The Pistoleer: A Novel of John Wesley Hardin

honest. But although I admit to a grudging covetousness of her perfect face and figure, I most adamantly deny, as some have suggested, that I was envious of her to the point of rejoicing in her humiliation with Mr. Hardin. Nonsense! She is my sister and I love her dearly. There were, however, occasions when she played the coquette to such extreme that I secretly wished to grab her and shake some sense into her. The occasion of our initial meeting with Mr. Hardin was just such a time.

On being introduced to him at the party, Callie fairly gushed. “Why, Mr. Hardin,” she said, trilling like an addled songbird, “I am ever so delighted to make your acquaintance. I feel as though I’m meeting a legend in the flesh. Father has often praised your great courage in opposing the hateful State Police.” Lord.

And him, forty-one years old and dressed impeccably in a handsome black suit and silk tie—and you’d have thought he had never been flattered by a pretty young thing before to see the silly grin he gave her. We all knew he’d been married for only a short time before going to prison and that he was a widower by the time he got out. And though one might suppose that fifteen years in the penitentiary would blunt a man’s social grace, it obviously did not completely dull his. “Miss Callie,” he said, “I would fight the entire State Police force all over again— and the Texas Rangers to the last man—if that’s what it took to have the honor of the next dance with you.”

He was handsome—in a weathered sort of way. He was tall and ruggedly distinguished and his dark hair was only lightly seasoned with gray. His brows were thick, his jaw strong, and he wore a heavy mustache. But his chief feature was his eyes, which were at once alluring and yet fearsome—if that makes sense. They were as darkly gray as storm clouds and exuded a confusing mixture of independence, cruelty, and loneliness. Little wonder that Callie, with her penchant for renegade spirits, would be entranced by eyes as those—the eyes of the lonesome outlaw and all that.

She did not leave his side the entire evening. When they were not dancing to the fiddles, they sat together in a corner, sipping punch and conversing with goodly animation, so utterly indifferent to everyone else it was rude.

As Father’s hired man Johnston drove us home at the end of the evening, she told me their chief topic of conversation had been the book he had begun to write, the story of his life. She was thrilled that he’d deigned to discuss such a personal undertaking with her, and of course she thought that his autobiography was the most wonderful idea. She would certainly rush to purchase a copy of the book, she assured him, and she was absolutely certain many other readers would too. As they’d bid each other good night, she invited him to come visit her at home. “He has always loved the name Callie,” she informed me. “His younger daughter was named Callie at birth. The only reason he later changed it to Jane was to honor his wife. Isn’t that wonderful?” I wasn’t at all sure what she thought was wonderful, but she did not really expect an answer.

Father was rich. He’d gone to the War a penniless young man and risen to the rank of captain by the time he came home after Appomattox. He became a cowboy and quickly learned the cattle business. Before long he was a drover, and eventually became one of the most successful stockmen in our part of the state. Furthermore, he had bought more and more land over the years and was now the largest property owner in Kimble County. But his fondest memories, he always said, were of his days as a young cowboy driving the herds to Kansas. Mr. Hardin, it so happened, had also been a cowboy in his youth, and within five minutes of making each other’s acquaintance when he came to visit—a mere week after the Christmas party—they were deep in loud reminiscence about those glorious old days on the Chisholm Trail.

“Excuse us,” Father said to the rest of us—including Callie, who had put on her best dress in honor of Mr. Hardin’s visit—“while I get to know this old rascal a little better.” They retired to Father’s study to continue their talk about the old days on the trail. The moment the door closed, Callie stamped her foot and said, “He came to see me, not to talk to Father about stupid old cows!” I believe she would have stormed into the study after them and created a scene if Mother hadn’t prevailed upon her to mind her manners—as well as conspired to retrieve the men from the study by having supper served earlier than usual.

They’d had a few drinks of whiskey in the study—Mr. Hardin claimed they were the first he’d tasted since “my period of employment with the state,” as he amusingly phrased it—and their effects were quite obvious on him. His eyes were mischievously bright, his voice louder, his gestures broader. He smiled at Callie constantly and even winked at her across the table a time or two. Callie was delighted by his indiscreet attentions and beamed upon him as radiantly as the full moon framed in the window. Mother was somewhat nonplussed, but Father was a bit fired with whiskey too, and unmindful of all the flagrant flirting. When we’d done with dessert and coffee, Mr. Hardin asked Father (“Captain Len,” he called him, quite aware of the way he was addressed by everyone in the county) for permission to take Callie for a short ride in the buggy. Father said of course, wholly ignoring Mother’s deep frown.

When they returned, less than an hour later, Callie was smiling as mysteriously as a cat. Mr. Hardin took another drink with Father, then shook his hand and bid us all good evening. That night, as we lay in our beds in the darkened bedroom, Callie told me Mr. Hardin had asked her to be his wife. “Good Lord, Callie!” I said.

“I haven’t said yes or no,” she said. “I really didn’t expect that. I told him I’d have to think it over.” She pushed up on an elbow and stared at me in the dark, looking like a pale shadow in her cotton shimmy. “Are you shocked, Annie Lee? Just think—you’d be sister-in-law to John Wesley Hardin, the most famous desperado in all Texas.” She giggled like a devilish child.

“But he’s old enough to be your father!” I said. “And he hasn’t a handful of dirt to his name.”

“Oh, you!” she said. “Nobody else would say a mean thing like that. You’re just jealous!”

Mother was shocked when Callie broke the news. I know she thought Mr. Hardin too old for Callie—and far too familiar with the world’s harsher truths. But she simply said that marriage was a serious decision and perhaps Callie and Mr. Hardin ought give themselves a little more time to discuss it. Father, of course, thought the marriage was a splendid idea and would brook no talk against it. Callie had to remind him that she had not yet accepted the proposal. “But I know you will,” Father said with a sly grin. Callie just smiled at him and kept mute.

The following day she received a letter from Mr. Hardin, asking for her answer to his “proposition.” He also told her that on his way home the previous evening, he’d been thrown hard from the buggy when a coyote spooked the horse. His face had been bruised and his ribs cracked, he wrote, but he was sure he’d be fine in a few days.

When Callie showed the letter to Father that evening, he smiled widely. “And what is your answer to his proposition to be, daughter?” he asked. Callie’s face was difficult to read just then. She studied Mother’s sad look for a moment, then met my own stare directly. I suppose my disapproval must have been visible, because Callie twisted her mouth at me in disdain, and then said to Father, “My answer will be yes.” Father beamed and told her he wished to meet with Mr. Hardin about the matter as soon as possible. “I’ll write to him today,” Callie said.

There is another story about the way he acquired the broken ribs and the bruises on his face. Rita Maria, wife of one of Father’s ranch foremen, was my prized confidante, my informant about life in the rougher reaches. Her source was her husband Francisco. He told her that on his way home to Junction after his visit Mr. Hardin had stopped at an isolated roadside inn to have a drink or two. It was said he was already a little drunk when he arrived, and in a short time he was drunker yet. He began to brag to the bartender that he would soon be a force to reckon with in Kimble County. But his loud bragging soon wore thin on some of the other patrons, most of whom were rough cedar choppers. Hard words ensued and Mr. Hardin challenged one of the choppers to a fistfight. They went outside and fought under the moon in a wide gully behind the building. And that, Francisco told Rita Maria, was how Mr. Hardin had received his injuries—or so he had heard.

I overheard Mother and Father late that night in their room. “He has killed men, Leonard,” Mother said. “He has been in the penitentiary for most of Callie’s life! He is taking advantage of the poor child—yes, child—who doesn’t know her own mind. What he really wants is the property he’ll gain from the marriage. Surely you can see that. Why else would such a man want to marry one so young?”

And Father said: “Callie is a child no longer. She’s a grown woman and it’s time she married. One spinster daughter in the family is enough.” (The remark cut me, but not to the quick—I’d long since grown accustomed to such sidelong slashes of his displeasure with my maidenhood.) “Yes, the man committed crimes,” Father said, “and he has paid a dear price for them. Prison cost him the family he once had, and he is lonely for another. He needs a