Forty Times a Killer

by William W. Johnstone

  “You men go about your business,” Wes said. “The saloon is closed.”

  “The hell it is,” the man in the coat said. “The door is open and we’re going inside.”

  “Eli, go home,” Sheriff Wilson said. “You’re drunk enough already.”

  “I’ll tell you when I’m drunk enough.” The black strode straight at Wes who stood still and let him come.

  At the last second, Wes sidestepped and swung the Colt. The barrel crashed into the side of the Negro’s head and the man dropped like a felled ox.

  Another tall, thin man uttered a vile curse, born of the savage heart of darkest Africa, and drew a wicked knife of the largest size. He charged and then fell stone dead a moment after Wes’s bullet tore his heart apart.

  The three remaining Negros decided that they wanted no part of Mr. Swain that night. In the most abject fashion, they threw themselves on their knees, raised their hands in prayerful supplication, and begged for mercy.

  “Lock them up, Sheriff.” Wes glanced at the dead man. “Then throw that to the alligators.”

  Wilson, young and impressionable, raised an eyebrow. “Quick to shoot, aren’t you, Mr. Swain?”

  “And so should you be, Sheriff, if you hope to live long.”

  But we were not yet finished with the Negro who wore the blue coat. His name was Eli Brown and he had dreams of one day standing for public office. The blow to his head from Wes’s gun enraged him and inflamed his already ferocious hatred of the white race.

  What better way to express his loathing than to rape a white woman, a Southern belle of good breeding and fine family who resided in Gainesville town?

  Thankfully, the girl’s cries were heard before she was cruelly undone, and the cursing, struggling Brown was thrust into jail.

  That night there was a gathering of brave and resolute men in John Wesley’s saloon, Sheriff Wilson among them. Each man, including Wes, wore a dazzling white robe like a holy Crusader knight ready to do battle with the Infidel.

  I was not one of them, but my heart swelled with pride as I beheld such a glorious scene and I felt honored that I was of their race.

  “I’ve got a rope,” one stalwart said. “I say we string him up from the nearest telegraph pole.”

  But Wes would have none of it. “The jail is old and the wood is as dry as tinder. Set fire to the place and we can watch the black demon roast in hell.”

  This brought a round of applause and cheers for Mr. Swain.

  “Drink up, boys,” Sheriff Wilson said. “It’s almost midnight and time to get it done. I don’t want that damn black breathing the same air as us for a moment longer.”

  This brought another round of huzzahs, then the white knights drained their glasses, donned snowy hoods, and sallied forth into the darkness.

  Eli Brown died horribly. He burned to death even as he stood at a window, his sizzling arms reaching through the bars, pathetically begging for his life.

  It was a fate the Negro richly deserved.

  Later, we all repaired to the saloon and enjoyed champagne cocktails. Mr. Swain, who had a fine voice, sang “When This Cruel War Is Over,” to much applause and many a manly tear.

  It was a happy time.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  A Chilling Warning

  Four thousand dollars. That was the sum the vindictive Texas legislature placed on John Wesley’s noble head . . . dead or alive.

  The happy times had been short and they were about to end.

  Wes had long since sold his saloon, kept one step ahead of the law and trusted no one.

  The reward was enough to interest the Texas Rangers, especially that redheaded scoundrel J. Lee Hall and his able lieutenant John Barclay Armstrong.

  You remember Armstrong. As a Ranger sergeant he arrested, shot, and hung a score of the survivors of the Sutton-Taylor war, and he’s the man who took King Fisher into custody.

  According to the Yankee authorities, Fisher, a friend of Wes’s, was the second worst man in Texas.

  We all know who was first.

  What worried Wes most was Governor Hubbard’s appointment of Jack Duncan, the famous detective, to help in the hunt. “Look at that,” Wes said, tossing a newspaper on the table in front of me. “This time they mean business.”

  The front-page headlines said it all.

  JOHN WESLEY HARDIN SCOOTS

  FAMOUS SLEUTH ON HIS TRAIL

  Ordered to Capture—or Kill!

  ‘Hardin will hang,’ vow Texas Rangers

  We were residing in Pollard, Alabama, with the Bowen family, relatives of John Wesley’s wife, but the news about Duncan had Wes on edge. “Damn it, I’ve heard of the man. He’s a bloodhound and once he’s got the scent, he never gives up the trail.”

  Wes had taken to wearing his guns in the house, something he’d never done before, and his eyes had a hollow, hunted look, as though he felt the very walls were closing in on him. He sat at the breakfast table and crumbled a piece of dry toast in his fingers, lost in thought.

  Then his nose wrinkled. “Little Bit, hell, you’re stinking up the place.”

  “My leg is bad, Wes. It’s so rotten it hardly supports me any longer.” I managed a weak smile. “And the brace is rusting.”

  “Seen you walking with a limp recent.” Wes nodded to himself. “I sure enough have.”

  “It has to be amputated,” I said.

  “Pensacola,” Wes said, sitting up straight as he snapped his fingers.

  “Huh?”

  “That’s the place for me.” Wes lifted his eyes to mine. He had cold eyes and I swear they’d gotten colder with every killing.

  “Hell, it’s just across the Alabama border and Chance Rawlins—you know him?”

  “The gambler.”

  “Yeah, him. Chance says Pensacola is a gambling town because of the fortunes being made in cotton and lumber. Hell, I could make a big score there.”

  “Seems like.”

  “If the Florida law gets too close, all I have to do is skip back across the border into Alabama again.”

  “Seems like,” I said again.

  “Then it’s done. I’ll see Jane settled, and head east.”

  “Maybe you’ll win enough to stake the Wild West show.”

  Wes nodded. “Yeah, maybe so. Head for England like I planned.”

  “I’d need to get a wooden leg first. I mean, before I met the queen.”

  “Sure, a wooden leg would do the trick.” Wes grinned at me. “Then them royal folks won’t call you the gimp with the limp, huh?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  My leg was indeed odorous and nobody knew that better than me.

  The Bowens would not allow me to sleep in the house and I was banished to the barn, where I shared my quarters with the horses and mules, the occasional pig, and a nightly horde of mosquitoes.

  I was not then very familiar with women of the respectable sort, though a few had treated me well, as they would a bird with a broken wing or a wounded puppy. Alice Flood, a distant Bowen cousin, fell into that category.

  An orphan, Alice depended on Bowen charity. They provided her with food and board and in exchange, they demanded she act as a skivvy, cleaning out the fireplaces, scrubbing floors, washing clothes with the harsh lye soap that chafed her hands red, and whatever else they needed.

  The Bowens called Alice a housemaid, but it was slavery under a different name.

  I guess it was inevitable that we should be drawn together, two pathetic, miserable creatures who found solace in each other’s company.

  Alice was neither pretty nor smart, neither joyful nor sad. She had no past, no present and no future. She just existed from day to day . . . like me.

  Ah, my self-pity is showing, is it not?

  Alice lifted me out of that pit of despair. As fate would have it, I had her for only a few short years, but those were the best years of my life.

  The evening after Wes made his decision about Pensacola, Alice visited me in the barn as sh
e did every evening. As always, she brought me little treats from the kitchen, usually a piece of cake or some cookies.

  As I recall, it was cookies with shredded coconut in them that evening, though I was fairly drunk and set them aside for breakfast.

  Alice removed the brace and bathed my leg. She frowned. “It’s getting much worse, William.” She refused to call me Little Bit, saying it was a disrespectful name for a man.

  “Not much of it left, is there?”

  “You’re limping terribly.”

  I smiled. “I can still ride a horse.”

  “But not for much longer, I fear.” She had unremarkable brown eyes, brown hair and a brown skin, but I thought her beautiful that night.

  “It has to come off,” I said. “Then I can get a wooden one.”

  “I think modern artificial limbs are made of metal, and some can bend at the knee.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I met Dr. Dinwiddie in town and asked him. He says great strides—”

  “Ha-ha.” I laughed. “Great strides. I like that.”

  Alice smiled. “Anyway, artificial limbs improved very quickly because of the war. So many boys lost arms or legs.”

  “Well, that gives me hope.” Then as romantic as Quentin Durward, I said, “You give me hope, Alice.”

  She took my hand and kissed it. “You and me are fated to be together.”

  A moment later our bodies joined.

  Shall I draw you a word picture of two singularly unattractive people making love on straw in a barn among farm animals to the music of yipping coyotes?

  I think not.

  But after it was over and I lay back exhausted, Alice seemed troubled.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “For what?”

  “I disappointed you.”

  Alice smiled. “You didn’t disappoint me, William. Nothing about you disappoints me.”

  A silence stretched between us, then she said, “About your friend, John Wesley.”

  “What about him?”

  “He talks too much and too loudly.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “In front of Brown Bowen.”

  I felt a stab of alarm. Bowen was Jane’s brother, a truly vile creature without a trace of loyalty or manhood. He was a rapist, murderer, and robber.

  Ultimately, he dangled from a noose. When he was cut down, no one shed a tear for him or claimed his carcass.

  “Do you think Brown might betray Wes?” I asked.

  “He’s betrayed everyone else.” Alice smiled and picked a piece of straw out of my hair. “Maybe I worry unnecessarily.”

  “You like Wes, don’t you?”

  “He’s a fine man and a true patriot.”

  “He’s both of those things, and much more,” I said.

  “Will you talk to him? About Brown Bowen, I mean?”

  “Yes I will. First thing in the morning.” I took Alice in my arms. “But in the meantime . . .”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  The Mighty Are Fallen

  John Wesley would not hear a bad word about Brown Bowen. “He’s kin. And in Texas, kin don’t betray each other.”

  “Wes, he’s vermin and the only reason you put up with him is because he’s your brother-in-law,” I said.

  Wes’s temper was always an uncertain thing, and it flared. “And you? What about you? Why the hell do I put up with you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Neither do I. All you’re good for is stinking up the place and sticking it to that Flood gal whose face would scare a cur off a gut wagon.”

  “Wes, don’t say things like that about Alice,” I said, my own anger rising.

  “Then take back what you said about Brown. I won’t have the likes of you ragging on my kinfolk.”

  I shook my head. “Wes, he’s a yellow-belly and sly as a fox. He’ll sell you down the river to save his own worthless neck.”

  “The hell with you, Little Bit.” Wes’s lip curled. “Go back to your two-dollar whore.”

  I hit him then.

  I mean, I hit him on the chin with all the power of my eighty pounds and little bony fist.

  Wes wore his guns and he’d killed men for less. But for a moment he looked shocked, and then mildly amused, the red welt on his chin no bigger than a mosquito bite.

  “Don’t ever talk about Alice like that again.” I was breathing hard, angry as hell, and more than a little scared.

  To my surprise—and considerable relief—Wes didn’t utter another word. He just turned on his heel and walked away.

  He never again mentioned Alice’s name in my presence, even when we got married while he was in jail.

  He could have killed me that day, but didn’t.

  That says something about him that’s all to the good, doesn’t it?

  For the next few days, the relationship between Wes and me was frosty and we exchanged few words.

  But he made no objection when I asked if I could join him on his gambling trip to Pensacola, saying only, “You’re on your own, so just don’t ask me for money.”

  Later, I branded the date of our trip into my memory. August 24, 1877.

  The day that John Wesley Hardin’s long martyrdom began.

  In addition to myself, Wes travelled with fellow gamblers Shep Hardy, Neal Campbell, and Jim Mann, a nice young fellow who’d just celebrated his twenty-first birthday. Notably absent was Brown Bowen who was supposed to make the journey with us.

  When the train pulled into the Pensacola depot, Wes decided to linger in the smoking car to finish his pipe and sprawled on a seat alongside the aisle. Mann and I stayed with him, while Hardy and Campbell got off to stretch their legs.

  We’d shared a bottle on the trip from Alabama and I was tipsy. I’d say Wes was relaxed and young Mann, who wasn’t a drinker, coughed around the black cheroot between his teeth.

  No sooner had the locomotive clanked and steamed to a halt, than a man who walked with a limp sat in the aisle seat opposite Wes.

  I later learned this was the famous John B. Armstrong, who’d accidentally shot himself in the crotch a few weeks earlier. Unfortunately, he’d missed his balls.

  Something about the man made me uneasy, especially when he moved in his seat and I saw the handle of a Colt sticking out of his waistband.

  A few moments later, two big, muscular men barged down the aisle, throwing off drunks and laggards, and I knew that the law was about to open the ball.

  “Wes! Look out!” I yelled.

  John Wesley moved with the reaction of a panther. “Texas, by God!” he yelled as he rose halfway out of his seat.

  You’re too late, Wes!

  The pair of lawmen jumped on top of him, even as Wes tried to draw his Colt from his waistband. But the hammer stuck in his suspenders and one of the lawmen wrenched it from his hand.

  Then it became a free for all.

  Wes punched and bit, but the big lawmen pounded him into his seat. His face was soon covered with blood and saliva.

  Armstrong sprang to his feet, a long-barreled Colt in his hand.

  Young Jim Mann didn’t recognize Wes’s assailants as lawmen. “Assassins!” he yelled, drawing his gun.

  Armstrong fired and Mann slammed back into his seat, his chest pumping blood from a dead-center bullet wound. He died within seconds.

  I rushed at Armstrong, my puny fists flying, but he pushed me away and I fell on my back on the carriage floor.

  The Ranger ignored me and joined his fellow lawmen. He didn’t take part in the struggle, but waited his opportunity with his clubbed pistol raised.

  He didn’t have to tarry long.

  As soon as he got a clear shot at Wes, he crashed the barrel of his Colt into Wes’s skull.

  Wes didn’t cry out. He just went limp. Within seconds, they shackled him hand and foot. His hair was matted with blood, his face a vivid, scarlet mask. His head lolled on his shoulders when they dragged him to his feet, no fight left in him.


  My God, my knight had fallen!

  Enraged, I scrambled to a standing position and was greeted by the muzzle of Armstrong’s revolver ramming into my forehead.

  “Call it.” The Ranger thumbed back the hammer of the Colt and its triple click sounded like my death knell.

  “Call it.” he said again. His eyes were bloodshot and wild. Flecks of saliva foamed on his lips.

  I am not cut from heroic cloth. “I’m out of it.”

  “Then get the hell away of here,” Armstrong said.

  After one last glimpse at the unconscious John Wesley, blinded by salt tears, I stampeded from the car.

  Behind me I heard Armstrong yell, “And take a bath!”

  Men laughed as I stumbled onto the platform and into . . . I knew not what.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  “He’ll Dance at Our Wedding”

  That evening I got drunk on somebody else’s money. I had to since I had no funds of my own. I rolled a drunk in an alley. I’m not proud of what I did, but desperate times required desperate measures.

  The man was taking a piss against the wall of the Penitent Pelican saloon and I crept up behind him and hit him over the head with a bottle. After he dropped, I went through his pockets and found twenty-three dollars, a nickel railroad watch, and a small Roman Catholic medal with an image of the Virgin Mary that, never being inclined to popery, I stuffed back into his vest.

  The man started to groan and attempted to rise, and I scampered.

  I bought a bottle of Old Crow, and, since the stores were still open, a necklace for Alice—a small, enameled bluebird on a silver chain.

  I thought the necklace was pretty, but before I could give it to my sweetheart, I lost it.

  I drank myself into oblivion and spent the night on a park bench. No one troubled me because in those days Pensacola was full of homeless vagrants like me.

  Come first light, I breakfasted on the last inch of whiskey in the bottle, then went in search of Wes.