Chief Milton heard one side of the story from Hardin, then the other from Buck, then said to Hardin, “If you can prove they were cheating you, I’ll do something about it—but if you can’t, then you’re in the wrong, and you know you are. Now you told me yourself when you first got to town you didn’t want any trouble. I’m holding you to your word.”
Hardin said he knew he’d been cheated but couldn’t prove it. “Then I’ll have to arrest you for robbery, Wes,” Chief Milton told him.
“I’ll have that pistol,” Old John said, and started to reach for the pistol on Hardin’s hip. But Hardin stepped back from him and squared off. “No you won’t,” he said. “Jeff can arrest me, but you can’t arrest one side of me, you murdering old buzzard. I know all about you.”
Mack said Old John’s eyes flamed up and for a moment it looked like he might pull—but he didn’t. “If Old John was ever going to pull on Wes Hardin in a stand-up gunfight, that was the time he’d of done it,” Mack said. “The man had just called him a murderer, for Christ’s sake. But Old John didn’t get old by. taking chances in a stand-up fight, if you know what I mean—and if you ever tell him I said that, I’ll call you a bald-ass liar.”
Anyhow, that’s what I saw of John Wesley Hardin with my own eyes in El Paso and what I heard about him with my own ears. Jeff Milton took him before Judge Howe and the judge made him repay the money to Buck, then fined him twenty-five dollars.
They say Hardin and Jeff got to be friends after that and often took a drink or two in the saloons together—and George Scarborough with them. Some say the three of them got to be thick as thieves and even conspired in the killing of Martin McRose. I wouldn’t know. By then I was on my way to California. But I do know that Hardin and Old John weren’t friends for even a minute. Between them, it was bad blood from the start.
There’s nothing worse can happen to a man than to fall in love with a hot-ass bitch. That’s what happened to Marty. Hell, she used to give me some looks, and I ain’t nothing to look at. If it had a dick, she was interested.
Me and Vic and Tom were at the cantina table in Juárez with them when Scarborough told Marty that Hardin was keeping company with his wife. He said it real casual, while he was rolling himself a smoke. He said everybody in El Paso knew it too and was having a good laugh about it. Marty’s grin looked like wood. He said what the hell did he care, she wasn’t his wife no more. He said he’d divorced the no-good tramp in Ojinaga a coupla months ago, so she could fuck all El Paso for all he cared. Bullshit. He was lying to try and save face. Whenever Marty was really steamed, a big vein on his forehead would swell up, and just then it looked about to pop.
“Well,” Scarborough says, “you mighta divorced her and all, like you say, but I bet those fellas laughing at you in the saloons across the river don’t know it. I bet Hardin don’t know it.”
He was smart, Scarborough, egging Marty like that. A couple of days earlier, when he figured Marty was holding out on him, he said he’d arrest him next time he crossed the river. Old Selman had throwed a fit about being cheated and said he’d shoot Marty if he set foot back in Texas. But now Scarborough wanted to deal. “Cut me half the take from the cows,” he said, “and I’ll set Hardin up for you.” He’d trick him into showing up at the railroad bridge in the middle of the night and Marty could be laying for him and let him have it.
“What about your bigmouthed pal Selman?” Marty says. “He want the other half of the take?” Scarborough says, “Fuck Selman. Old bastard don’t know how to get along. This is between you and me.” Marty wanted to know how he would get Hardin to go to the bridge in the middle of the goddamn night, and Scarborough says, “Hell, me and him are big buddies now, ain’t you heard? I’ll tell him a dealer I know is selling some guns to some Mexes at the bridge tonight and wants to hire protection for himself in case the greasers try a cross. Hardin’ll go for it. He’s trying to prove he’s still the man he was before he went to the pen. Been pushing his luck lately.”
“I’ll push his fucking luck,” Marty says. All right, he says, it’s a deal—only he ain’t giving Scarborough a nickel until after Hardin’s taken care of. “Sure,” Scarborough says with a big phony smile, “I trust you. Just don’t forget to bring the money.” Marty gives him a go-to-hell smile back and says, “Don’t worry about that, George. I always keep my money on me—all of it. It’s the safest place.” Scarborough says, “All right, then—the rail bridge at midnight,” and heads back to El Paso to set the thing up.
That night, Marty posted me at our end of the bridge with my Remington repeater to cover their retreat if they had to make a run for it back to our side. Then him and Vic and Tom went out to the middle of the bridge to meet Scarborough. There was a mist on the river, but the other side was lit up by a streetlight good enough for me to see everything. At the far end of the bridge, a pair of ice wagons stood on one side of the tracks. George Scarborough came out from behind one of them.
They met out on the bridge and talked for a minute. Scarborough pointed to the wagons like he was saying that was where Marty could lay for Hardin. Marty nodded and they all headed that way.
As soon as they got to the end of the bridge, Scarborough pulled his gun and shot Marty twice in the head and jumped off to the side just as rifles opened fire from one of the ice wagons and a shotgun blasted from the other. Vic and Tom went down before they could clear their holsters. I ducked behind one of the bridge posts and watched from the shadow. Hell no, I didn’t shoot. It wouldn’t of helped Marty and Vic and Tom one bit, but it likely woulda brought the shooters running over to kill me too.
All that shooting didn’t take five seconds. Then Scarborough scoots out and takes out Marty’s gun, fires it in the air and drops it on the ground, then quick cleans out Marty’s pockets. The police captain, Milton, and a man the next day’s newspapers said was a Texas Ranger came out from behind one of the wagons, both of them with carbines—and from behind the other wagon comes Wes Hardin with a shotgun. I’d always figured Milton was in on the deal for those cows we rustled in Little Texas. The Ranger too, I guess. Lawmen—Christ! A dog’s hind leg ain’t as crooked as a lawman.
Hardin gave the scattergun to Milton and hurried off down the street, but Scarborough, Milton, and the Ranger stayed and smoked cigars while a crowd of excited sports came out of the nearby saloons and gathered to gawk at the bodies.
The newspapers said they were shot for resisting arrest on warrants of cattle rustling, but the talk in the saloons was that Hardin had paid Scarborough and Milton to kill Marty so he could have Beulah McRose for himself. Well, he wanted the bitch, all right, and he got her—but he did his own shooting, like I said. The others were just paying Marty back for crossing them. While they were at it, they crossed Old Man Selman too, for some damn reason. Hardin musta been behind it, though—because just look how Selman got even with him.
Early that summer, my husband made a deal with some people in El Paso to move a herd of cattle down from New Mexico. Two of those people, he said, were George Scarborough and John Selman. He didn’t mention Jeff Milton—maybe because Jeff wasn’t in it, maybe because Martin didn’t know he was. Anyhow, they told Martin they had a buyer out at Van Horn all ready to take the cows off their hands at a real nice profit. They were stealing the herd, of course—that’s why they contracted Martin to move it for them. He had a reputation for expertise in that regard. I once heard him describe his profession as the low-overhead approach to the beef business.
I married Martin because I was young and bored and didn’t know much except that I wanted some excitement in my life. My brothers taught me to ride and shoot when I was still in pigtails, and I always envied them their freedom to roam and take their pleasure where they found it. I won’t be stupidly coy and deny that I’d known men before Martin, but they were mostly dullards of the sort to be found by the bushels in small towns—clerks and druggists and drummers. Men with stiff collars and soft hands and eyes as oily as their hair. Now and then I�
��d fool with a farmboy. Their muscles were hard, but I wanted no part of their sweat-and-dirt futures. I’d never known a truly exciting man until I met Martin. He took me away to the bright lights and loud music and fast smoky pleasures of Galveston and San Antone. He taught me the mean comforts of whiskey, and many of men’s secret sexual delights. Before long, however, I found out he was not the man I thought he was. I began to suspect that he was afraid of losing me, and one dark night, when he whispered that I was the only one he’d ever trusted, I knew I was right. I realized how much stronger than him I was, and I couldn’t help but hate him a little for disappointing me so bad.
Scarborough gave Martin half his fee before he left for New Mexico and promised to pay the rest on delivery of the herd to a small ranch just east of El Paso. Martin took Vic Queen, Hector O’Keefe, and Tom Finnessy with him and went up to Little Texas to get the cows. Two weeks later he got back to our rented house in town and woke me in the middle of the night, still smelling of dust and horse sweat. He said they’d run into some hard luck on the way back with the herd. They were attacked by rustlers just a few miles north of the Texas border and had the cows stolen from them. “We were lucky to get out of it alive,” he said, and I heard the lie in his voice. That’s the trouble with a liar: he even lies to the people he doesn’t have to. He undressed in the dark, saying he was worried because he didn’t think Scarborough and the others would believe the herd had been rustled. “Guys like them,” he said as he got in bed and ran his hand over my breasts and down my belly, “think the whole world’s as crooked as they are.” Both of us laughed, only he didn’t know we were laughing at different things.
The next day he telephoned Scarborough and set up a meeting with him and Selman in Juárez across the river. Before leaving he gave me an envelope full of money for safekeeping. I saw him put another thick envelope in the inside pocket of his coat. Then he kissed me and left. As soon as he was gone I counted the money. It was more than four thousand dollars. I knew he was in over his head trying to cheat men like them.
That evening Hector O’Keefe came to me from Juárez with a message from Martin. He was one of Martin’s best friends. He’d had most of his nose bitten off in a fight when he was a boy, and I could never look on him without a little shudder of repugnance. The damn fool would actually make eyes at me. He told me Scarborough and Selman hadn’t bought the story about cattle rustlers. They accused Martin of selling the herd himself and pocketing the money, and they had demanded their share of the take. Martin swore to them he was telling the truth and said the best he could do was return what was left of the advance payment they had given him, though he’d had to use most of it to pay his hands and buy supplies. The meeting broke up in a flare of bad tempers. Scarborough said he’d arrest Martin on any one of several rustling warrants if he crossed back into El Paso before giving them their money. Selman said he’d shoot him on sight and charge him with resisting arrest afterward. Martin wanted me to see a lawyer first thing in the morning and find out what legal protection he could count on if he came back to town. If nothing could be done, I was to pack our bags and join him in Mexico.
I’d read all about him in the newspapers, of course—from all the early editorial hoorah about what a fine model of upstanding citizenship he’d made of himself during all those years in prison, to the recent story accusing him of holding up a card game in the Gem Saloon. And I’d heard the talk going around—that he hadn’t done much business as a lawyer in the two months he’d been in town; that he was drinking like a drowning man every night; that he sometimes didn’t stagger home till dawn, mumbling to himself. And that damn near every man in town was scared to death of him.
I told myself that if any lawyer could understand Martin’s situation it had to be him. But that was only what I told myself. The truth was, I wanted to see him up-close. I wanted to know if he’d ever really been what they said he’d been. I was curious about him, what else can I say? Oh, hell—I guess I had the yens for him before I ever met him, it’s simple as that.
He damn sure got some yens of his own when I showed up at his office next day and he took a good look at me. But he knew how to play the gentleman. He showed me to a chair facing his desk and prepared cups of coffee for us from a tray he’d had brought up from the cafe next door. He wore an impeccable black suit and smelled freshly barbered. It was fascinating to watch those large scarred hands stirring a teaspoon, jotting an occasional note with a fountain pen, or stroking his mustaches as I told him about Martin’s predicament. All the while I was talking, his gray eyes drifted over me like smoke. I never wore a corset. I knew how interesting a man could find the contours of my shirtwaist and the way my skirt clung to my lap. I’d been getting yearning looks from men from the time I was twelve. But there was something more than that in his eyes, something beyond just wanting to touch me. At first I thought it might be loneliness, but I came to find out it wasn’t that, not exactly, not in the way most people mean it, anyhow. I can’t say what it was, only that it was always there, right from the start of—what shall I call it? our liaison—from the start of our liaison till the time I last saw him, less than two months later.
He listened to me tell about Martin’s problem without once interrupting me. I hadn’t meant to tell him everything—not about the money Martin left with me, for instance, or the envelope he’d put in his coat—but I did. Every time I stopped talking, he’d stare at me like he could see right into me, and I’d start right up again, until finally I’d told him all of it.
He said he could likely get a judge to write up some kind of protective order, but added that such legal restraint would really be useless. “Legalities don’t mean much to the men he’s dealing with,” he said. “They are the law. If they believe he has money which belongs to them, they’ll get it from him or know the reason why.”
I asked him what should I do. That depends, he said. On what, I said. On how much you love your husband, he said. For a minute we just stared at each other. I swear I could smell the smoke in his eyes. “Well,” I finally said, “sometimes I’m just not sure. “He smiled and said, “I admire your candor, Mrs. McRose.” I smiled back and said, “Yes, and that’s not the only thing about me you’ve been admiring, Mr. Hardin.”
My heart jumped in my throat as he came around the desk, took me by the wrists, and pulled me to the couch. He pushed me on my back and yanked up my skirt. Up went my legs, off went my underclothes, down went his trousers. His hardness slipped into me so smooth and deep and fine I didn’t even know I was howling with pleasure till his hand went over my mouth. “Damn, woman,” he said between grunts, “they’ll think it’s murder going on up here!” I laughed and came at the same time—which was a first for me.
A few minutes later—our breathing still ragged, our faces hot, our bodies cramped and sweaty and crushed together on that narrow couch—we grinned at each other and kissed for the first time.
* * *
The problem, Wesley said, was that Scarborough and Selman might find out I was holding some of the money.
“Would they harm me?” I asked—as if I didn’t know. He looked up at me and said, “Only as much as they have to in order to get their money.”
It was the afternoon of the same day, and we were naked in his bed in the Herndon Lodging House. He was lying on his back, his head and shoulders propped up by a pillow, and I was astraddle him, slowly working my hips and feeling him deep inside me. An empty bourbon bottle glinted on the floor in the sunlight slanting through the window, and a half-full bottle stood beside the bed. On the little writing table by the window was the stacked manuscript of his book, his life story. He’d been writing on it every day, he told me, and was close to finishing.
We’d been at it all day—both the humping and the drinking—and neither of us had had nearly enough. “What should we do,” I asked him, and rolled my hips wickedly. He growled with pleasure and plucked at my nipples. “That depends,” he said, “on how much you love your husband.”
We both laughed out loud. And at the same thing.
The next morning Vic Queen showed up on my front porch and said Martin wanted me to go to Juárez right away. I thanked him for the message and started to close the door, but he blocked it with his boot. “He means right now,” he said.
I had a hangover like a railroad spike in my skull and was in no mood for an argument. I excused myself for a moment and left him standing in the foyer while I went to the bedroom and got the loaded Remington revolver I kept under my pillow. I went back to the front room with the gun behind me, then brought it around and aimed it with both hands squarely in Vic Queen’s face. “Get out of my house, you son of a bitch!” I said. “And I mean right now!”
He raised his hands to his shoulders and backed out onto the porch. He said, “Marty’s gonna be damn mad, Beulah.” I slammed the door shut and watched him through the window as he stomped off down the street toward the river.
When I saw Wes in his room later in the day and told him what had happened, he said not to worry, that he’d had a talk with George Scarborough that morning and Martin wouldn’t be a problem much longer. He poured two drinks and handed me one. “Hair of the mangy mutt,” he said, and we touched glasses and drank.
I had a pretty good idea what he meant about Martin, but I figured it was best not to ask too many questions. What you don’t know can’t implicate you as an accomplice. The whiskey sparked in my brain and bloomed in my belly like a little fire flower. Wes pulled me to him, ran his hands over me from neck to hipbone, and bit my lower lip. Then our clothes were sailing through the room and we were laughing and grabbing at each other and falling into bed in a naked tangle of arms and legs and tongues.
The Pistoleer: A Novel of John Wesley Hardin Page 35
