Hart the Regulator 8

by John B. Harvey

  ‘Harry!’ called Aaron in greeting.

  Harry Jefferson wiped his running nose with the back of a woolen glove, sniffed, nodded, cleared his throat, considered spitting but finally swallowed instead. ‘Heard ’bout the shootin’?’

  Aaron shook his head. ‘What shootin’?’

  ‘Out Moscow way.’

  ‘Uh-uh.’ Aaron shook his head again and wished Jefferson would shift either himself or his mule downwind a little.

  Harry Jefferson pushed his hand against his nose and rubbed vigorously. ‘Kin of yours, ain’t he?’

  ‘Who?’Aaron leaned forward, regarded the man with real interest for the first time.

  ‘That kid you got out at your place - he’s a Hardin, ain’t he?’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘Well, he got himself a man today.’

  ‘What man? What in God’s name you runnin’ off at the mouth about?’

  Jefferson gave a gruff laugh that broke into a cough. ‘That black you had workin’ for you.’

  ‘Mage?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I said, Mage.’

  ‘If that was his name.’

  Aaron pointed a finger at Jefferson and said, ‘What the hell happened?’

  ‘Shot him, that’s what.’

  ‘Who says so?’

  ‘Most everyone,’ Jefferson grunted. ‘Half Moscow seen it go down. Emptied a .44 into him and rode off leavin’ him for dead.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ smiled Harry Jefferson lopsidedly, ‘that’s where he’s gone. Just another nigger with wings an’ a harp.’

  But Aaron had stopped listening. He let out the brake and whipped up the horses and headed home as fast as he could, Little Billy struggling to keep the smile he felt inside from welling up on to his face; struggling to keep from telling his father, I told you so.

  ~*~

  It wasn’t two days before Aaron got word that some of the council in Moscow had felt it their bounden duty to report the killing to the nearest army post and that the officer in charge had responded by offering to send a small detachment into the community in an attempt to apprehend the murderer.

  As soon as Aaron heard this he bundled the protesting John Wesley on to a horse and took him towards Sumpter where good friends of his had a small farm. In addition to being friends, the McCandleses were known sympathizers for the late Confederate cause and likely to look kindly on a youngster who’d got himself into trouble with the Federal troops for shooting a black.

  Sure enough, Jamie and Beth McCandles greeted John Wesley like he was some kind of hero and promised to hide him and look out for him until the chase died down and it was safe to return to his uncle’s. John Wesley enjoyed his newfound status and was soon giving embroidered accounts of the shooting to the McCandles children and then to any passer-by who just happened to stop by to catch a glimpse of the youth who’d single-handedly put paid to one of them worthless blacks.

  ‘Only shame of it is,’ Jamie McCandles announced to a dozen or more friends who’d foregathered one Friday night and who’d been toasting the young gunman liberally, ‘it took a youngster like Hardin here to show others the way.’

  A cheer rose brokenly up and John Wesley fidgeted some, feeling pleased with himself nonetheless.

  ‘The way things are going down here since the war, we got to watch out we don’t all get run under by a bunch of nigra-lovers and carpet-baggers out for all they can get. Every which way you turn there’s some Unionist banker lookin’ to get one man’s land under a mortgage or foreclose someone else’s. There’s blacks who spent their whole lives till now as slaves marchin’ around the streets all spruced up like they was takin’ over. And if a man tries to do something about the state of things, if he stands up an’ lets himself be counted, the way Hardin here done, well, either the Union army or the state police force slaps him down.’

  ‘That’s right!’ called out someone in support.

  ‘You said it!’ shouted another.

  ‘And remember,’ said a voice from the side of the room, ‘that police force you’re talkin’ about, that’s blacks an’ whites ridin’ together. I ask you - what kind of police force is that?’

  So the jug was passed round again from hand to hand and pretty soon Confederate songs were being sung and Beth McCandles disappeared into the loft and returned with the flag of the Confederacy, which she unveiled and draped over the table with great cheering and one or two drunken tears.

  Young John Wesley took his share at the jug and listened to the rhetoric and reasoned that yes, he’d been right to shoot down Mage the way he had and given half the chance he’d do it again. These men gathered about him were decent and honest and they wouldn’t let him get taken by whatever army patrols might be out looking for him. He felt safe and he felt that he was among his own kind, his own people ... maybe more kin than his own father and mother. At least they didn’t quote the good book at him every other minute of the day.

  A gun in one hand and a Bible in the other, his father had said. All right. But here were the McCandleses and plenty more like them, who were like to throw down that Bible and take up a second gun instead.

  ~*~

  ‘John!’ The voice was low and urgent, a hand shaking him by the shoulder. ‘John! Wake up!’

  He jerked into a sitting position, his right hand reaching out towards the pistol stashed below his pillow. There was little light in the barn, no more than a faint square that filtered through the sacking nailed to the opening in the roof. John Wesley was annoyed with himself that he had been sleeping so soundly as to allow McCandles to climb the ladder and get so close before he woke.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said McCandles, stopping the youth’s hand at the pillow. ‘They’re ten miles or more from here. They spent the night in lodgings in Sumpter and now they’re fixing to ride south-west.’

  ‘How d’you know this?’

  McCandles smiled in the almost-dark. ‘I’ve got friends in Sumpter – we’ve got friends there. Those who think like us about what’s happening to Texas.’

  John Wesley had all but ceased to listen. He was out from under his blanket and pulling on his boots. The cold smacked him hard and he grabbed for his pants and vest, eager to be fully dressed and away.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ said McCandles, ‘they’ll swing wide of here for certain. You’re safe for now.’

  John Wesley looked at him, his features gradually sharpening. ‘And later?’

  ‘If they head back this way we’ll have warning in plenty of time.’

  John Wesley shook his head, climbed into his thick wool coat. ‘It’s not good enough.’

  An expression of some disappointment came over Jamie McCandles’ face. ‘You’ll be running then?’

  John Wesley had hold of the front of McCandles’ coat so fast that the startled farmer was almost pitched back from the loft floor. ‘Who said anythin’ about runnin’?’

  ‘I …’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I thought

  ‘I ain’t runnin’. I just don’t want to spend all my time cooped up here, shufflin’ around under straw like some rat, while a handful of soldiers ride around the country lookin’ for me.’

  McCandles nodded. ‘What you fixin’ to do, John?’

  John Wesley looked at him straight. ‘How many are there of ’em?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘Three!’ repeated the youth, incredulous. ‘Is that all?’

  McCandles nodded.

  ‘Okay.’ John Wesley moved past him and began to descend the ladder, the farmer following. On the ground, Hardin pointed towards the stalls. ‘You lend me a fast horse. Fast an’ strong.’

  McCandles agreed readily, still not certain of what the young man had in mind.

  ‘That and that double-barrel shotgun you got up at the house. I’m fixin ’to let those army boys find me sooner than they think.’

  Jamie McCandles’ eyes wi
dened and then he nodded slowly, setting off towards the house to fetch the youth what he wanted. ‘You want breakfast before you ride?’ he called over his shoulder.

  John Wesley shook his head. ‘I’ll wait till I get back, then I’ll be obliged for a steak and a batch of eggs. A mornin’s huntin’s like to give me an appetite.’

  ~*~

  The water running along the creek bottom was sparkling cold; it took the blue of the sky and froze it to sapphire. The bared sun hung in it like a worked nugget of pure gold. Branches of the few trees were lined with frost along their upper edges. Scrub close to an outcrop of rock was dappled white. John Wesley’s breath rolled through the morning air, his hands fought for warmth inside the gloves they wore. Even through the leather, the metal of the shotgun barrel was like ice.

  Away on both sides of the creek, the road from Sumpter was a flattened line through the hard land.

  John Wesley’s wind caught in his throat when he saw the three riders upon it, too far distant even to make out their uniforms. His mouth was cold and dry and his stomach rolled and hollowed out. A nervous hand reached between the folds of his buttoned top coat and touched the butt of his .44. He angled the shotgun round so that it rested close to the pommel of the saddle. Backing the horse up towards rock and trees, he could see the blue of the uniform, then the yellow stripe markings. Three men, troopers. Searching for him.

  The youth turned the horse through a circle and satisfied himself that he could not be seen.

  Within minutes he could hear the rise and fall of their voices, see the dark beard of the one at the center, recognize the corporal’s stripes on his uniform. Occasional words, phrases strung themselves clear above the cold singing of the water. John Wesley sucked in his cheeks and reached forward to stroke the horse on its broad nose, sensing the warmth of the animal’s blood beneath the cold hair of its coat.

  They were no more than fifty yards off and he could see each face clearly, the two at either side of the corporal so young, not many years older than himself, if at all. Cold wrenched at their faces and wrinkled them like apples kept over-long at the back of a drawer.

  ‘ … blasted cold ...’

  The shotgun rested across the fold of John Wesley’s left arm, the trigger finger of his right hand easy inside the guard. The soldiers hesitated at the far side of the creek, two of them allowing their mounts to dip their heads and drink.

  John Wesley was certain that they must hear the sound of his breathing, but they did not seem to look in his direction once.

  ‘C’mon.’ The corporal flicked the reins and started off into the water.

  John Wesley’s tongue shifted between his lips and tiny bubbles of moisture remained in its track and froze there.

  The other men grudgingly followed on close behind.

  John Wesley kicked his horse from hiding.

  The three men swung their heads round, startled, only the corporal making the instinctive move towards the pistol holstered at his side. John Wesley squeezed back on both barrels and the long shotgun leapt and blurted 10 gauge shot. The bearded face of the corporal was lashed and shredded almost to the bone; his neck opened like soft fruit and blood poured instantly over the front of his uniform. Alongside him, one of the young troopers took the remainder of the shot in cheek and eye, shoulder and chest.

  John Wesley saw the blood, the expressions of surprise and pain that stared through it; saw all this and yet wondered if he had hit them at all. Both men hung in their saddles for what seemed to the youth a long, long time. Then, first the trooper, finally the corporal, swayed and tumbled sideways and hit the water with a parallel splash. Instantly, the creek was stained red. Blue uniform limbs thrashed vainly, as if belonging to children who had never learnt to swim.

  The third trooper and John Wesley stared at one another, the trooper gazing at the shotgun, knowing that both barrels had been emptied, seeing no other gun. His own fingers fumbled with the flap of his holster, but his gloves were too large and difficult to control; the button on the flap was stiff and unyielding.

  ‘You lookin’ for John Wesley Hardin?’

  The trooper shucked off his glove and pulled the holster open, touched the hard coldness of the butt.

  The shotgun was now in the youth’s left hand.

  The corporal seemed to be sitting up in the water, his beard smeared and specked with red, his face ripped and dead.

  ‘Well, you found him!’

  The .44 came out of John Wesley’s coat and his arm extended past the horse’s head. The trooper’s hands wouldn’t work, wouldn’t obey him, wouldn’t finally pull the gun clear.

  John Wesley’s head jerked aside as the corporal collapsed on to his side with a heavy splash. When he looked back, the trooper’s pistol was in his hand. John Wesley had another moment of disbelief, hesitation. Screwing up his eyes, the young trooper fired; John Wesley felt something tug hard at his left sleeve and he almost dropped the shotgun from his grasp. Instead, he raised the .44 a couple of inches and fired twice in rapid succession; he opened his mouth wide and fired once more. The trooper rolled off the back of his mount, which, relieved of its burden, trotted across the stream and some twenty yards down the empty road.

  John Wesley tucked the .44 back inside his coat and shifted the shotgun back to his right hand. He gave the bloodied creek a final glance and set off towards the McCandles place at a fierce gallop.

  ~*~

  ‘You got to get out of here, John.’ Jamie McCandles all but yelled. ‘It ain’t no good your stayin’ here now.’

  John Wesley stared at the man, anger in every curve and line of his young face. ‘You knew what I was going to do. You good as told me to get on and do it.’

  ‘That ain’t true!’

  ‘No?’ John Wesley hurled the long-barreled shotgun across the space between them. ‘Then what in the Lord’s name d’you give me that for? You reckon I was headin’ down that creek fishin’ with it?’

  McCandles hung his head and said nothing; right then there didn’t seem to be anything else he could say. His wife came forward and touched him lightly on the arm, wiping stray hairs away from her eyes with her other hand.

  ‘Jamie’s right,’ she said to the young man. ‘When the army realizes those three ain’t comin’ back they’ll comb this area like they was panning for gold. If you don’t move on, and now, you’ll be dead before your sixteenth birthday.’ She glanced at her husband. ‘And others along with you.’

  Letting go of McCandles she stepped closer to John Wesley. ‘John, we ain’t sayin’ you done wrong. You know what we think about that. But killing three troopers like that, it’s going to make it difficult round these parts for a lot of us for a long time. But we’ll do what we can. There’s hot food and coffee inside and I’ll make you up a sack of supplies. Ammunition, too. We’ll give you the names of some good Confederate friends across the state who’ll look out for you. And while you’re gettin’ ready, Jamie’ll ride back out to the creek and get rid of them bodies.’

  McCandles nodded. ‘That’s right. I’ll pick up a couple of the men as was here the other night to give me a hand. We’ll bury ’em and make ’em harder to find. Cover any tracks we can. You just cut and run as soon as you’re ready. You’re goin’ to be doin’ a whole lot of that from here on in.’

  John Wesley stilled the slightest tremors at the side of his face. He acknowledged McCandles and followed his wife over towards the house. McCandles’ words jiggled through his brain as he walked … cut and run soon as you’re ready. You’re goin’ to be doin’ a whole lot of that from here on in. A whole lot of that.

  The coffee was black and bitter and the slice of pie that Beth McCandles cut for him was stodgy and stuck in his throat.

  Chapter Four

  Spring 1874

  Comanche County, Texas

  Governor Davis hadn’t taken to the idea of reforming the Texas Rangers; he preferred his mixed-race state police and county sheriffs and deputies, most of whom were at leas
t half-way loyal to his office and were happy enough to go along with his ideas about reconstruction. But the lawless elements were getting more obviously out of hand and the northern and southern borders of the state were particularly notorious for harboring desperadoes of every persuasion and proclivity. Open and often lethal rivalry between the big cattlemen was another major cause for concern.

  There were times when the Sutton-Taylor feud, for instance, threatened to draw the whole of both DeWitt and Gonzales Counties, Comanche County too, into what amounted to a running battle. The families had brought the feud with them from the Carolinas and here they had more space and more money to carry on their fight. Both sides employed as many men on account of the way they handled a gun as for how they could ride a bronc, or rope and brand a steer. Among Sutton’s cohorts was Shanghai Pierce, a cattleman who stood close to six and a half feet and had served as regimental butcher in the First Texas Cavalry during the War Between the States. Pierce had built up a herd of his own by branding strays and any other steers that chanced to drift in his direction. Many of Sutton’s other supporters were officially upholders of the law, such as Charles Webb, who was a deputy sheriff of Comanche County, and Jack Helm, who was both sheriff of DeWitt County and a captain of the state police.

  The Taylor faction was not strong on peace officers - what they did enjoy was the support of the Clements family, Mannen and his brothers Jim, Joseph and Gyp, to say nothing of the Clements’ cousin, John Wesley Hardin.

  Things had got to the point where Governor Davis was being bombarded by advice from both friends and enemies to get to grips with the situation before it ruined his chances of reelection. Davis hummed and hawed and got as far as issuing instructions that the feasibility of the Rangers being reactivated on a limited and strictly controlled scale be examined by the state legislature.

  In the event, his moves were too half-hearted either to save his own political future or diminish the violence of the Sutton-Taylor feud. He was swept out of office and replaced by Richard Coke, who read through the reports his predecessor had prepared and immediately gave orders that the Texas Rangers be reinstated in order to deal with what was an extremely dangerous situation and to balance the bias and inefficiency of many of the state police.