there to bring them back in.

In the meantime, Jane’s father, Neal Bowen, had just got back to Gonzales from Kansas, where he’d gone at Wes’s request to help Joe Clements get top dollar for Wes’s cattle, and he was holding a good bit of money for him. Wes wanted to go to Gonzales to collect it, and he asked me to go with him, figuring my badge would keep the Sutton Party at a distance if they got wind of his presence. I really don’t think my damn badge was nearly as much protection to him as his own reputation. We heard lots of talk in town of what the Sutton Party had said they’d do to Wes Hardin or Jim Taylor if either of them showed his face in the Sandies again, but we didn’t have any trouble while we were there. Jim Taylor hadn’t been so lucky. The Suttons had made several attempts on his life in the weeks since he’d come back, and he’d been wounded in a fight near the Guadalupe. Wes wanted to see him and try to talk him into leaving the region, but he was pretty sure Taylor wouldn’t leave again, no matter what. Besides, Taylor was hiding out with an old pal named Russel Hoy, who Wes distrusted so much he would not go to his house, not even to try and see Jim.

Wes was several thousand dollars richer when we got back to Brenham, but he was also more convinced than ever that he had to get out of Texas fast.

A
few days later J.D. got back with Jane and Molly. He’d driven day and night and gone through three teams of horses. I mean to tell you that was one happy reunion Wes had with his family. During the supper party my Jenny gave for them that evening, him and Jane couldn’t keep their eyes off each other—hardly their hands, if truth be told. I had a feeling they couldn’t wait for it to be over so they could get to their bedroom in Bob Hardin’s house. Jenny, bless her sharp-eyed soul, saw how anxious they were to get together in private too, and she managed to bring the party to an early ending without offending any of the guests. You can’t do better in this life than to be married to a wise and good-hearted woman.

W
es’s problem now was how to get out of Texas without putting Jane and Molly at risk. That’s where I came in. I said I’d accompany his wife and child to New Orleans so he could travel alone and not have to worry about danger to them if he should run into any trouble on the way. Jenny corrected me—she said
we’d
take Jane and Molly. “I’ve always hankered to go to New Orleans,” she said. “Let’s make a high time of it.”

Wes left Brenham on horseback a couple of days before the rest of us set out in a wagon with a couple of spare horses hitched to its rear. It was a real nice trip for us. We slept under the stars some nights, in road inns on others, and in hotels when we were near a town. Jenny and Jane became true fast friends. Molly wasn’t yet two years old at the time, but she was a hardy little traveler and eyeballed everything on the road with curiosity. I knew she was going to be a smart little scamp, that one.

W
e met Wes at the Prince Francis Hotel in the French Quarter as planned. He’d been there for four days by the time we arrived. He’d registered as J. W. Swain and told the hotel manager that his brother Harry would soon be arriving with the wives and child. Jane and Jenny couldn’t believe the splendor of the hotel. “Makes me feel like poor kin, though,” Jane whispered, “dressed like this in such a place.” Wes said he’d figured that’s how she’d feel, and had already informed the dress shop around the corner that she and Jenny would be in for fittings that afternoon. The next day our wives were wearing beautiful dresses and ready to see the town. You never saw two prettier gals with happier eyes. They even bought a fancy little bonnet with flowers on it for Molly to wear in her stroller.

Wes was already acquainted with the city and eager to show it to the rest of us. It was warm and the air was heavy, but a sweet breeze came off the river. None of us had seen the Mississippi before. “My Lord,” Jenny said, gazing on it, “the
Big
Muddy is right.” Wes laughed and said, “It ain’t Sandy Crick, is it?” He had to keep reminding Jane to call him John instead of Wes.

We took long walks through the Quarter, admiring the iron lacework of the balconies and the tap dancing of the Nigra boys on the street corners and the fine jumpy music coming out of every other doorway. Wes was careful not to say anything about the fancy houses we passed on nearly every street, and naturally Jane and Jenny were too well brought up to even show they’d noticed them. But every now and then when we’d pass one and the girls weren’t looking our way, Wes would nod at it and give me a big wink so I couldn’t keep from grinning. He has some rascal in him, all right.

The smells from all the wonderful bakeries and restaurants kept us in a constant hunger, and it seemed like we spent half our time in New Orleans just eating. We spooned up bowls of gumbo and cleaned off platters of crayfish and iced raw oysters and trays of fancy desserts. The coffee was sweet as candy and the wines so fine it was no wonder we all drank ourselves silly at the table every night. Jenny’s first sip of Bourdeaux lit her eyes up like a sudden understanding, and she said, “Oh, my.” She looked so soft-eyed and beautiful, I couldn’t help but lean over and kiss her on the one shoulder her pretty new dress left bare. New Orleans is the kind of place that’ll make a man do a thing like that. “
Harry!
” she said, all big-eyed with happy surprise. Wes clapped me on the back and said, “Damn, Harry, if you ain’t a natural-born Frenchman—pardon
my
French, ladies.” And Jane—who swore her lips had never touched spirits until she took her first taste of wine with us—just smiled and smiled. She raised her glass and said, “To us all,” and we drank to that.

But the girls’ favorite places were the ice cream salons. Wes called them
saloons
just to make Jane blush. “Oh …
John,
” she’d say, “
behave
!” The city was full of them, and I swear I never tasted nothing better than the praline-and-caramel ice cream I ate in a salon on Royal Street. The first spoonful of it I put in my mouth made me think my tongue had died and gone to heaven. And for all the fun he made of the places, Wes loved them too, and it wasn’t unusual for him to eat two bowls to my one.

T
here finally came the morning we checked out of the hotel and went with Wes and Jane and Molly down to the wharf to see them off. Wes and me shook hands and Jane and Jenny hugged and kissed and cried all over each other. Then they went aboard the steamboat and waved to us from the railing while the whistle blew and blew. Then the boat pulled away from the dock and headed on downriver for the Gulf of Mexico and steamed away to Florida.

I
t was their first time at sea and it showed. As soon as we reached open Gulf and the steamer started its easy pitching on the low swells, they got a little green around the gills. By the next day, however, they had their proper color again and were back at the railing like a pair of old salts, smiling at the sea and each other, telling their little girl not to be scared of the sea gulls fluttering and screeching over the deck.

Even as he talked and laughed with his family, his eyes didn’t miss a thing going on around him. He was a man with no use for surprises. His coat was open, the top two buttons of his vest were undone, and the left side of it bulged with a pistol. He was just starting a mustache. I had him figured for a Texan. We had plenty of them in Florida at the time. There were cattle wars going on from the upper St. John’s all the way to the southwest coast, and some of the big ranchers were importing pistoleros to protect their interests. The prisoner I’d just turned over to a Texas Ranger in New Orleans was such a man. We’d had a DeSoto County rustling warrant on him, and one evening I spotted him coming out of a Beaver Street whorehouse, so I slipped up behind him and gave him the butt of my shotgun in the head. A little later we received the Texas warrant on him for murder and I delivered him on the steamship. But this one had his family with him, so I figured he was likely more interested in staying out of trouble than looking for it.

The weather that afternoon was nice—bright sunshine and a gentle salt breeze. I was standing only a few feet from them at the railing when the woman suddenly pointed and cried out, “Oh, look—what are
those?
” A school of porpoises had surfaced and was rolling and blowing alongside the ship. I tipped my hat and told them what they were looking at. “They’re warm-blooded as you and me,” I told them. “See those blowholes on their heads they breathe through? Some say they’re smart and can talk to each other, though I can’t guess what
about.
Maybe what kind of fish make the best eating, or whether the water feels any cooler today than yesterday, or which boy porpoise has been chasing after which lady porpoise—beg pardon, ma’am.”

The man laughed and the woman blushed pretty. I introduced myself and put my hand out. “John Swain,” he said as we shook—“my wife Jane and daughter Molly.” Jane said she didn’t know how smart porpoises were, but they sure did look like the happiest things. “Just look at those great big smiles!” she said. The man said he’d smile all the time too if all he had to do was play and eat and chase after the ladies all day long. “Now, Wes,
behave!
” she said, blushing again—and then quick put her hand up to her mouth. And just like that, I knew who he was.

Jane gaped at him like she’d spilled coffee in his lap. He patted her hand and looked around to make sure we weren’t being overheard, then smiled at me and said, “Mr. Kennedy, you look like you might have something on your mind.”

Of course I was a little wary. I mean, John Wesley Hardin, the Texas mankiller! “Well, sir,” I said, “I’d say Miz Swain might be one to get names a little confused when she gets excited.”

He smiled and said, “That’s a fact. Just last week she called me Winston in the excitement of a horse race in Houston.
Winston!
I about died of shame.” Then his smile closed up. “What I’m wondering is what some lawman might do if he was to mistake a peaceable citizen like myself for a man on the dodge, a man who ain’t wanted in the lawman’s own state and for sure ain’t wanted on this boat.” I said before that his eyes didn’t miss much, but I was surprised he’d spotted me for a policeman. “I’m asking you man-to-man, Mr. Kennedy—what you aim to do now?”

“Mr. Swain,” I said, “I aim to enjoy this boat ride like I always do, and let sleeping dogs lie like I always do. I figure a policeman’s job is to protect a citizen’s person and property from them that’s trying to harm the one or steal the other. Beyond that, I got no use for a policeman myself.” It was the truth. I’d become a law officer by chance after getting my fill of the cow-hunter’s life on the prairie. Turned out I was a good one—I was big and probably a bit less fearful than most, and I had a sharp eye for what was going on around me. But I never used my badge to bully nor went
looking
for trouble.

He studied my face close for a minute, making up his mind, then gave me his hand with a grin. “Proud to know you, Gus.” And I said, “Proud to make
your
acquaintance …
Winston.
” And even Jane laughed.

I accepted their invitation to join them for supper that evening, and we took most our meals together every day after that for the rest of the voyage. Jane couldn’t get enough of talking about New Orleans, and John and I always accommodated her choice of topic at the table. In the afternoons, however, when she retired to their cabin to put the baby down for a nap, John and I went to the upper deck railing to smoke a cigar and talk about our adventures in the cow trade—and about horseflesh and gambling houses and parlor palaces where we’d taken our pleasure. We had many similar opinions and both loved games of chance. I told him that if he ever got up to Jacksonville, I’d take him to some poker houses where the stakes ran rich as mother lodes.

He said Jane had kin in the Alabama boot heel, and he thought he might go in the lumber business up there. But first he wanted to see an old friend of his from the trail-driving days, a fella named Bama Bill, who was running a saloon in Gainesville. He fancied the idea of running his own saloon and wanted to see if Bill could use a partner. He didn’t talk about his trouble with the Texas law but to say he wasn’t guilty of a thing except defending himself and his own. I said no honest man could fault him for that. By the time the steamer bumped up against the dock at Cedar Key, it felt like we’d been friends for years.