Then I witnessed the start of John Wesley’s terrible downfall.
The bartender, a massive brute with a bullet head and hairy forearms the size of rum kegs, stepped from behind the bar, strode up to Wes, and wrenched his revolver from him so roughly I heard Wes’s trigger finger break.
Yes, it was that swift and that easy.
The brute tossed the gun to me. “Get him the hell out of here before he gets hurt.”
Twenty years before, the bartender would have been dead on the floor and Wes would have ordered a round of rum punches for the house. Now, he clutched his broken finger to his chest and meekly allowed me to guide him into the pale blue light of the gas-lit street.
I had discovered two truths that night. The first was that my knight in shining armor was no more. The second was that I was finally free of him.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
This Was Once a Man
I returned to Austin and resumed my writing career. I’d always been an admirer of Poe, and in later years I kept up a lively correspondence with Bram Stoker of Dracula fame. With Frank Starr’s blessing I wrote my first horror novel in June 1895.
I’m sure you’ve read the work. The Phantom of Yellow Fork, A tale of Western terror. If you haven’t, I believe it’s still available . . . after thirteen printings.
In July I got a letter from John Wesley. He stated that he’d hung his shingle in El Paso and was walking out with a married lady and sometimes prostitute named Beulah M’Rose.
Two weeks later, I received a second missive. Wes said that his lady’s husband, Martin M’Rose, had just been murdered under mysterious circumstances and that he was the prime suspect. He wrote:
But I didn’t shoot the dirty dog. Though God knows he deserved killing. By holding true to my Christian faith and by dint of much prayer, I know I will triumph in the end.
Then a postscript that deeply troubled me:
Little Bit, send me $5. I am in dire financial straits right now.
There is no witness so dreadful, no accuser so terrible, as the conscience that dwells in the heart of every man. I had abandoned John Wesley to his fate and turned my back on him when he needed me most. Our years of friendship were gone for nothing.
I could not live with that.
Whatever slender claim to manhood I possessed would be forever crushed under the jackboot of treachery and I would never be the same again.
This I knew, even as I lied to myself that a trip to El Paso would be an excellent opportunity to do some research for my next book. Almost without thinking about it, I found myself hurriedly throwing my things into a valise, including the Colt revolver that the London bartender had taken from Wes.
Why I packed the weapon I’ll never know. Its blue, oily sheen and cold black eye told me nothing.
But I did, and there’s an end . . . and a beginning . . . to it.
I arrived in El Paso on the morning of August 19, 1895. It was a hot, dusty town surrounded by the Chihuahuan Desert with a distant view of purple mountains against a sky that stayed blue almost the entire year. The place was booming. Ten thousand people crowded its streets.
During my short walk from the train station to my hotel, I rubbed shoulders with priests and prostitutes, gamblers and gunmen, businessmen and beggars, and more Mexicans than I’d ever seen in one place in my life.
The throngs made the town noisy. Rumbling drays and spindly carriages vied for road space. Their drivers cursed each other and street vendors hawked their wares in loud, raucous roars from the boardwalks.
The town smelled of dust, beer, smoke, Mexican spices, and sweaty people.
But, by God, it had snap.
After I checked into my room, I came back downstairs and asked the desk clerk to direct me to the law office of Mr. J.W. Hardin.
The man looked at me as if I was an insane person. “What law office? Hardin hasn’t set foot in the place for months.”
“Then where can I find him?”
The clerk smiled. “Mister, there are a dozen saloons in El Paso and the same number across the border in Juarez. He could be in any one of them.”
“This early?” I said, more from shock than curiosity.
“Hell, man. He’s the town drunk. Where else would he be this early?” The voice came from my right side.
I turned and saw a stocky man of medium height with hard gray eyes glaring at me. He wore a holstered revolver, supported himself on a cane, and had a lawman’s shield pinned to the front of his vest. “You a friend of his? Kin of his maybe?”
“I’m John Wesley’s friend,” I said.
The man nodded. “When you find him, give him a message from me. Tell him the only curly wolf in El Paso is me. Nobody else. You got that?”
I felt a spike of anger. “And who are you?”
“Constable John Selman. Your friend Hardin has been messing with me and mine for too long.”
I said nothing.
Selman said, “Watched you walk here. You some kind of gimp or something?”
“Or something,” I said.
“Don’t forget what I told you.” Selman limped to the door, then turned to me and said, “If Hardin doesn’t leave El Paso, I’ll kill him.”
After Selman left, the clerk gave me a worried look. “If Hardin is your friend, I’d get him out of El Paso. Selman is a hardcase and he’s put more in the grave than I can count on one hand.”
“He’d like to be known as the man who killed John Wesley Hardin. That’s what I think.”
“Mister, you need to catch up with the times. Hardin might have been somebody once, but that was a long while back. Now he’s a drunk and a laughingstock. To prove how good he is with a gun, he shoots holes in playing cards at five paces and sells them to folks for whiskey money. He misses a lot more than he hits.” The clerk shook his head. “Get him out of El Paso or take the next train to anywhere yourself.”
“I’ll find him.” I stepped toward the door.
The clerk said to my back, “Try the Wigwam first. He’s usually there this early. And another thing—”
“You sure are a talking man,” I said.
“Maybe so, but listen to this—Selman has you marked. If I was you, I’d be looking over my shoulder”—he spun the register and glanced at the last entry—“Mr. Bates.”
As the desk clerk had predicted, Wes was at the Wigwam saloon. He wasn’t mean drunk, or silly drunk . . . just drunk.
Unnoticed, I stood inside the doorway and studied him for a few moments.
He sat at a table with his back to the wall. His face was red-veined and bloated and he looked every day of his hard, forty-two years. I’d seen his like many times before, men who were used up, had a past, but no present and less future.
All that’s left for men like that is to die with as little fuss, bother, and inconvenience as possible.
When Wes looked up and saw me step toward him, his hand dropped from inside his coat. “Little Bit, you again. You keep showing up like a bad penny.”
“Just passing through, Wes. I thought I’d stop and see my old friend.”
“I don’t have any friends, old or new,” Wes said.
“That’s a hell of a thing to say to me, Wes.”
He motioned to a chair. “Sit down.”
After I did, Wes said, “I didn’t mean that. I guess I’ve got old friends, just no new ones.” His voice dropped. “A lot of men want to kill me.”
“You’re square with the law. Those killing days are over.”
“Maybe. But wouldn’t you like to be the man who killed John Wesley Hardin?”
I shook my head. “No, I wouldn’t like that one bit.”
“Well, there are them who’d revel in it.”
“Are you talking about John Selman?”
Wes stiffened. “You heard about him?”
“He talked to me at the hotel. He said you’ve got to leave El Paso.”
Wes rubbed a trembling hand across his mouth. “I’m scared, Little Bit. I’m
real scared.”
His words hit me like a shotgun blast to the belly. “No! John Wesley, you’re afraid of no man.”
“I’m afraid of John Selman. I think he can shade me.” Wes grabbed my hand. “Little Bit, I want out of this town. Take me with you.”
“Sure, Wes, you can come with me. But you’ll have to leave the bottle behind.”
“I will, Little Bit. We’ll leave tomorrow.”
“No, Wes. We’ll leave on the next train out of El Paso.”
That should have ended it, but it seemed there was no end to Wes’s humiliation. He called for more whiskey.
Instead the bartender brought a ledger bound with black leather. “Hardin, I’m getting mighty sick and tired of this.” He pointed a thick finger to an underlined entry. “Pay the thirty-eight dollars and ten cents bar bill you owe or you’ll get no more whiskey in this house.”
“Damn you, Matt,” Wes said. “I’m part owner of this establishment.”
“The hell you are. You drank away your share a long time ago.”
A second man stepped up to the table. He looked big enough and mean enough to be a bouncer. “Got some trouble here, Matt?” He rested a huge, clenched fist on the table in front of Wes.
It was an aggressive play, but Wes didn’t seem to recognize it as such.
“No trouble. I’ll pay Mr. Hardin’s bill,” I said.
The bartender had huge side-whiskers that curled around his cheeks like billy goat horns. I was dressed well, looked prosperous, but it seemed that being in the presence of John Wesley did not engender trust.
“Show me your shilling, mister,” the bartender said.
I reached into my coat for my wallet and gave him two twenty-dollar bills. “Now, coffee for two.”
“The hell with that,” Wes said. “Bring me whiskey. We’re in the money!”
CHAPTER SIXTY
Four Sixes to Beat
I returned to my hotel room sick at heart. The man I’d known and adored as John Wesley Hardin was gone forever, in his place a scared, drunken imposter.
And only I could help him.
El Paso was a rickety skip in the middle of a vast, desert sea. By late afternoon, a strong east wind drove sand along the street outside and drove people to the boardwalks where the sting was less severe.
As he had for most of the day, John Selman was at his post under the awning of the New York Hat Shop, his eyes fixed on the window of my room.
Well, I thought, let him stand there all he wants. In a few hours, Wes will be clear of this burg forever.
We’d agreed to meet that evening at the Southern Pacific Railroad Station to board a sleeper train leaving at seven-thirty for San Antonio with a connection to Austin. In the meantime, I sat in an easy chair, a box of good cigars and a bottle of brandy at my elbow, rising occasionally to check on Selman.
Despite the windblown sand, he stood at his post like a good soldier, ever watchful.
That puzzled me. Why this interest in me? Did he suspect something and didn’t want Wes to escape his clutches?
Only time would answer that question.
I rose and retrieved the Colt revolver from my valise.
During all my western adventures I’d never carried a gun, never fired at another human being. That was about to change. I prayed for one good shot, just one straight aim . . . one unerring bullet.
Yes, I said I prayed, but not to God. I prayed to the devil.
I arrived at the station fifteen minutes before the appointed time.
The train arrived twenty minutes late. I watched it pull in, load up with passengers, and depart. I did not see John Wesley.
A Southern Pacific slumber car was to be the start of my redemption plan for Wes, but it had failed. I knew there could be no other unless I made it happen.
I returned to my room, dropped off my bag, and shoved the Colt into my waistband as I’d so often seen Wes do.
Though the town lights were lit and the wind had grown stronger, John Selman had returned to his post on the boardwalk. I suspected that he’d followed me to the station and back.
That was all to the good. He was where I wanted him.
I walked . . . I should say hobbled, since my stump was paining me . . . down the stairs. The same desk clerk was on duty.
He saw me and smiled slightly. “The Acme. This time of night.” He told me where the saloon was.
“Do you have a back entrance?”
“Of course,” the clerk said. “Just turn right and follow the hallway. Good luck, Mr. Bates.”
Surprised, I looked at the clerk, but he’d turned his back to me and I couldn’t see his face.
The back entrance took me out onto Overland Street. Despite the driving sand, it was busy with people and wheeled traffic.
My head bent against the wind. Constantly checking the position of the revolver, I turned left and walked along a street lined on both sides with boarding houses and commercial buildings. I can’t remember its name.
Then I turned right onto San Antonio Street. The desk clerk had told me the Alamo would be on my left, opposite the Clifford Brothers grocery store.
I hadn’t caught a glimpse of Selman, but I was sure if he intended to follow me he’d have picked up my trail by now. My legs dragged as I drew closer to the Alamo and faced the harsh reality of what I planned.
People passed, heads bowed, without sparing me a glance.
A windblown leaf hit my face, then fluttered away, and I found myself listening to the thump-thump-thump of my artificial leg on the walk, like a bass drum at a funeral.
The Alamo was lit by electric lights and glowed in the darkness. I walked closer and heard the voices of men inside the saloon. I was sure I recognized John Wesley’s drunken laugh.
Despite the wind, the night was warm. The door of the saloon was ajar. I heard footsteps behind me and looked around, but they’d suddenly stopped and I saw nothing.
I pulled the Colt and stepped closer to the door. My heart thumped in my chest and my mouth was dry, the brandy I’d drunk sour in my stomach.
I stopped at the door and looked inside. Wes stood at the bar, his back to me, playing dice with a man I didn’t know.
I swallowed hard. Dear God, was I doing the right thing?
Then the thought, like a whisper in my ear. Take the shot, Little Bit. It’s an act of mercy, the first and only noble thing you’ve ever done for your friend.
I pushed the Colt through the doorway and took aim.
“Brown, you’ve got four sixes to beat,” Wes said.
I pulled the trigger.
Before you ask, yes, I saw the bullet hit.
I saw it crash into the back of Wes’s head, saw the sudden eruption of blood and skull—and then John Selman was on me like a rabid wolf.
He shoved me aside and I fell on my back in a heap.
Selman rushed inside and I heard two shots, then a yell of triumph. “I killed him, by God,” he shrieked. “I’m the man who killed John Wesley Hardin.”
You know, after that yell, I heard a few scattered cheers.
I didn’t wait to hear more.
Sick to my stomach, I got to my feet and lurched into the night. My long torment of grief and guilt had begun.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Afterward
John Selman, his hand on his gun, saw me off at the train station.
I remember his words to me plainly. “I knew you would kill him the first time I ever saw you. You had to do it, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I had to do it. Once, John Wesley was a great man and my friend. I could not let him suffer any longer.”
“Well, you keep your damn trap shut about what really happened, understand?” Selman said.
“I will never boast of it.”
“See you don’t, or I’ll come looking for you.” Selman’s eyes were ugly.
“No you won’t, Mr. Selman.” I smiled at him. “You are the man who killed John Wesley Hardin, remember? You will be killed very soon
.”
And he was.
Without John Wesley, the end of my story is of no importance.
I resumed my writing career, but was stricken with a virulent blood cancer and given months to live.
Fearing to die alone and unmourned, in the spring of 1914 I bestowed my fortune on the Sisters of Charity on the condition that I be allowed to spend my last days in one of their hospices.
The good sisters readily agreed, and now, as it snows outside, my last hours are at hand and the sisters stand around my bed.
Putting pen to paper is very difficult for me, but I am at peace with God. I know he’s forgiven my most grievous sin.
I know Wes has forgiven me and will meet me at the gates of Paradise.
Oh wondrous sight!
Golden revolvers will be strapped to his chest and he’ll hold the reins of two milk-white horses. And he’ll be as he was in his shining youth.
He’ll grin at me as he did so often of old and say, “Mount up, Little Bit. We’ve got riding to do.”
I’ll run to him then, wearing my old army greatcoat and bowler hat, but on two sturdy legs.
And we’ll
William Bates died before he could quite finish this account of the famous outlaw John Wesley Hardin. Mr. Bates had converted to Catholicism before his death and was fortified by the Last Rites of Holy Mother Church. He asked that this narrative not be published until a hundred years after his death. We will honor his wishes.
—Sister Mary Frances Walters.
Written this day, November 8, 1914.
J. A. Johnstone on William W. Johnstone “When the Truth Becomes Legend”
William W. Johnstone was born in southern Missouri, the youngest of four children. He was raised with strong moral and family values by his minister father, and tutored by his schoolteacher mother. Despite this, he quit school at age fifteen.
Forty Times a Killer Page 24
