Forty Times a Killer

by William W. Johnstone

  “The boy is right, James,” Mary Elizabeth said. “Johnny’s delicate constitution is not suited to the laborer’s trade.”

  “Then what is he suited for, my dear?” the reverend asked carefully.

  It was a loaded question, mildly asked, and I awaited Mrs. Hardin’s answer with some unease.

  She rose to the challenge, exclaiming, “The stage! You heard Johnny say that he wants to put on a show. He has the looks, the poise, and the erudition to become a fine actor. Why, he might even perform in Shakespeare like the noble Booth brothers.”

  She dragged me into the talk. “Is that not so, Little Bit?”

  I hedged. “It’s a Wild West show, ma’am.”

  “Yes, and a most singular idea it is,” Mrs. Hardin said. She raised her pretty eyes to her son. “You’ll be very good at it, Johnny, and, I declare, become rich and famous quicker than . . . well, quicker ’n scat!”

  Before Wes could speak, his father rubbed his forehead and said, “I grow weary, Mary Elizabeth. I will retire to my study, reacquaint myself with Holy Scripture then seek my bed early.”

  He rose to his feet. “John, Little Bit, there’s a zinc bathtub out back. I strongly suggest you both use it.”

  “And I have a fresh bar of Pears soap all the way from England,” Mrs. Hardin said. “I know how delicate your skin is, Johnny, dear.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Unwelcome News

  The next morning at breakfast, the Reverend Hardin said that John Wesley and I could stay with him for a couple days before leaving for Mexico. Wes said nothing, but I saw by the expression on his face that he was unhappy with this arrangement.

  Everything changed early the next day when a man named Crow Duplin knocked at the door and was admitted by the Hardin maidservant, then ushered into the parlor where we all were.

  I figured that Duplin got his name from the black crow feathers he wore in the band of his gray kepi. He had a long, sad face and eyes so saggy his bottom eyelids showed red rims.

  The Rev. Hardin said, “Well, Crow, what errand brings you to my home so early in the morning?” Belatedly, he introduced us. “My son John you know, and this is his friend Little Bit.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, I’m sure,” Crow said.

  I’d thought him a Texan, but he spoke with a strong English accent. He grinned, revealing few teeth and those black, and pumped my hand with the greatest show of affection.

  “In answer to your question, Reverend,” Crow said, “I’m on a mission of the greatest moment, and it concerns young Master Hardin, here present, and those who would do him great bodily harm.”

  Crow grabbed my hand again and pumped that already punished extremity even harder. “Howdy do?” He grinned wider than before. “This is indeed a plumbed and squared pleasure.”

  “Likewise, I’m sure,” I said, withdrawing my crumpled fingers.

  “Before we hear what you have to say, can I offer you coffee, Mr. Duplin?” Mary Elizabeth said.

  Crow bowed with all the flair of an Elizabethan courtier. “Now, as to that question, dear lady, if I say no, you may think me an ungrateful wretch. But if I answer yes, then I fear I may put you to the greatest inconvenience.”

  “It’s no trouble at all,” Mary Elizabeth said. “I’ll bring you a cup directly.” Her gray morning dress rustled as she turned and headed for the kitchen.

  “Let’s hear your news, Crow.” Wes seemed quite unconcerned, nibbling on a corner of toast left over from breakfast.

  “And there it is in a nutshell,” Crow said. “A forthright question from a forthright youth. And I will answer it honestly and in full. Duplin by name, Duplin by nature, I always say.”

  “Proceed, Crow,” the Rev. Hardin said, a tinge of impatience in his voice.

  “And proceed I will, with the greatest dispatch.” Crow bowed low, then accepted a cup from Mary Elizabeth “I was a-sitting in my cabin with the missus, discussin’ our hard times like, and me sayin’ that I was much afeerd of more coming down—”

  As though she felt the need to explain Crow’s straitened circumstances, Mrs. Hardin interrupted. “Mr. Duplin has twelve children, Little Bit, and, unfortunately, most of them are simple.”

  “All of them, dear lady, except for little Nancy,” Crow said after a sip of coffee. “She’s as smart as a whip, that young ’un.”

  Wes and his father exchanged irritated glances, and the reverend said, “So, Crow, you were sitting in your cabin, and . . .”

  “And Mrs. Duplin, bless ’er heart, happened to glance out the window, and what does she see?” Crow waited expectantly.

  Wes snapped, “Tell us.”

  “Sojers! Blue coat sojers!”

  The Rev. Hardin was much taken aback by this intelligence and displayed the utmost agitation as he exclaimed, “Soldiers? Here in Mount Calm?”

  “Yankee sojers as ever was.” Crow bowed as Mrs. Hardin took his cup. “A score of black cavalry and a white officer.”

  In her sudden anguish, Mary Elizabeth dropped the cup and it smashed on the wood floor. She ran to Wes and threw her arms around his neck. “My poor Johnny, the God’s cursed Yankees are after you.”

  “Indeed they are, ma’am,” Crow said. “Upon my inquiring as to their presence in our little town, the officer said, ‘We’re hunting a damned scoundrel, traitor, and murderer by the name of John Wesley Hardin. Have you seen him?’” Crow wrung his hands in agitation. “When I said that I hadn’t, the officer said, ‘Then we’ll tear apart every house in Mount Calm until we find the rogue.’”

  The Rev. Hardin immediately grasped the seriousness of the situation and cried out, “John, into the root cellar without delay. You too, Little Bit.” He quickly reached into his pocket and pressed some money into Crow’s hand. “You have done my family a great service.”

  I thought so too, but Wes seemed to have a different opinion. Despite the considerable amount of money in his pocket, he brushed past Crow without a thank-you.

  Not for the first time, I realized that gratitude and generousness were not two of Wes’s virtues.

  For his part, Crow reached out to take my hand again. But I placed that tormented appendage behind my back, smiled, and tipped him a little bow.

  Much pleased by this, Crow himself bowed. “It’s been a real treat meeting you, Mr. Little Bit.”

  “And for me too,” I said.

  “Quickly now,” Rev. Hardin said, grabbing my arm. “There’s no time to be lost.”

  From outside, I heard the thud of hooves and the jingle of cavalry bits. The Yankees were at the door!

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Across the Rio Grande

  To my dying day, I will never understand why the soldiers ransacked the Hardin home, but didn’t search the root cellar. Perhaps it was because the underground cellar was small and had not been used in some time, thus its single door was partially overgrown with brush and was difficult to see. Whatever the reason, our hiding place went undiscovered, and Wes and I remained there until dark.

  Coyotes yipped in the hills when we heard footfalls approach the cellar.

  Wes had retrieved his pistols before we fled from the house and he pointed them at the timber door. He grinned and whispered in my ear, “If a Yankee opens that damned door you’re going to see a hell of a fight.”

  “John Wesley, it’s me. Don’t shoot.” It was the Rev. Hardin’s voice. He knew better than to walk up on Wes without being announced.

  “Are the Yankees gone?” Wes asked.

  “Yes, about an hour ago,” his father said. “They did some damage in the house and your mother got a black eye trying to stop them.”

  “Open the damned door,” Wes said. “I’m going after the one that did it.”

  “Too late for that, son,” Mr. Hardin said. “The Yankees are long gone, and the soldier that struck your mother told his officer that it was an accident.”

  After the door creaked open on rusty hinges, Wes clambered outside. “Describe hi
m, Pa.” His voice was shaking with fury.

  “He was a Negro, John, and they all look alike,” the reverend said. “How can I describe him, that he was a man with a black skin?”

  “Then I’ll kill them all,” Wes said. “That way I’ll be sure of getting the right one.”

  “Revenge is a dish best served cold, John. It will wait. Your mother wasn’t badly hurt and I have other plans for you.” The reverend wore a wide-brimmed hat and an oilskin. He carried a new Henry rifle, an odd thing for a man of the cloth.

  Drizzling rain slanted in a shivering wind and everywhere around us the lost, lonely land was hidden in darkness.

  “Your horses are saddled and I’ll escort you as far as the Rio Grande,” Mr. Hardin said.

  “We don’t need an escort,” Wes said, his face stiff as a board.

  “I know you don’t, son. But I want to make sure you do as I told you.” The reverend turned his attention to me. “Little Bit, I know you’re much attached to novels of the more sensational kind, so I brought you this.” He handed me a cloth-bound volume with gilt lettering on the cover.

  “It is the historical work, Quentin Durward, by the late Sir Walter Scott. I hope you’ll find time to enjoy it.”

  Indeed, I had read the story of dashing young Quentin before.

  You will recall that Sir Walter’s tale is about a young Scots cavalier in search of honorable adventure. By his senses, firmness, and gallantry, he becomes the fortunate possessor of wealth and rank and then gains the hand of a beautiful lady whose family tree is as noble as his own.

  I’d read the work years before (and, oh, how I wanted to be Quentin!) and was eager to reacquaint myself with its entrancing prose. I thanked the Rev. Hardin profusely and put the book under my coat out of the rain, where Quentin Durward’s pure heart could beat against mine.

  A few minutes later we took the trail to Mexico. Wes was silent and sullen, but his father sat tall and alert in the saddle, his eyes constantly reaching out into the darkness around him.

  He needn’t have worried.

  The rain grew heavier, the wind colder, and no hostile traveller would venture forth on such a night.

  We reached the north bank of the Rio Grande at daybreak, under a sky that stretched formless gray as far as the eye could see. The rain had lessened, but the drizzle fell steadily. Having no oilskin, I was thoroughly soaked.

  The Reverend Hardin shook my hand and then his son’s. “You will be safe in Mexico, John. Lay your guns aside and find good, honest work. Son, take the word of God in Psalms to heart, ‘He shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water that bringeth forth his fruit in his season; its leaf shall not wither; and whatever he doeth shall prosper.’”

  The reverend pointed to the Rio Grande where stately wading birds hunted frogs and minnows in the shallows. “There is your river of water, John. All you have to do is cross it and whatever you do will prosper.”

  Wes took this advice with ill grace. Without another word, he swung his horse away and rode into the river.

  The Rev. Hardin said to me, “Little Bit, when you get settled, see that John writes his mother. She does worry about him so.”

  I nodded. “I will make sure he writes at least once a week.”

  We shook hands and parted. The Reverend Hardin rode away and did not look back at his son.

  My soul was weighed down by a burden I couldn’t fathom. Maybe it was the leaden sky, or maybe it was because of the mysteries and dangers of Mexico, then an unknown land to me.

  Or maybe, in my heart of hearts, I knew that James Hardin’s dreams for his son would never come true.

  He was a fine man, the Reverend Hardin, but born to parlous times.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Killings and the Joy of Mescal

  The ride south of the border took close to three weeks. We rode hard during the day and camped at night, arriving in October.

  The Mexican village lay about three miles south of the river and it wasn’t much—modest adobe buildings clustered around a central plaza. A fountain stood in the middle of the square, but it was dry as dust and didn’t look like it had run water since the time of the old Spaniards.

  But there was a cantina with a blue coyote painted on the outside wall. The smoke that rose from its chimney smelled of mesquite and the tang of fried beef.

  Until then, John Wesley had been silent since we crossed the border. “I could sure use some breakfast.”

  “I’m feeling sharp set my ownself,” I said.

  “Then let’s eat.”

  Four other horses already stood at the cantina’s hitching post when we dismounted. That surprised me because their saddles were double-rigged Mother Hubbards, popular in Texas at that time. Only white men sat such a rig.

  Hungry and cold as I was, I didn’t give the presence of white Texans another thought, but I should have, the way things turned out.

  The owner of the place was a small, plump man, with a round, pleasant face that bore a worried, almost fearful expression.

  The reason was not hard to find.

  Four white men sat at a table, sharing a bottle of what I later learned was mescal, the strong, smoky and potent liquor of Old Mexico. They were a wolfish, un-curried bunch, who looked like they’d just come in off the trail. All of them wore dusters, good boots, and fancy spurs, and each carried a brace of revolvers in tooled holsters.

  Such men bring trouble with them, and I sensed it, but Wes seemed totally indifferent.

  After the worried little Mexican sat us at a table and took our order for tortillas, beef and frijoles, Wes got up from his chair and stood with his back to the blazing log fire.

  He looked over at the four men and smiled. “Ahh, it does a man good to warm his butt at the fire after a long ride.”

  It was at this point that the proprietor put a bottle of mescal and two earthenware cups on the pine table in front of me. I draw this detail to your attention only because I have always believed that bottle of mescal was the first step on my long road to the hopeless drunk I later became.

  As I said, Wes stood in front of the fire and made a remark that the four men seemed to take with considerable good humor. But appearances can be deceptive when it comes to hard cases of that kind. Even rabid wolves can smile.

  One of the four, a redhead big in the chest and shoulders, sporting a magnificent, sweeping handlebar mustache I’d have given my eye teeth to own, grinned. “You quit blocking the fire, sonny, or I’ll warm your ass for you over my knee.”

  The others laughed and Wes laughed with them.

  “Hey, that’s funny. A real thigh-slapper.” Then the laughter drained from Wes’s face, his eyes a bright, piercing blue. “Now come here and let me see you put me over your knee.” Suddenly he was on the prod.

  Wes was touchy, and I knew he felt that being called sonny was an insult to his manhood.

  The four men at the table wanted trouble and they were not shy about bringing it. The big redhead looked around at the others and grinned. Then he slowly rose to his feet, with a considerable, easy elegance I must add.

  “You gonna lower your britches, youngster, or am I going to do it for you?”

  “Studying on it,” Wes said, “I reckon I’ll leave that up to you.”

  Lacking gun leather, John Wesley’s Colts were shoved into each side of his waistband, butt-forward, in what some now call the cavalry draw position. They were hidden by his coat.

  This mode of carry was much favored by another famous shootist, but more of him later. First things first, as I always say.

  The big man, his spurs ringing, stepped across the cantina floor. Then he stopped, his eyes locked on Wes’s face.

  The Mexican proprietor, steaming plates in hand, stepped between them and said to Wes, his voice tremoring, “Senor, your food is served.”

  In recent years I’ve heard men say that the redhead’s name was Archie Keller or Kenner and by the time he clashed with Wes, he’d killed seven men. They say he w
as mean enough to pour water over a widow woman’s kindling, and so profane, he used the Holy Bible for cigarette papers.

  Maybe these things are true enough, but what isn’t true is that he saw his own death in Wes’s eyes and backed down real quick. Hell, he wasn’t scared of Wes any more than he was scared of me. I’m convinced he knew that killing what he thought to be an unarmed, beardless boy would do little to enhance his gun reputation.

  As it was, let’s call him Archie Keller. He just grinned, willing to let it go “Yeah, you go eat your breakfast like a good boy.”

  And there it might have ended.

  But it sure didn’t.

  One of the others at the table, a young towhead with the eyes of a carrion eater, said, “Aw hell. I’ll take down the pup’s britches an’ whup him good, Arch.”

  The towhead got up in a hurry and advanced on Wes. But I had my good foot resting in a chair and I pushed it into him.

  The man got all tangle-footed with the chair and fell.

  Keller turned his head to see what had happened.

  And that was all the break John Wesley needed. In an instant, his guns were in his hands.

  The big Colts bucked as he slammed two shots into Keller and then another hit the towhead in the throat as he struggled to free himself from the chair and get to his feet.

  Keller, hit twice in the chest, lay dying on the floor as Wes covered the other two men at the table with his revolvers.

  “You brought it,” he said. “You want I should finish it?”

  But the two survivors wanted no part of Wes on that day, and by the horrified look on their faces, on any other.

  “We’re leavin’,” the older of the two said, so fast there was no space between his words.

  “Then leave,” Wes said.

  Death rattled in Keller’s throat and all the life that was in him left.

  The towhead lay gagging on his own blood for a spell, then, after making a horrible, gurgling sound, he too gave up the ghost.

  Wes glanced at the two bodies. He stood slender and significant like some kind of avenging angel. “Take these two and bury them across the border. I will not have Texans lie in foreign soil.”