Forty Times a Killer

by William W. Johnstone

  Wes, that gallant Southern cavalier, rode forth with the Clements brothers to stamp out William Sutton, his works, and all his vile brood.

  And I tagged along.

  Despite the war raging around him, Wes continued to seek additional markets for his cattle and on April 9, 1873, his search put us on the trail to the town of Cuero in De Witt County. The settlement was prospering, three new hotels were under construction, and Wes assumed there would be a demand for beef.

  We were still almost a score of miles south of Cuero when a heavily armed rider appeared on our back trail. Behind him trailed three others, but those looked like respectable cattlemen and I saw no arms on them.

  I made the decision right there and then that their leader was either a lawman or a desperado. Because of the feud, he could well be both.

  When the man got close and touched his hat, Wes drew rein. “Good morning. A fine day is it not?”

  The rider, a tall, thin man with a long, joyless face and bleak blue eyes did not return the greeting. He wore two Colts at his waist and the stock of a new Henry rifle poked out from under his knee. “Do you live around here?”

  “No,” Wes said. “I’m heading for Cuero on a business trip.”

  “Me too,” the stranger said. “To find a blacksmith shop. My horse threw a shoe back a ways.” The man had the eyes of a buzzard.

  I didn’t trust him.

  I trusted him even less when he said, “Name’s Jack Helm. I’m the sheriff of De Witt County. These men are traveling under my protection.”

  “You’re the sheriff . . . among other things.” When he spoke like that, low and flat and unfriendly, John Wesley was the most dangerous man on earth.

  Maybe Helm, damn him for a black-hearted Suttonite, sensed this because he managed a slight smile when he said, “And you are?”

  Wes gave his name.

  “Pleased to meet you after all this time, Mr. Hardin.” Helm extended his hand for a howdy-do, which Wes ignored.

  “You’re not facing a frightened woman or child now, Helm, but a Southern gentleman, face-to-face,” Wes said. “I heard you’ve called me a murderer and a coward and have ordered your deputies to shoot me on sight.” Wes opened his coat and revealed his revolvers. “Well, now you’ve got your chance. Shuck the iron and open the ball.”

  Helm’s face paled and his voice was unsteady. “John Wesley, I’m not your enemy. I’m your friend.”

  Suddenly Wes’s guns were in his hands. “You’re no friend of mine. You belong to a band of murdering scum who have killed better men than yourself.”

  I swear that Wes’s eyes glowed like candles in blue ice.

  “Your killing days are over, Helm, so shuck the iron and defend yourself or I’ll shoot you down like a dog.”

  The sky was dark blue, the breeze cool and birds sang in the trees. It was not a good day to die.

  And Helm knew it. “John Wesley, you’re too brave a man to shoot me down in cold blood. I want you to join my vigilante group in ridding our land of rustlers, killers, and all manner of low persons.”

  “Hear-hear,” one of the respectable cattlemen said. “Let us shed our differences and continue to Cuero in peace and good fellowship.”

  To my surprise, Wes holstered his guns. “Helm, when we reach Cuero, we’ll talk of this again.”

  Now there are them who say that the whole affair was a setup, arranged by Helm and Wes. They say that Wes’s dark personality had long since abandoned every shred of honor and loyalty and that he wanted to change sides for his personal gain.

  That Helm brought along three witnesses to attest to John Wesley’s change of heart meant that they would also be present when the sheriff outlined to Wes what he would gain, legally and financially.

  Obviously the supposed bait was a full pardon for past crimes and large donations of money from the Sutton faction, many of them quite wealthy.

  But I don’t believe a word of it.

  Wes wanted to kill Jack Helm, an evil scoundrel, real bad, but at the last moment he decided it shouldn’t be done in front of three respectable witnesses whose testimony could hang him.

  That is the simple explanation of why Wes lowered his lance and backed down.

  And it is the right one . . . as future events would reveal.

  Wes and Jack Helm did talk again in Cuero, at the corner of Hunt Street and Morgan Avenue, but few words passed between them.

  All Wes said to me later was, “Helm would have to do a whole lot of work to get me clear of trouble. And I would have to do a whole lot of work for him in return.”

  I didn’t pursue the matter because another dramatic event overtook us in the form of an Irishman bent on suicide, who chose John Wesley as the instrument of his self-destruction.

  It was such a pathetic, useless death that it passed largely unnoticed at a time when belted, feuding men were dying violently all over Texas.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  “Pimm’s All Round!”

  The suicide death come up after John Wesley spoke to Helm. We stepped into a saloon in Cuero Square where a noisy poker game was in progress. Wes sat at the table, asked for cards, and I stood at the bar and bought whiskey with the dollar he’d given me.

  We’d done some long riding recently and my leg was playing hob. My wound had gathered into a head then burst and I felt blood and pus seep down my leg. I felt most unwell and the only medicine that helped was whiskey, the stronger and rawer the better.

  I had never been a big eater and the notion that food might boost my strength never entered into my thinking.

  It had gone noon but the sun merely smoldered sullenly in the spring sky and the day was cool, fanned by an east wind. It was one of those strange, Texas days when a man could step from winter to summer just by crossing the street from shade into light.

  I have always been of the opinion that an east wind drives men mad. I believe Gettysburg was fought in such a wind, and was not that the greatest madness of all?

  It seemed that the wind had worked its dark sorcery on the unfortunate Irishman.

  Wes had just won a five-dollar pot when the suicidal son of Erin jumped up from the table, did a little jig, and declared that the winner must buy, “Pimm’s all round!”

  Wes merely smiled. “Perhaps, if I win a few more hands.”

  The Irishman’s ruddy face was covered with broken veins that looked like tributaries of blood. “Now!” he yelled. “Pimm’s for everybody or, by Christ, I’ll take a stick to ye.”

  The bartender hammered a glass on the counter. “Here, Morgan, the man doesn’t want to buy drinks. Remember that you’re a deputy sheriff of this county and act the gentleman.”

  When Wes heard this, he threw down his cards and stepped outside.

  Only later did I learn that J.B. Morgan, a stonemason by trade, was a Suttonite thug who’d been hired by Jack Helm to terrorize the Taylor patriots of De Witt County.

  Wes had entered the poker game under the alias of Mr. Johnson, but did Morgan know his true identity?

  Of course he did.

  Everybody in Cuero knew the famous shootist John Wesley Hardin was in town.

  Then why did Morgan brace a known mankiller?

  Bear this in mind. The hatreds engendered by the Sutton-Taylor feud ran deep and I believe to this day that Morgan threw away his own life to bring down Wes.

  In fact, he succeeded all too well.

  After a few minutes quiet contemplation, John Wesley stepped into the saloon again.

  Morgan, still belligerent, immediately confronted him. “Here you. Are you going heeled?”

  “I’m armed, yes.” Wes was so polite and quiet you’d have thought he was accepting an invite to tea by old Queen Vic herself.

  “Well, then it’s time you thought about defending yourself,” said Morgan, that willful blackguard. He brushed aside his high-button coat and made a show of reaching into the back pocket of his pants.

  “Get your hand away from there,” Wes ordered.
<
br />   “I never carry a gun in my pocket,” Morgan said.

  Wes drew and fired. A bullet crashed into Morgan’s face, just below his left eye.

  The man had time to throw up his hands and scream, “Oh God, he’s murdered me!” Then he fell to the sawdust-covered floor, dead as a rotten stump.

  Through a gray drift of smoke, Wes looked around the saloon, then said to the bartender, “Pimm’s all round.”

  But no one took him up on his generous offer.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Wes Plans a Murder

  The killing of Morgan placed John Wesley firmly in the Taylor camp, and me too, of course, not that anybody much cared. Their need was for fighting men, and on that score I didn’t qualify.

  I did however acquire a notebook and pencil and began to write what would become my first published dime novel, a saga of how Wes stopped a train robbery, saved a virgin in peril of being undone, and tracked down and killed the outlaws.

  As I will do throughout this narrative, I’m pleased to give you the title of the novel, so you can pick it up wherever fine books are sold and read it at your leisure. Captain Hardin to the Rescue, or The Maiden On The Train Of Doom. Wes was newly incarcerated in federal prison when the novel was published, but he read it and liked it so much he declared it, “Crackerjack!”

  I’ve written many more books since, but that’s the one that will always remain in my memory, mostly because of its enthusiastic reception by John Wesley.

  As I’ve said, Wes had thrown in with the Taylors body and soul, but this fact was unknown to Jack Helm who invited him to a parley in the town of Albuquerque, a bustling settlement in western Gonzales County.

  In part, the letter Helm sent declared that, “Albuquerque is my town, John, and I am cock o’ the walk. Come quickly that we may discuss our urgent business at hand.”

  Wes had just met members of the Taylor clan, including Jim Taylor, a man with an abiding hatred for Jack Helm and the oppression he stood for. We sat in the front room of his ranch house.

  “I say you accept the invite, Wes,” Taylor said. “We can get rid of that damned Yankee turncoat once and for all.”

  For once in his life, Wes was wary. “You read what he said, Jim, that Albuquerque is his town. Helm is an important man and we could face a lynch mob.”

  Taylor wasn’t intimidated in the least. “I’ll do the killing, Wes. Just be there to back me up if need be.” He jutted his chin in my direction. “And him.”

  “Little Bit doesn’t carry a gun,” Wes said.

  Taylor nodded, his face empty. “No, I don’t suppose he does.”

  “Helm needs killing,” Wes said. “Am I right in saying that?”

  “Damn right you’re right,” Taylor said. “Kill him and we’ll tear the guts right out of the Suttons.” He picked up his whiskey glass, put it to his lips, and said over the rim, “Are you game, Wes?”

  John Wesley hesitated for only a moment. “I’m always game. We’ll ride up that way at first light tomorrow.”

  Taylor looked at me. “You?”

  I was flattered that a member of the fighting Taylor clan even noticed me. “I’ll ride with you.”

  “Then it’s all set,” Taylor said. “We’ll gun Jack Helm tomorrow.”

  I was horrified and couldn’t just sit there and keep my mouth shut. The whiskey I’d drank helped. “Wes, kill Helm and there can be no going back from it.”

  “What the hell do you mean?” Taylor asked.

  “Helm is a big man in Texas and he has powerful friends, including the army,” I said. “I don’t think they’d take his death lightly.”

  “Hell, you can stay behind.” Taylor cut me a slit-eyed look. “You wouldn’t be much help anyway.”

  “Helm can die like any other man and no one will mourn him.” Wes perched on the edge of his chair like a bird of prey, all his arrogance on show. He shook his head, a slight smile on his lips. “Little Bit, why do I keep you around? You’re the gloomiest cuss I ever knew.”

  Taylor said, “You don’t keep him around for the laughs, that’s fer sure.”

  “Wes, I beg you. Don’t kill Jack Helm. It will be an ill-done thing.” As one last yelp of despair, I said, “Think of your wife and child. Think of the Wild West show.”

  “The show can wait until the Suttons are all dead,” Wes said. “Anyway, I’m thinking of selling the idea, like I’d sell a cow or a horse, except for a sight more money.”

  “Wes, I heard talk about your Wild West show idea,” Taylor said. “I’d surely admire to be in it.”

  “Well, if I don’t sell it, I’ll make sure there’s a place for you, Jim.” Wes turned his attention to me. “Little Bit, you look peaked. I’m leaving you behind tomorrow.”

  Our eyes locked and I opened my mouth to speak.

  Wes shut it for me. “Don’t argue. Just do as you’re told.”

  Taylor grinned. “Hell, Wes, pop a cap on him and put the little feller out of his misery.”

  “The whiskey will do that soon enough,” Wes said.

  It was not a thing a friend should say.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  The Death of Jack Helm

  “One day, in a playful mood, John Wesley Hardin gave Sheriff Jack Helm a broadside . . . and sunk him.”

  That’s how a Texas Ranger summed up the killing of Helm to his superiors.

  He was only half right.

  The way John Wesley told it later, him and Jim Taylor rode into Albuquerque and found Helm in the blacksmith’s shop, toiling at the anvil. He was part owner of the forge and enjoyed working with iron. He was hammering a glowing knife blade into shape when Wes and Taylor saw him.

  Wes said, “Then suddenly I heard Helm scream at Jim, ‘Hold up there because I mean to arrest you!’”

  Now, since Helm had never met Jim Taylor I don’t see how that was possible.

  But John Wesley may have misspoken himself. In reality, the vile threat was hurled at him since he’d so steadfastly refused to join the traitorous Suttonite faction.

  I do know this. Helm plunged the red hot knife into a barrel of water, and no sooner had it stopped steaming and sizzling than he advanced on Taylor, the brutish blade held low for a gutting.

  Alarmed, Wes said he watched Helm close on Taylor. “I carried a shotgun because Jack Helm was known to be a dangerous man with a gun and had put many lively Taylor lads into the grave.”

  To save Taylor’s life, Wes cut loose with one barrel of the shotgun. Helm, hit hard, staggered, and Jim Taylor opened up with his revolver.

  “Helm fell with twelve buckshot in his chest and several six-shooter balls in his head,” Wes recalled in his autobiography. “Thus did the leader of the vigilante committee, the terror of the county whose name was a horror to all law-abiding citizens, meet his death.”

  So you see why I say the Ranger was only half right.

  Wes and Taylor shared the kill, though Wes would later claim it as his thirty-ninth.

  Jack Helm was bleeding all over the ground, gasping his last when Wes and Taylor rode out of town.

  Nobody tried to stop them.

  When Wes returned to Gonzales County the word quickly spread that he’d killed the hated Jack Helm. Letters of thanks poured into Wes’s ranch from the wives, widows, and mothers of Helm’s many victims, and men patted him on the back and said, “John, killing Helm was the finest thing you ever did in your life.”

  And me, miserable little weasel that I was, once again bathed in the reflected light of John Wesley’s glory and convinced myself that I was indeed a man and counted myself lucky to have such a friend.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Terror by Night

  I believe that John Wesley wanted to separate himself from the Sutton-Taylor feud and he’d even talked of trying to broker a peace treaty between the two factions. Despite his best intentions, the fighting still raged, and hooded nightriders spread terror across south and central Texas, killing, maiming, and burning by the light of
the moon.

  Others took advantage of the chaos and rode moonlit trails for their own personal gain. The worst of them were the murderous Roche brothers, a trio of killers so fiendish that Wes refused to take any credit for his part in their ultimate destruction.

  Now, for all the doubters who say John Wesley was a common killer, the story I’m about to narrate reveals Wes at his best. As I saw him, he was a noble knight in sable armor who sallied forth to right wrong wherever he found it.

  My dire predictions about the consequences of Jack Helm’s murder had not yet come true, but Wes, wary of the Suttons and their nightriders, had sent his wife and baby daughter to Comanche in Central Texas to live with his younger brother Joe, a successful young lawyer.

  It was the midnight hour, a couple days before the eve of Christ’s birth. Outside the night was cool and the bright moonlight covered the ground like a frost.

  Wes and I sat before a blazing log in his parlor, sharing a bottle of fine port wine. Despite suffering from a severe attack of bronchitis, I felt happy and privileged.

  Jane would never allow me to remain long in the house. She said she could smell me and my diseased leg from two rooms away.

  Wes, who was drowsing in his chair, woke with a start as hoof beats sounded outside, then a horse whinnied as it was reined to a violent stop. “Nightriders.”

  He leapt from his chair, grabbed his pistols and stepped to the window. As he pushed the curtain aside to take a look into the darkness, fists pounded on the front door.

  “John Wesley!” a man yelled. “It’s me, Andy Conlan.”

  Wes threw me a quick glance. “He’s one of ours.”

  “Or somebody impersonating his voice,” I said.

  Made wary by my warning, Wes left the parlor and a moment later I heard the door open.

  This was followed by a man’s squeal of fright. “Wes, don’t shoot for God’s sake! It’s me, old Andy Conlan as ever was.”