The Pistoleer: A Novel of John Wesley Hardin

by James Carlos Blake

  Helm had spotted Jim as soon as he and his men rode in—and he got the drop on him before Jim even looked over and recognized him. He’d dismounted and started walking toward him with his pistol aimed right in his face, cussing him as he came. He never knew Jim wasn’t alone until Wes stepped out of the shadows of the blacksmith shop and blew his belly wide open. To this day, every time I hear a cat screech I see Jack Helm lying dead with his guts in the dirt.

  We galloped out of there trailing the Sutton horses on a rope, and a few hours later we sold them to a dealer in Smiley. That night we spent every nickel from the horse sale on whiskey in a Gonzales saloon. “Drinks are on the Sutton Party!” Wes announced with a loud laugh. The news had spread fast, and men kept coming to our table all evening to congratulate us for killing Jack Helm. I heard that for months afterward Wes received letters of gratitude from people who’d hated Helm. Many of the letters were from women Jack Helm had made widows.

  And still the feud went on—until finally Wes and Jim met with Joe Tomlinson and his lieutenants and everybody at last agreed to the terms of a peace treaty. They had it drawn up in a law office in Clinton, the seat of DeWitt County, and everybody signed it, including Bill Sutton, who had it brought to his guarded home by a lawyer who witnessed his signature. He knew better than to show himself to Jim Taylor, who had signed the treaty with the stipulation that it did not apply to him and Bill Sutton. The treaty group agreed that henceforth the feud was a matter strictly between the two of them.

  And so, with the State Police a thing of the past, and with the feud settled by treaty, life in the Sandies turned fairly peaceful for the first time in a long time. Sutton rarely showed himself anymore, conducting most of his cattle business from the safety of his home. Jim Taylor was eager as ever to kill him, but he’d pledged his word to keep the fight between the two of them and he meant it.

  We turned our attention back to the cattle business and helped Manning finish rounding up a herd for Kansas, and then we helped Wes put a herd together for movement to the Cuero rail yard. All in all, it was a sweet and peaceful summer, and the peace carried over into the fall. When we weren’t working, we were racing horses and gambling and dancing down the barn roofs. Jim Taylor kept his ear cocked for news of Sutton, but Old Bill wasn’t relaxing his guard in the slightest, and the stalemate between them stretched out for month after month.

  Shortly after the New Year, Wes took his wife and baby to visit Comanche, where his daddy and momma had gone to live near his brother Joe, who’d been practicing law there for a few years. I recall how truly excited Wes was about that family reunion. When he bid me and George good-bye, he looked as happy as I’d ever seen him.

  A few weeks later George and I received notification of our father’s death in Houston. He’d been a college-educated man, a district manager for the railroad, and his will provided George and me with two thousand dollars each. And just that simply, my life changed forever. By the time Wes got back from visiting his family in Comanche, I was on my way to enroll in college in Houston. Eventually, I became an attorney-at-law and today I have a thriving practice in Galveston. George had planned to use his inheritance to buy a small ranch, but he never did. Just a few months after I left the Sandies, he was murdered by Sutton Regulators.

  Comanche was a small community less than twenty years old on the edge of the West Texas frontier. The town square was built around a stone courthouse and shaded with live oaks. The nearest rail tracks were a hundred miles away. The roads were difficult. Except for an occasional cattle crew passing by, the place had few visitors.

  I’d spent the previous six years reporting and editing for a San Antonio newspaper, but a whiskey habit as relentless as a bulldog finally got me fired. I was also in pressing financial circumstances at the time—and under the dark shadow of an ugly legal suit for breach of matrimonial promise to a young lady who’d proved to be neither as young as she’d led me to believe nor as much of a lady as I had presumed. Thus, when the editorship of the Chief, Comanche’s weekly newspaper, was offered to me by its devil-may-care publisher one besotted evening in a Castroville cantina, I accepted the position on the spot and accompanied him to Comanche the following morning without even a rearward glance at San Antone. And that is how I came to be there when John Wesley Hardin made his fateful trip to Comanche in the spring of 1874.

  By that time his brother Joe had been a resident of the town for three years. His first child—Dora Dean Belle Hardin—had been born there, and his second, Joe Hardin, Jr., was soon to be. He practiced law and sold real estate, served as the town postmaster, belonged to the Masons, and was a member of the Friends of Temperance. But although he was generally popular and admired, he did not lack for a strong core of critics. It was rumored that he was in league with corrupt agents of the state land office in Austin who were getting rich from the sale of worthless titles to unclaimed Texas land grants. Further, a stockman in neighboring Brown County had recently claimed he’d been defrauded by Joe Hardin in a cattle deal. Joe simply ignored all such mean talk and carried on in his usual gregarious fashion.

  The Reverend and Mrs. Hardin and all the rest of their brood now lived in Comanche, as well. So too did John Wesley’s Anderson and Dixon cousins.

  Wesley had first visited Comanche in January, and Sheriff John Carnes had been apprehensive about it. But when Joe introduced him to his famous brother on the gallery of Jack Wright’s saloon, Sheriff John was much relieved to find that he was a personable young man who wished only to enjoy a short stay with his family before returning to his cattle business in Gonzales. For his part, Sheriff John assured him that state warrants were of no consequence in Comanche, which preferred to tend to its own legal business and let the rest of the counties tend to theirs. Wesley said that was an enlightened judicial attitude if ever he heard one and offered to buy Sheriff John a drink. I bellied up next to them at the bar and Sheriff John introduced me. Wesley gave me a sharp look. He said he’d been the victim of many a false newspaper story and had come to distrust all pen pushers. I said I didn’t blame him a bit. “I don’t trust a damn one of them myself,” I told him, which was the truth. That got a laugh out of him and he stood me to a drink. Thus did we become acquaintances.

  His wife Jane and daughter Molly came with him on that first visit. So did a cousin named Gip Clements and a rough-hewn little man named Dr. Brosius, who had recently hired on as his cattle crew foreman. Toward the end of January they all returned to the Sandies, and a few weeks later Joe went to visit him.

  Before we saw either of them again, we got the news that Jim and Billy Taylor had murdered Bill Sutton in broad daylight at the Indianola docks. Billy Taylor had been arrested shortly thereafter and was locked up in the Galveston jail. Jim Taylor was said to be hiding out at John Wesley’s cow camp in the Sandies. Rumor had it that both Joe and Wesley had been involved in the killing, although not directly. Supposedly, the Taylors had learned of Bill Sutton’s intention to take a steamer to New Orleans, but their informant had not known the exact date of his departure, and so Wesley had prevailed upon Joe—the only one among them not known to Bill Sutton—to go to Indianola to try to get that information. Joe, the rumor had it, was successful. He sent this information to Wesley, who relayed it to the Taylors, who boarded Sutton’s steamer as it was about to leave the dock and shot him two dozen times in front of a terrified crowd.

  It was nothing new to hear such tales about Wesley Hardin, the notorious mankiller and ally of the Taylors. But Joe? The attorney-at-law and upstanding citizen? The Mason? The Friend of Temperance? The postmaster? Who could believe such a thing about him? The few who did were the same people who already thought him guilty of land swindles and cattle fraud. Most Comanche citizens scorned the idea that he’d had anything to do with Sutton’s assassination. Joe might be a bit of a legal hornswoggler, they said, but he wasn’t one to take part in a murder plot.

  When Joe returned from the Sandies, he brought Jane and Molly back with him. Over
coffee and honey biscuits in the Coop Cafe, he informed me that Wesley had already dispatched one herd north in charge of his cousin Joe Clements, and was busy rounding up another. While the crew finished with the branding, Wesley would come to Comanche for another visit, and then, when Doc Brosius brought the herd up to Hamilton, a little town southeast of us, Wesley would join the crew for the drive to Wichita. Jane and Molly would live at Preacher Hardin’s while Wesley was away.

  And so in April Wesley showed up—accompanied by Jim Taylor, who had a five-hundred-dollar price on his head for killing Bill Sutton. It was unlikely anyone in Comanche would try to collect the reward. These were not men to let down their guard. Even in the midst of drunken frolic, they were ever vigilant for danger. Moreover, the entire “Hardin Gang”—as Wesley and his usual entourage of Taylor, the Andersons, and the Dixons had come to be known—would certainly retaliate on the instant if any among them were attacked. Yet I never once saw them bully anyone or present a deliberately menacing aspect. To the contrary, they took special care not to antagonize the townfolk and were generous about buying a round for the house wherever they went. They were popular with the town’s saloon crowd, and they had a friend in Sheriff John, and it certainly behooved them to keep it that way. Wes bought a beautiful racehorse named Rondo from a local breeder and kept busy overseeing the animal’s training.

  They hadn’t been in town long, however, before we heard dark rumors that Charles Webb, a Brown County deputy sheriff, was calling John Carnes a coward for his refusal to arrest Wes Hardin and Jim Taylor. He was threatening to come to Comanche and serve state warrants on them himself. I was present in Jack Wright’s saloon when Jim Anderson relayed the rumor to John Wesley and Jim Taylor at the bar. They both laughed. Taylor loudly proclaimed that if Charlie Webb came for them, the only thing he’d succeed in arresting would be his own life.

  Toward the end of May, the Hardin brothers began promoting a set of horse races to be held on the twenty-sixth, which would also be Wesley’s twenty-first birthday. Joe drew up a racing flier, had hundreds of copies printed, and hired a dozen men and boys to distribute them throughout Comanche and all the neighboring counties. He also turned a handsome profit on the advertisements placed in the fliers by a goodly number of local businesses. By then, the latest rumor out of Brown County was that Charlie Webb had arrested an entire cattle crew at Turkey Creek and pistol-whipped its ramrod, who he had insisted was none other than Wesley Hardin. When he was told the tale in the Wright saloon, Wesley spat ferociously. “You really believe he thought that fella was me?” he said. “I tell you, for somebody I ain’t never laid eyes on, that sonbitch is starting to chafe me raw.”

  On the day of the races the entire county turned out, as well as a good many visitors from the neighboring regions. The town square was clamorous with people and horses and dogs. The streets were crowded with wagons, and from the moment they opened their doors that morning the saloons did a floodtide business. A huge red banner announcing “Races—May 26” had been stretched across the courthouse façade for several days, and Carl Summers’s string band was strumming and fiddling on a low platform in the courthouse yard. At ten o’clock all the contestants paraded their racers around the square to permit the spectators a close look at them. The betting was loud and furious and kept up as everybody headed out to the track about a mile northeast of town.

  Three races had been matched, and the Hardin Gang was represented in each one. Joe’s beautiful chestnut mare, Shiloh, was entered in the first race, Wesley’s Rondo was in the second, and Bud Dixon’s handsome buckskin Dock was running in the third. An air of festivity pervaded the Hardin entourage. Not only was it John Wesley’s birthday, but the whole family was still celebrating the birth of Joe Hardin, Jr., who’d entered the world a few days earlier.

  Spectators were lined six deep along the track from starting line to finish. Their exuberant yowling could probably be heard all the way over in Brown County. Shiloh and Rondo won their matches easily, but Bud Dixon’s Dock was severely tried by a speedy black from Eastland County. It was a thrilling race all the way to the finish line, but Dock crossed first by a neck. The Hardin brothers won small fortunes in cash bets, and received further winnings in the form of property. Wesley had made the most and the biggest bets, and he reaped more than three thousand dollars in specie and paper money—as well as a buckboard, a new Winchester carbine, and eight saddle horses. The entire Hardin party was jubilant, and we all rode back to town whooping like Indians.

  The celebration in Jack Wright’s saloon was a boisterous and thoroughly sodden affair. The place was awash in whiskey. Preacher Hardin stopped in and seemed appalled by the proceedings. He took Joe aside and spoke to him in serious aspect. Joe stared down at his feet and nodded, and a moment later they left together.

  Carl Summers and his band had been coaxed into the saloon with an offer of free drinks in exchange for a steady flow of music. Wesley bought round after round for the house. He was unrestrained in his celebration. At one point he drew his pistol and shot the glass eye out of a deer head mounted on the rear wall of the saloon. Jack Wright remonstrated with him about the damage to his trophy, and was placated with a shiny double eagle. Jim Taylor suggested to Wesley that he should perhaps slow down his drinking. “If there’s a scrap,” he said, “you don’t want to be shit-brained.” Wesley waved off his concern and ordered another round for the house.

  Sometime later Deputy Frank Wilson shouldered his way up next to Wesley at the bar and shouted through the din that Sheriff John wanted a word with him. Wesley hollered, “Sure!” but insisted that Frank have a drink first, which he did, and then they went outside. I followed along with Jim Taylor and Bud Dixon.

  The square had cleared considerably. A few wagons were still in the street, with tight-lipped women and tired-looking children waiting for the man of the family to finish up his celebrating and take them home. A small group of men—none of whom I recognized—stood in the street flanking the building. Wesley spotted them instantly and stopped short, his demeanor suddenly and remarkably alert. At the bottom of the steps, Frank finally caught sight of them too.

  “Brown County?” Wesley asked. Wilson nodded grimly. “Listen, Wes,” he said in a low voice, “Sheriff John thinks you ought maybe head on home—you know, before things get out of hand. You know John’s your friend, Wes. He’d appreciate the favor.”

  Wesley cast another look at the Brown County party in the side street. They wore dark expressions, and I caught sight of guns under coat flaps. “Sure, Frank,” Wesley said. “I’ll just fetch a cigar and be on my way.” Then Bud Dixon said, “Here’s that damn Brown County deputy.”

  Charles Webb was strolling our way down the street as casually as if he were on his way to supper. He had both hands behind his back and his open coat revealed a pair of six-shooters on his hips. Jim Taylor whispered, “Now ain’t that a sight!” Wesley fixed his gaze on him as intently as a hawk. As he came abreast of the saloon, Webb gave us an indifferent glance, then nodded a greeting to Frank Wilson as he passed him by.

  “Say, you there!” Wesley called out.

  Webb paused and looked up at him. “Are you talking to me?” His manner was self-possessed but without hostility. He was not young, yet looked hardy and capable, and his eyes were black and quick.

  “Is your name Charles Webb?” Wesley asked.

  Webb stepped nearer the gallery and scrutinized him closely. He stroked his mustaches with his left hand but still kept his right behind him. “I don’t know you,” he said.

  “My name is John Wesley Hardin. I am told you have made threat on my life.”

  “Say now, men—” Frank Wilson began, but Webb cut him off, saying, “I’ve heard of you. But I have never made threat on your life. You’ve been listening to the talk of idle fools, Mr. Hardin.”

  “What’s that behind your back?” Wesley asked. His own right hand was inside his vest. I heard my blood humming in my skull and set myself to leap out of the li
ne of fire. Jim Taylor and Bud Dixon eased away from either side of Wesley, and the men in the side street seemed to contract toward the corner of the building.

  Webb grinned and slowly brought his hand around and displayed the unlit cigar in it. I felt my breath release and heard Bud Dixon’s low chuckle. Wesley lowered his hand and said, “Well, Deputy, I reckon we got no matter between us.”

  Charles Webb shook his head, still smiling, and said, “Never did, son.”

  “I was about to take a drink before heading home,” Wesley said. “Can I stand you to one?”

  “My pleasure,” Webb said.

  Wesley turned to go inside and Webb went for his gun. Someone yelled “Wes!” and I was jostled hard and fell back against the wall as Wesley lunged sideways at the same instant Webb fired. I heard a woman scream and Wes grunted and there was a simultaneous discharge of firearms and a bullet thunked into the wall inches from my head. Webb fell to one knee and his face was smeared red above one mustache and Wes and Jim and Bud all shot him again at the same time and he pitched over on his back. Then Jim Taylor and Bud Dixon ran down and stood over him and emptied their pistols into him.

  Frank Wilson stood rooted with his hands up. “Not me, boys!” he pleaded. “Not me!” The square had cleared completely. Jim Taylor grabbed up Webb’s pistols, tossed one to Bud Dixon, and they both hopped back up on the gallery. Wesley was stuffing a bandanna against the wound he’d taken in the side from Webb’s first shot. Some of the men in the side street peeked around the corner of the building, guns in hand, and more men were coming fast from the other end of the street. “It’s all Brown County!” Bud said.