Forty Times a Killer

by William W. Johnstone

  I didn’t get far. After but a few steps, I collapsed in the street, overtaken by the stress of my friend’s capture and the liquor I’d drunk.

  I recall the disgusted faces of women looking down at me, then, after I returned from unconsciousness again, the jolting misery of a wagon and a clear blue sky passing above me.

  After that, I knew nothing until I woke in darkness. For a few minutes, I lay still and listened to the chatter of insects and the rustles and gibbering cries of forest animals.

  Where the hell was I?

  I rose to a sitting position and my head reeled. It took a while before the darkness ceased to cartwheel around me. Then came the slow, terrible dawning that I was alone in a vast wilderness. Dusky moonlight revealed a forest of scrub pine, live oak, and tangles of bushes with wide, leathery leaves. It also shone on the sheet of white paper pinned to the front of my coat.

  I tore the paper free, then, after much squinting, read

  STAY OUT OF PENSACOLA. RETURN

  AND I’LL HANG YOU FOR VAGRANCY.

  —Wm. H. Hutchinson, Sheriff

  It was easy to put together what had happened. I’d been loaded into a wagon and dumped outside the city limits—well outside, if the backcountry where I found myself was any indication.

  Had they gotten rid of me because of vagrancy, or was it that I’d been identified as a friend of John Wesley?

  I decided on the former. I wasn’t significant enough to be taken seriously as a Hardin associate. I’d just been dumped like so much garbage littering the street.

  A goblin gets used to that.

  I still had fifteen dollars and change in my pocket—enough, I hoped, to see me across the border into Alabama and my darling Alice. She would have news of Wes.

  I’d ridden the cushions to Pensacola, but I’d have to walk at least part of the way. I figured some long miles across rough country on a bad leg until I found another town with a railroad depot. I may have well thought about walking to the moon.

  I had no option but to try.

  Come morning, I padded my leg with the big green leaves of the plant that grew everywhere, then set out, pointing my nose to the east.

  I was a hundred and fifty miles from Alice . . . and my long journey had begun.

  The fine readers of this narrative are interested in the life and times of my friend and hero John Wesley Hardin, not Little Bit. So let me just say that my odyssey was a long and painful one, but after two weeks (Yes, that long. Such was my hobbling gait and occasional drunks until my money wore out) I arrived at the Bowen farm.

  Alice welcomed me with a glad smile and open arms, but the Bowens did not. Brown had been arrested and was facing the hangman’s noose. That cast a pall over the family.

  I was once again relegated to the barn, told I could stay only a few days, and would have to work for my keep, helping Alice with her chores mostly. Again, this is all beside the point, because I did learn that Wes had been taken to Austin to stand trial for the murder of Charlie Webb.

  My worst fear had finally caught up to me.

  The night I arrived, Alice joined me in the barn, and she was worried. “You’ll go to Austin, won’t you?”

  “I reckon Wes needs me more than ever now.”

  “He won’t be imprisoned, the public would never stand for it.”

  I shook my head. “Alice, Wes has friends, but he’s got some mighty powerful enemies who’d like to see him hang.”

  Her eyes took on a dazed look, as though trying to understand the implications of what I’d just told her. Finally she said, “If you go to Austin, I’m going with you.”

  “I’ll have to walk, unless I can hitch the freight cars.” I remembered the railroad bull. “It’s dangerous and I don’t think you’d like that.”

  “I have a little money. Enough to get us to Austin.”

  “I don’t want to take your money, Alice.”

  “You said that John needs you. I don’t think you can refuse my offer. How could you live with yourself if you desert him now because of masculine pride?”

  I smiled. “I don’t have any pride, masculine or otherwise.”

  “Then we’ll go to Austin together. I’ll take pride in you.”

  “You’re a wonderful girl, Alice.” Then, because I had nothing to offer her, I said, “I bought you a present in Pensacola, but I lost it somewhere. It was a necklace, a bluebird on a chain.”

  Women are full of surprises . . . and Alice surprised me then.

  She reached into the pocket of her dress and brought out a little paper package. She opened it carefully, almost lovingly, and held up what it contained . . . a plain gold wedding band. She smiled. “This was my mother’s wedding ring.” She laid her hand on mine. “William, the only present I want from you is the right to wear this ring on my left hand.”

  “You mean—”

  “Marry me in Austin.”

  My words got tangled up in my throat and the only sound I could make was a strangled croak, like a bullfrog with a hernia.

  Alice took her hand from mine and wrapped up the ring before returning it to her pocket. “You don’t want to marry me,” she said, her eyes bruised.

  “Of course I do,” I said, my voice coming back.

  “Then why are you so hesitant?”

  “After I check on Wes, we’ll get hitched, I promise.”

  “Do you really mean that? Can I trust you?”

  “Yes I mean it, and yes you can.” I held out my open hand. “Give me the ring.” I placed the slim band on her wedding finger. “We’ll make it official in Austin. Right after I see Wes.” I smiled. “I’m dying to tell him about us.”

  Alice kissed me. “He was very good to you, wasn’t he?”

  “The only friend I ever had.”

  “Then he’ll dance at our wedding, William. I just know he will.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Twenty-five Years at Hard Labor

  The Travis County Courthouse in Austin was a brand new, three-story limestone building of breathtaking size, built in what was then called the Second Empire style.

  Alice and I stood outside for a while, at the corner of Eleventh Street and Congress Avenue, and stared up at its ornate ironwork, palatial dormers, and lofty Mansard roof. We looked exactly what we were, a pair of open-mouthed rubes fresh in from the country with dung on our shoes.

  The monumental, elegant courthouse dwarfed us into puny insignificance. For the first time in my life, I realized just how colossal was the edifice of the law and how effortlessly it could crush even a giant of a man like John Wesley Hardin.

  In a small, nervous voice, Alice asked, “William, are you sure we can we go in there?”

  “Of course we can,” I said with more confidence than I felt. “It’s a big place, but remember that it belongs to the people of Texas.”

  “People like me and you?”

  “Yup, just like us.”

  The us that morning was a less than imposing sight.

  Lacking a portmanteau, Alice had tied up her few belongings in a sheet that she slung over her back. I still wore the huge army greatcoat and battered bowler hat. Underneath were pants, shirt, and shoes much the worse for wear.

  When we walked into the echoing, marble magnificence of the building and asked for the clerk of court, the uniformed doorman looked as though someone was holding a dead fish under his nose. “What do you people want? Court is not in session today.”

  “We’re here to see a friend.” I dropped the name. “Mr. John Wesley Hardin.”

  “All sorts of scoundrels”—the man looked hard at me—“are dragged through those doors. I can’t be expected to remember their names. Come back tomorrow and talk to the clerk of court.”

  Alice said in a tremulous whisper, “William, we can come back tomorrow.”

  “Indeed,” the doorman said, “when court is in session.”

  A tall young man in a dark gray suit, some sort of lawman’s shield on his vest, walked past with a sh
eaf of papers in his hand. He stopped when he saw Alice and me.

  “Everything all right, Mr. Murdoch?” he said to the doorman.

  Before the man could answer, I said, “Sir, we’re here to visit with our friend John Wesley Hardin.”

  “I told you court is not in session today,” Murdoch said. “Now be off with you.”

  “It’s all right, Mr. Murdoch.” Then the young man spoke directly to Alice, perhaps because she was so nervous. “Mr. Hardin has already been tried and convicted of murder in the second degree. I’m afraid he was sentenced to twenty-five years at hard labor.”

  I felt as though I’d been stabbed in the heart and Alice’s face was as pale as an oyster.

  “I’m sorry I have no better news for you.” The young man gave a little bow. “Good day to you both.”

  “All right you two, out you go.” The doorman surprised me. “Hardin has appealed his sentence. Try the county jail behind us at 11th and Brazos.”

  He slammed the door on our heels and for a few minutes we stood, struck dumb, at the corner.

  The young man’s words kept spearing through my mind . . . twenty-five years at hard labor . . . twenty-five years at hard labor....

  For a freedom-loving knight errant like Wes, it was a death sentence.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  Jailbird

  John Wesley was to spend a year in the Travis County Jail as his appeal progressed, so I will describe at some little length, that grim bastion as it was the first day I ever set eyes on it.

  Imagine if you will, a massive building fifty feet wide by sixty long with walls of solid stone two feet thick. It contained twenty-four dank, dark cells only eight feet by ten, their ceilings two stories high. A lever arrangement meant that all the doors could be opened and closed at the same time, without the jailors coming in contact with the prisoners.

  There could be no escape from such a bastille and Wes was well aware of that fact.

  After we left the courthouse, Alice and I walked down Eleventh Street to the jail. Gas lamps lined the shady avenue. We drew many stares, some highly amused, others openly hostile. A couple of ragged country bumpkins were a rare sight—one to see and talk of later.

  The coming of the Houston and Central Texas Railway had attracted many wealthy, sophisticated residents to the city. The beautiful Austin belles in watered silk fascinated Alice, their huge bustles and tiny hats perched atop masses of glossy, piled up hair in stark contrast to her own threadbare, homespun dress and shabby leather shoes.

  As we walked, I vowed there and then that Alice would one day wear silk.

  Foolish Little Bit, again building his rickety castles in the air.

  We were ushered into a tiny visiting room partitioned by an iron grill. The prisoner stood on one side, the visitors on the other. There were no chairs or benches and no window, the gloomy interior lit by an oil lamp hanging from the ceiling.

  When Wes was ushered inside, a prison guard cradling a shotgun stood against the door. He made it perfectly clear when he stared at Alice and me, he didn’t like what he saw.

  The feeling was mutual.

  Wes looked really good. His hair was neatly combed and brushed straight back from his forehead and his mustache was trimmed. He seemed to be in good spirits. “So what brings you here to Austin?”

  I smiled. “You, of course. How are you getting along?”

  “Real good. My lawyers say I’ll be out of this hellhole within the week.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, Wes. Have you made plans?”

  “Of course I’ve made plans. And the most important of them is to get even with them as put me here. Beginning with that damned traitorous dog Brown Bowen.”

  I wanted to say I told you so, but I didn’t.

  “Take it easy, John,” the jailor said. “Keep it light.”

  “Sorry,” Wes said. “But Bowen tried to pin all his foul and disgraceful crimes on me.”

  “I know that, John,” the jailor said. “But you’ll be a free man when you see him hang.”

  For some reason I’ve never been able to fathom, law enforcement officers of every stripe liked John Wesley. The big jailor was no exception. Maybe they saw something of themselves in him—Wes’s regard for law and order and his grit, determination, and coolness under fire. Whatever it was, he received respect and admiration from lawmen all his life.

  In fact, Wes also liked peace officers. He proved that to me when he said, “Little Bit, if you see Ranger John Armstrong, tell him I’ve got no hard feelings. He treated me fair and square and he’s a credit to Texas.”

  “I sure will, Wes,” I said, although I’d no intention of ever talking to Armstrong again. My one brush with him on the train was enough. To bolster Wes’s spirits, I told him a little lie. “I’ve been working on the business proposal for the Wild West show.”

  Wes smiled. “How much funding do we need?”

  I picked a number out of the air. “I’d say twenty thousand.” To soften the blow, I added, “But maybe a lot less.”

  “Hell, twenty thousand is nothing,” Wes said, grinning. “I can make that at the gambling tables in a good year.” He thought for a moment, then said, “Or I can talk to Sam Luck again.”

  “Either way, we can raise it, Wes.”

  “Good. Then bring the proposal to me and I’ll read it.” He slammed his right fist into the open palm of his left. “Damn it, Little Bit, we’re off and running.”

  “I’ll let you read it in a few days, once I add a few finishing touches.”

  “Yeah, take some time and get it right. I might even be out of here the day after tomorrow.”

  “I sure hope so.” I believed him, every word. I really believed Wes’s lawyers could work a miracle.

  Out of the blue, Wes asked, “Where is my gun, Little Bit?”

  I shook my head. “Wes, I have no idea.”

  “Then talk to the Rangers, get it back for me. It’s my property, not theirs, and I’ll need it when I’m freed.”

  Rather than suggest that asking for his gun might not be such a good idea, I said, “Hell, Wes, you can buy a new one.”

  “No. I want my own Colt back. I’ve never used a revolver that balanced as well as that one.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Wes repeated in a high, sarcastic tone. “Don’t see. Do it!”

  “Of course, Wes. I’ll get it for you.”

  “Time’s up, John,” the prison bull said.

  I talked fast. “Wes, say howdy to Alice. You remember her.”

  Wes gave my intended a stiff little bow, his face empty.

  “We’re getting hitched,” I said. “Right here in Austin.”

  “Don’t forget the gun.” Wes turned on his heel and the iron door clanged shut behind him.

  Alice spoke into the ringing echoes of the door. “He doesn’t like me.”

  I smiled at her. “You’re Bowen kin and he’s upset about Brown telling all those lies on him.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “You’re showing some independence, William, and John doesn’t like that. He has nothing but contempt for you, but he enjoys the idea that you count on him for everything, even your self-esteem.”

  I laughed then. “Alice, I don’t have any self-esteem.”

  “I know, because John Wesley Hardin took it away from you. But I’m going to give it back to you, William.”

  “Well, Wes told me that he wanted his gun is all.”

  “Damn him and his gun!” Alice yelled. She stomped out of the room, her back stiff.

  I stood openmouthed with shock. I’d never heard sweet little Alice cuss like that before.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  A Grim Reality

  John Wesley’s appeal dragged on for a year and kept him behind bars.

  During that time, his family—he now had three children—descended into poverty. Jane, already dying from cancer, moved
them in with Wes’s mother. The Reverend Hardin had passed away in 1876 while his son was on the scout in Florida.

  I can’t say that Wes’s spirits were high.

  I believed that in his heart of hearts he knew his appeal would founder and that twenty-five years in state prison was close to becoming a grim reality.

  Alice and I were married by then. She restricted my visits to the jail, but one day after he’d spent five months in his cell, I found Wes elated, beside himself with joy.

  “Good news! Hot dang, Little Bit, I’ll be out of here soon.”

  Happiness is contagious, and I eagerly awaited the good tidings.

  “Read this!” Wes yelled. His face fell. “You can read, can’t you?”

  “Wes, you know I can read.”

  His face brightened. “Oh, yeah, that’s right. You can.”

  The jail rules dictated that nothing could be passed from prisoner to visitor, so Wes held a letter up to the iron grill. “Read it!” he shouted, or I should say roared.

  The prison guard stirred uneasily and gripped his scattergun tighter, his eyes never leaving Wes for a moment.

  I moved closer to the grill, and saw that the letter was from Elizabeth, Wes’s ma. After telling her son to praise the Lord and look to Heaven for guidance, she wrote:

  I am willing to speak with the lawyers about your case, dearest boy. Your pa wrote a true statement of the killing of Charlie Webb, but died before he could publish it. I am willing to do so now.

  Your father said that there was a plot to murder you on the day Webb was killed and that you only defended yourself from a hired assassin.

  My loving, dutiful son, your pa’s deathbed testament will set you free!

  After I indicated that I’d read the letter, Wes said, “Well, what do you think? Don’t Ma milk a good cow?”

  Since his attorneys had used this same argument before the jury that found Wes guilty, I figured his ma was milking a dry cow.

  As it happened, indeed she was. The reverend’s statement never saw the light of day.