Forty Times a Killer

by William W. Johnstone

  A sign on the gate, badly printed with a brush and tar, warned:

  SHARPS .50 RANGED ON GATE.

  And under that, in a neater hand was There’s a hell of a lot of shooting going on around here.

  Stakes’ fears were justified. I figured the rancher must be kin of Wes’s, right enough.

  I opened the gate, made sure to close it, and then rode at a walk toward the ranch house, expecting a bullet at any time.

  The wind was cold and bladed through my soggy rags like a razor. The sky was grim, gray as slate, and under that gloomy tyrant the surrounding pines rustled and bowed, as though paying quaking homage.

  I was yet ten yards from the house when the door threw open on its rawhide hinges and a one-legged man with a crutch under his armpit and a Sharps in his hands stepped outside.

  “Stay right where you are.” He was a large, heavy man, his face a brown triangle almost hidden behind a beard and unkempt mane of black hair. His eyes were blue and hostile. “I got a possum in the pot, coffee on the bile, but none o’ that’s fer you, on account of how I only got enough for my ownself. So ride on. There’s no grub here.”

  Then, to make sure I got the point, he said, “This here rifle gun is both wife and child to me. Just so you know.”

  I was scared, but I told him that a party of well-armed and determined state police and likely a town constable were camped to the west of his spread and needed to borrow an axe to cut kindling. Then I dropped John Wesley’s name, but the rancher seemed unimpressed.

  After a moment’s thought, he said, “There’s an axe in the woodshed over yonder. When you bring it back, leave it at the gate.”

  He turned, stepped inside, and slammed the door shut on me.

  Now, I’m sure the man had lost his leg in the war fighting for the Noble Cause, so I didn’t fault him for his lack of hospitality then or now.

  But he was a mean old cuss and no mistake. And not a one for sharing.

  After I cooked supper, we huddled around the fire and gradually our clothes dried.

  Smalley continued to tease Wes, describing the marks on a man’s neck after he’d been hung with a hemp rope, and how long it took for the condemned to strangle to death . . . vicious, cruel stuff like that.

  For his part, John Wesley stayed silent, although every now and then he forced out a tear and muttered the prayers he’d learned at his mother’s knee.

  But often I saw him glance sidelong at the lawmen. Then his eyes glittered in the firelight and his teeth gleamed, like a cougar anticipating a killing spree.

  And they didn’t see it! Idiots!

  Those two fools Stakes and Smalley saw only what they wanted to see, and that was a boy demented by terror over the thought of a cruel death on the gallows.

  Indeed, the fool does not see the same peril as the wise man, and there’s truth.

  The next day, we ferried across the muddy, sluggish Trinity then rode north into swamp country that was foreign and forbidding.

  Gradually the pines, post oak, and black hickory of our own soil gave way to bald cypress, water tupelo, and shrubs like swamp privet and water elm.

  The going across the wet country was exhausting and I felt sick. My face and hands were covered in insect bites. To my surprise Wes made no move, even when we were within a few miles of Waco.

  Overtaken by darkness and used up, Stakes halted and we made camp.

  He left to obtain fodder for the horses and cornmeal from one of the surrounding farmers, if such could be found in the wilderness. “Keep a close eye on Hardin, Jim,” he said from the saddle. “He’s scared and he might bolt.”

  “If he does, he’s a dead man,” Smalley said. “Depend on it.”

  Then Stakes said something strange that really upset me. “Hold up on the shooting until I get back. We’ve got to be in it together, mind.”

  Smalley smiled and nodded. “He’ll keep, E.T.”

  Stakes’ eyes and mine met, tangled, and what I saw in his cold, penetrating gaze chilled me to the bone.

  He meant to murder Wes.

  Soon.

  That very night.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Gut Shot

  With no moon the sky was dark as printer’s ink. Such breeze as there was came chill from the north and carried with it the musty smell of muck and of the swamp pools where lime green frogs jumped.

  Jim Smalley sat on the sawn trunk of a tree, his grin malicious. “Not long now, huh, Hardin? I mean the noose a snotty-nosed killer like you so richly deserves.”

  “Please don’t chide me, Mr. Smalley,” Wes said, his voice breaking.

  I added a few sticks to the fire, then said, “Leave him be. The man is scared enough.”

  With deliberate slowness, the lawman turned his head to me. “Another word out of you, gimp, and I’ll put a bullet in you.” His lip twisted. “Who’s gonna miss a damned raggedy-assed pauper like you. Me?” He nodded is Wes’s direction. “Him? Anybody?”

  I said nothing, and Smalley stared at me for a few moments, and then said, “From now until we reach Waco, keep your ignorant trap shut.”

  He again directed his attention to Wes. “Hey, Hardin, we haven’t even talked about your burying yet.” He smiled. “How remiss of me. I mean, a famous shootist like you doesn’t want to go under the ground in any old pine box. How about a mahogany casket with a nice glass window so you can see the worms come for you?”

  Wes had been squatting by the fire. He rose to his feet and sobbed, “I can’t stand this anymore.” He stumbled to the mustang and buried his face in the animal’s neck, his shoulders heaving as he sobbed.

  Smalley’s derisive laughter followed him. “Hell, boy, leave the caterwauling for the gallows,” he yelled as he slapped his leg, enjoying himself.

  John Wesley turned, a gun in his hand and a grin on his face.

  And in that awful moment, Constable Jim Smalley knew he was a dead man.

  He spiked a terrified, “No!” Then jumped to his feet as his hand dropped to his gun.

  He never made it. Didn’t even make it halfway.

  John Wesley’s ball hit the lawman in the belly.

  Shock, pain, and the realization that he’d suffered a death wound, slowed Smalley. He took a step back, tried to complete the draw, but suddenly found the Colt was too heavy to drag from the leather.

  The revolver tumbled out of his hand and Smalley went to his knees, his eyes on Wes. “Kill me, damn you. I’m gut shot.”

  Wes grinned. “Hell, I know that, Jim. I aimed for your belly.”

  Smalley had seen gut shot men before. He knew he had only a few words left in him before the worst waves of pain hit and then all he’d be able to do was scream.

  “How did you hide the damn—”

  “I’ve been there before, Jim.” Wes smiled. “I’m too old a cat to be played with by a kitten.”

  “Then get it over, damn you,” Smalley said.

  “We’ve got time.” Wes’s hard mouth stretched in a grin. “I know, I’ll sing you a song, help you on your way, like. Hey, Jim boy, do you know this one?”

  “ As I walked out in the streets of Laredo,

  As I walked out in Laredo one day,

  I spied a young cowboy wrapped up in white linen,

  Wrapped in white linen and cold as the clay.”

  Wes took a knee beside Smalley, who was lying on his back, groaning in pain, his teeth bared in a grotesque grimace.

  “Here’s the darlin’ part, Jim,” Wes said.

  “Oh beat the drum slowly and play the fife lowly,

  Play the Dead March as you carry me along.

  Take me to the green valley and lay the sod o’er me,

  For I am a young cowboy and I know I’ve done wrong.”

  Wes scowled as he rose to his feet, his eyes savage. “Damn you, Jim. You don’t like my song. I can see it in your face. Well, you don’t know dung from honey, so be damned to ye for an ungrateful wretch.”

  He raised his boot and brought
it down fast and hard onto Smalley’s bloody belly.

  The lawman shrieked, horribly, loudly, like a damned soul that’s just been thrown into the lowest pit of Hell.

  Wes had to raise his voice to make himself heard. “It ain’t my fault, Little Bit. He would’ve done the same to me.”

  I grabbed a burning stick from beside the fire and advanced on John Wesley. “Damn it all, Wes. End his suffering and do it now.”

  Wes looked at me and smiled. “Oh, all right. On account of how you look right scary holding that there twig. Well, good night, Jimmy boy.” And without seeming to even glance at Smalley, Wes casually shot him between the eyes.

  The screams stopped. But the racketing echoes of the gunshot seemed to go on and on forever.

  “There,” Wes said. “Happy now?”

  “Yes,” I said, my voice flat. “Happy now.”

  Wes was silent for a while, then he said, “The gun has a bad cylinder. It shoots low. That’s why I gut shot him.”

  “Is that what it was?”

  “Yeah, that’s what it was. Smalley sassed me all the time, made me feel bad. He was borrowing trouble.”

  “He surely was. Borrowing trouble, all right.” I didn’t mention the brutal kick to the dying man’s belly and neither did Wes.

  But I was sick inside and disappointed, though that’s an inadequate word to describe how I felt. Betrayed. Yes, that’s a better way to put it.

  Wes had betrayed my trust in him. I’d always known he was reckless, vengeful sometimes, and too quick to shoot.

  But I’d never known him to be purposely cruel.

  Until then.

  Kicking Smalley had been a wanton, barbarous act and it instilled fear in me. I dreaded that John Wesley might become a monster.

  If he wasn’t one already.

  Wes saddled Smalley’s sorrel horse then turned to me. “Should we wait for Stakes to get back?”

  “No. Best we get the hell out of here.”

  Was gave me his petulant look. “He sassed me, Little Bit. Just like Jimmy boy did.”

  “I know. But Stakes is a state policeman, Wes. Chances are you’ll run into him again.”

  John Wesley brightened at that. “Yeah, you’re right. Hell, he might come back here with a bunch of sodbusters.”

  “Maybe so.” To flatter him, I added, “Sodbusters are a real probability. A lot of folks want to shake the hand of John Wesley Hardin.”

  Wes took the compliment with a smile. “And I ain’t near done with my shootist career or started in on my Wild West show yet.”

  He swung into the saddle, gave Smalley’s body an indifferent glance, then grinned. “Damn it all. I’m gonna charge through life at a gallop and be a great man.” His blue eyes glowed in the gloom as I kneed my horse beside his. “Ain’t that right, Little Bit?”

  And me, weak, craven creature that I was, once again hitched my wagon to my friend’s malevolent star. “The greatest.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  A Strange Encounter

  A wise man once said that fate is the friend of the good and the enemy of the bad. Looking back, I can only conclude that he was right.

  We were destined to make a clean escape, and we did.

  Wes was determined to head south through friendly country and visit with his mother and father who were residing in Mount Calm, a tiny hamlet struggling for life at the ragged edge of nowhere.

  We rode through the dark of night, constantly checking our back trail for any sign of pursuit. There was none and that pleased Wes enormously.

  “Ned Stakes’ hoss was tuckered. He won’t come after us until first light, if he comes at all.” Wes drew rein, then kneed his horse close to mine. “Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll lie low for a spell, eat Ma’s good home cooking and grow fat and sassy. Maybe even spark a girl, if there’s any to be found in Mount Calm. Once everything blows over, I’ll get back to organizing my Wild West show.”

  Of course, Wes hadn’t organized anything so far, but I wasn’t about to pop his bubble.

  “I can get started on the business proposal for Sam Luck,” I said. “Seems to me all we’ll have at Mount Calm is time.”

  Wes was far away, staring through the tree canopy at the black sky with nary a star in sight. He turned his head to me. “What did you say, Little Bit?”

  “I said I should draw up the business proposal for Sam Luck.”

  Wes nodded. “Yeah, you do that. Good idea.”

  I hesitated before I spoke my mind, but asked finally, “Wes, you sure your folks will make us welcome?”

  “Of course they’ll make us welcome.” He reached into his coat pocket and produced a crumpled scrap of paper. “This is the last letter I got from Ma. Well, a piece of it. I tore off and kept the good part.”

  He passed the paper to me and I glanced at the small, crabbed handwriting. “It’s too dark for me to read it, Wes.”

  “No matter. I know it off by heart, memorized it, like.” He turned his face to the sky again. “Come quickly, Johnny. If you are in Pisgah, come. If you are in Groveton, come. Return home to Ma. I want to tell you so many things and see your sweet face, ere long. Come home, my own John. Come home, Johnny.”

  Wes dashed away a tear with the back of his hand. “Damn, but that’s purty. Ain’t it, Little Bit?”

  “Sure is. I reckon your ma wants you to settle down.”

  Wes nodded. “She does, but it’s way too early for that. I’ll walk a wide path before I’m done.”

  We let the horses pick their way, and they led us onto a narrow lane between the pines. It was still dark, but ahead of us we saw the glow of lanterns.

  I thought it might be a cow outfit rounding up mavericks in the brush and said so to Wes.

  “Could be. But it also might be lawmen or the army.”

  I pulled up my tired horse. “Do we ride around them?”

  “We’ll dismount and get closer. See what we can see,” Wes said.

  We swung out of the saddle and walked our horses, always a chore for me on uneven ground. After a couple minutes, I heard a woman’s laugh, followed by the bellowing roar of a man.

  “Doesn’t sound like lawmen or the army, either,” I said.

  Wes had close-seeing eyes and after he peered into the darkness, he said, “Damn it all. I can’t see a thing.”

  “Let’s get closer,” I said.

  Wes had Smalley’s Colt butt forward in his waistband and he adjusted the big revolver for a fast draw. “Little Bit, you see anything that suggests lawmen, holler out I’ll cut loose and then we’ll ride back the way we came.”

  I said that sounded just fine with me and we walked on.

  The path, no more than a sliver of game trail, led though a pine and brush thicket, then into an open area dominated by the skeleton of a lighting-struck tree that lifted skinny white arms to the dark sky.

  After maybe fifty paces, I made out a large wall tent in the distance and next to that a canvas lean-to. The silhouettes of men and a couple women moved back and forth in front of the fire. Beyond the camp, barely visible in the gloom, a parked covered wagon had its tongue raised. Nearby, a tethered mule team stood in a hipshot row.

  “Well, what do you see?” Wes sounded on edge.

  “Men and women. Travellers more than likely.”

  “I could use a cup of coffee and some grub,” Wes said.

  “Then we’ll go visiting. It seems safe enough to me.”

  “We’re a pair of drifting farm boys looking for work. Got that?”

  “I got it.” I led my horse forward and when I was within hailing distance, I yelled, “Hello the camp!”

  The answer came immediately. A man yelled, “Good-bye your ownself. Come on out.”

  “Welcoming folks,” I said. “Ain’t they?”

  Wes said nothing, but I could tell from the stiff, alert set of his head and shoulders that he was wound up tight as a clock spring.

  As we drew closer, a man who looked big in the darkness stepped forwa
rd and said, “Are ye frontwards or are ye backwards?”

  I’d no idea what the man was talking about, but I took a shot in the dark. “We have good mothers.”

  It took a while for the big man to understand the implications of my answer, but when he did, he said, “Then advance and be recognized, friend.” Another pause, then, “If ye’d said ye were frontward there would have been no welcome for you at our fire.”

  Beside me I heard Wes groan or growl. To this day, I still can’t figure the right of it.

  The big man walked out to meet us and made a great show of waving us into camp, like St. Peter ushering the righteous through the Pearly Gates.

  He was dressed in black broadcloth. Under that he wore a white collarless shirt, mighty yellow and stained. His hat was low-crowned and flat-brimmed, his face wide, fair, and handsome.

  The two men with him were clothed in the same fashion and all three were close enough in looks to be brothers.

  I guessed that the two women were wives, thin, severe, and modestly attired in black dresses with white at the collars and cuffs.

  One of the women smiled at me and said, “Good-bye.”

  “Indeed,” the big man said. “Sleep, put your horses up, and then have coffee.”

  The other men stepped forward, smiled, and shook hands with us. “Good-bye,” they said. “Come again some time.”

  Wes gave me a sidelong look and I noticed that his thumb was hooked into his waistband, close to the Colt.

  “My name is Isaac,” the big man said. “And these are my brothers Charley and Milton.” He bowed as he introduced the women. “My dear wives Goldie and Estelle.”

  “Right pleased to meet you, an’ no mistake.” I figured these folks were tetched in the head.

  More so when the man called Isaac said, “After you sleep, we’ll teach the word to you about the Contrarians and our faith.”

  “I could use a cup of coffee,” Wes said.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Isaac said. “But that comes sooner.”

  Now, I don’t know why I thought I could engage in polite conversation with a man with loco camped out in his eyeballs, but so help me I tried.