The Pistoleer: A Novel of John Wesley Hardin

I asked if he knew Jack Helm had papers on him for the shooting of Green Parramore. “I don’t know Jack Helm from jackshit,” he said, and gave a quick glance toward the door. He went on in a softer voice. “I do know his reputation as a natural-born sonbitch, but just the same, he ain’t bothered me, and that’s all that counts. The most I ask of any man is that he leave me be, and Jack Helm has done that. Far as I’m concerned, me and him ain’t got a quarrel.”

Well, I figured that was that, and during supper the talk turned to other things. Wes told me he was back in the cattle business. Unlike Manning, though, he had no desire to make any more drives to Kansas. He’d been rounding up cows in the Sandies and driving small herds twenty-five miles to the railhead at Cuero every week. The train delivered the steers to the port at Indianola, and from there they were shipped to New Orleans.

“Matter of fact,” he said, “I’ve got to go Cuero tomorrow to arrange for the next shipment to Indianola.” When I mentioned I was headed for Cuero too, to pick up a new saddle I’d had sent from San Antone, Wes suggested we make the trip together, and I said fine. Manning insisted I spend the night at his place, and we then made a real fine party out of the evening.

We left just after sunup on a pretty day. The air was cool but full of birdsong and the smell of fresh-plowed earth. We rode slowly along the new road running across the prairie between Elm Creek and Cuero, talking about racehorses, mainly. We were about eight miles from Cuero, and Wes was in the middle of telling me a wild and probably made-up tale of a time he’d won a big race in the wild town of Towash with his preacher-daddy’s horse, when he suddenly said, “You recognize that man?” and just barely nodded toward the Mustang Mot, more than a hundred yards off.

The mot was a grove of hardwoods standing by itself out there on the prairie. It got its name because of the herds of wild ponies that used to rest in its shade in the old days. I had to look hard before I finally spotted who he meant—a mounted man, watching us from the deep shade of the trees. “I see him,” I said, “but I don’t place him from here.” The rider walked his horse out of the shade and onto the road. As we closed in on each other I saw who it was. “Jack Helm,” I said, and felt like a fool for whispering, since he was still a good forty yards away.

Helm was carrying a Winchester with the butt braced high on his leg and wore a pistol on each hip. Wes pushed his coat flaps back over his guns. “Watch the trees in the mot,” he said. “Could be he’s got backups in there.” We closed up to within a few feet of each other and reined up.

“Morning,” Helm said. “You boys from hereabouts?”

Wes asked who wanted to know, and Helm’s face went tight. “I do, boy. Jack Helm, sheriff of DeWitt County. Who might you be?”

“No might about it,” Wes said. “Name’s John Wesley Hardin.”

Helm smiled, but his eyes didn’t get a bit warmer. Hell, I figured he’d known all the time it was Wes. He held the Winchester with his finger on the trigger. If he let the barrel fall forward it would be pointed square at Wes’s chest from four feet off.

But Wes was all set too—his right hand high on his leg and close to his gunbutt, ready to pull. What I was ready to do was hit the ground and scoot for cover.

“Do you have papers on me?” Wes said.

“I do,” Helm said. “But I don’t intend to serve them.”

Wes laughed. “I guess you don’t—not while I’m looking you in the eye.”

“Don’t try bullyragging me, son,” Helm said. “I have no rope out for you. You’re square in DeWitt County while I’m sheriff.”

“Is that a fact? And why are you so kindly disposed toward me?”

“The warrant’s for killing a nigger,” Helm said. “That counts less than shooting a dog. Besides, you are not sided with the Taylor Party—or so I’ve been told. I hold no ill toward anyone with enough good sense to hate Taylors.”

“I don’t hate Taylors,” Wes said. “But I belong to no party except my own kin and family.”

“Well, hell, that’s good enough,” Helm said, smiling tight. He eased the Winchester down across the pommel and said, “If you’re heading into town, let’s ride in together. I’d like to talk to you.”

He did most of the talking. He told Wes the Taylors had brought their troubles on themselves. They were pure-dee troublemakers, he said, and the Sandies would be a far better place without a Taylor left in it.

“Now you and me, Wesley,” Helm said, talking like he and Wes were old pals, “we’re smart men—and smart men can always come to an agreement that’s best for the both of them. You have your troubles with the law and I have my troubles with the Taylors. I think we could help each other out, smart men like us.”

“All I want is to be let alone,” Wes said. “Same goes for my friends. You can be sure we’ll take no side in the feud so long as both sides let us be.”

“Well now,’ Helm said, “I can appreciate that. Mr. Sutton will appreciate it too. But just to be sure everybody appreciates everybody else real good, what say we all meet at Jim Cox’s a week from today? While we’re at it, you might be interested to hear a suggestion I got for getting you clear with the State Police. I know you wouldn’t mind that. You know where Jim’s place is?”

He didn’t but I did, and he told Helm all right, he’d be there.

Cuero had come in sight by now, and Helm said, “Next week then—Jim Cox’s at noon.” He said he had to serve papers on some jackleg a few miles south of town, and off he went.

Wes watched him ride away and said, “Every thought in that man’s mind is as crooked as a sidewinder. You can see it in his eyes.” Just the same, he thought it might be interesting to hear what they had to say about getting him clear with the State Police. He would’ve met with the devil himself for a chance to do that.

We took care of our separate business at the train station, then went into a saloon to wet our whistles before heading back home. Just as we finished our drinks, a big man with bloodshot eyes, wearing a suit and bowler hat which were both too small for him, stepped up to Wes and said, “My name is J. B. Morgan, Mr. Hardin. Deputy J. B. Morgan. I’d be right proud to buy you a drink.”

“Thanks anyway, pardner,” Wes said. “We’re just leaving.”

“Ah, hell,” Morgan said. “You got time for one drink. Barkeep! Set up my friend Hardin here with a drink!” Wes gave me a look of exasperation and stepped away from the bar.

“Hey, Hardin!” Morgan said, snatching hold of Wes’s sleeve. “I just bought you a drink!”

Wes shook off his hand. “Suck it down yourself, rumpot.” He was in no mood to humor some pushy drunk. But as he started for the door, Morgan grabbed him by the shoulder, saying, “You goddamn puffed-up—”

Wes drove an elbow hard into Morgan’s belly—just whooshing the air out of him— then shoved him against the bar. “Damn you!” he said. “I don’t need more troubles with the law over some shitheel like you, but you want to prove something, then do it!” He stood ready for whatever Morgan might try—but the deputy stood fast and red-eyed, holding his belly with both hands, still gasping for breath. “You ever see me coming,” Wes said, “you best quick turn around and go the other way, you understand?” The deputy gave a jerky nod. “Good,” Wes said. “Understanding’s what the world needs more of.”

But what the world’s got way plenty of is stupidity. We’d just got outside and stepped down off the sidewalk when the saloon door bangs open behind us and Morgan hollers, “You son of a—!”

Wes whirled and fanned two shots and hit him over the right eye and in the front teeth. Morgan did a spastic little two-step and squeezed off a round into the sidewalk and pitched face-first into the street.

Wes gave him a kick to make sure he was dead, then holstered his Colt and let out a long breath. He looked around at the crowd of big-eyed spectators and said, “You are all witnesses. I wanted no row but he gave me no choice. Tell the sheriff how it was.”

We mounted up and rode on out. The crowd closing around the dead man was dark-eyed and silent. The only sound as we left town was from our horses’ hooves.

In the spring of 1873 Wes met with Jack Helm and Jim Cox to clarify his neutrality in the Sutton-Taylor feud. Because he didn’t trust Helm any farther than he could kick him, Wes took my big brother George and Manning Clements with him to the meeting. It was wise that he did, as Helm and Cox were accompanied by eight Sutton Party pistoleros who glowered at George and Manning the whole time they waited outside for the meeting to be over. Bill Sutton was not present. Helm told Wes he’d been taken ill and could not