The Pistoleer: A Novel of John Wesley Hardin

I believe my sister Anne made an excellent choice in Barnett Hardin from the flock of suitors who so ardently courted her. He was an industrious and widely respected man of temperate personal habits, and his Long Tom Creek plantation consistently produced handsomely profitable harvests in cotton and sugarcane. I very much enjoyed his company, and, over time, I fell in the habit of attending Wednesday supper and Sunday dinner at his home. We were often joined at one or another of these family repasts by his nephew, young John Wesley Hardin, of whom both my sister and Barnett were quite fond.

John was a tall, lean lad whose aspect suggested speed and a ready grace. But his most striking feature was his eyes. They were bright with intelligence and wit, fully attentive and yet seemingly alert to the smallest movement in the room. Interestingly, their color wavered between blue and gray, and their hue twixt dark and light. He was well schooled and properly mannered, and he had an excellent propensity for recounting humorous anecdotes about his hunting adventures and sporting endeavors. His narratives were marked by an intense animation and much dramatic gesture, and unfailingly inspired us to appreciative laughter.

And yet, despite his charm and good humor, I must admit that I detected in him an inclination to recklessness. There was an aura of a cocked pistol about him, a readiness to action without forethought. Thus, when he came to me and told me he had shot a man, I was distraught, of course, and saddened—but not altogether surprised.

On the morning in question, I was taking my second cup of chickory when I heard a horse galloping up to the front of the house, then a loud calling of my name. I went immediately to the door and there found young John in a highly agitated state. Before I could say a word, he plunged into a torrential narrative so utterly confusing that I was compelled to insist that he come into the house, sit down and catch his breath, then proceed in more measured fashion.

And thus he did. I learned that he had come to me directly from a violent confrontation with a man named Mage, a Negro who had once been among my holdings. I remembered the troublesome rascal well enough. John told me he’d had an altercation with Mage in the cane fields the day before. The Negro had threatened to kill him, and in consequence Barnett had fired Mage off his land. But then just this morning, as John had been riding toward home on the Sumpter Road, he came upon Mage at the bend in the road where the creek abuts a cotton wood grove, a point some seven miles from my home.

When Mage caught sight of John, he became enraged and began to curse him vehemently. John told him he wanted no further trouble with him and wished only to pass by and continue on his way. But Mage raised his big walking stick with both hands like a club and advanced upon him, still cursing vilely. John tried to rein his horse around him, but Mage lunged with the stick and struck the horse on the hindquarters, making it rear in fright.

“When he hit Paint,” John said, “I shot him.”

“Good Lord, John!” I said. “Is he killed?”

“He wasn’t when I left him,” he said, “but he wasn’t looking any too spry, either. Far as I know, he’s still laying back there in the road.”

The revelation that Mage was not dead came as some small comfort, and I asked about the severity of his wound.

“Well, sir,” John said, “it’s not just one wound, it’s four.” He hastily explained that Mage had not fallen on receiving the first ball in the stomach, but had only become more furious and intent on his attack. “I couldn’t believe how he kept right on coming,” John said. “So I shot him again—in the chest this time—and he took a step back—but be damn if he didn’t come at me again.” So he shot him twice more in the belly and Mage finally fell. “Lord Jesus,” John said, “it was pure-dee amazing!” He spoke as if recounting a marvel witnessed at a tent show. “I reckon it’s like they say,” he said, “if you want to be sure a man goes down and stays down, you best shoot him in the head.”

We hastened to the stable and I directed my foreman Paul to saddle our horses and bring his shotgun. The sun was nearly overhead when we arrived at the cottonwood bend, yet the soft breeze carried a distinct chill. Mage had dragged himself to the creek and was dipping water with his hand. As soon as he saw us he began cursing loudly. My viscera stirred at the sight of his wounds—they were raw and gaping and pulsing with blood. The instant I saw those wounds, I knew he was dying and could not be helped. It defied belief that he was still alive.

“That sonbitch shoot me down like a dog!” he said in a thick voice. “Come right up and shoot me. He murder me! He murder a unarmed man!”

John said, “You attacked me and wouldn’t take warning to leave off. You gave me no choice.”

“Liar!” Mage shouted hoarsely. “White trash murdering liar, you!” His fury prompted him to cough up a gout of bright blood, and my stomach twisted sickly.

John dismounted and drew his pistol and stepped closer to Mage. He aimed it squarely at his face and cocked the hammer.

“Do it,” Paul urged him. “Do it, boy.”

“Sure,” Mage said, looking up at John with blood dripping off his chin. “Go ahead on and murder me some more.”

I do not like to think that he would have pulled the trigger on Mage in cold blood. I prefer to believe he was simply gesturing. And yet I couldn’t keep from calling out sharply, “No, John!”

He looked at me without expression. “Do you want to swing on a Yankee rope for killing such a worthless creature?” I said. “Put up your pistol.”

And he did. I heard Paul swear softly in disappointment, and I instructed him to go back to the farm and get a wagon and two field hands to load Mage onto it. They would then take him to the Negro settlement near Moscow and leave him to his people to tend him the best they could.

As Paul rode away, I told John I believed Mage was going to die. “The Union troops will come looking for you,” I said. I advised him to go directly to his father and tell him what had happened. I gave him a twenty-dollar gold piece in case he got cut off by the Yankees and was forced to take refuge in strange towns.

For a moment he once again looked like the fifteen-year-old boy he was. Then his aspect assumed an air of resolve. He mounted up, tugged his hat low on his brow, reached down to shake my hand, and spurred off toward Trinity County.

Two days later Mage was dead, and John Wesley Hardin was a wanted man.