The Pistoleer: A Novel of John Wesley Hardin

Hardin made his terms real plain to Sheriff Dick. First off, he wanted protection from mobs. It’s the one thing he was scared of—being taken by a mob—and nobody could blame him for that. A mob is a murdering thing with no more mind to it than a hay barn afire: once it gets out of hand there’s nothing to be done but watch it burn till all that’s left is the smoking ashes. And he wanted a doctor of course. And to be kept someplace other than a jail until he was mended good enough to travel. And Dick’s word that he wouldn’t stand trial anywhere but Gonzales. And he wanted half the reward Dick Reagan would get paid for him.

I was Dick Reagan’s chief deputy at the time. It was Dave Harrel who brought Hardin’s offer to us in Rusk. Harrel said Hardin wouldn’t make the offer to the Angelina County sheriff because, as everybody damn well knew, he was a natural-born son of a bitch who was a toady for the State Police. “That Angelina shithead would agree to the deal,” Dave said, “then for sure turn him over to the State Police to get shot or be given over to a mob to get lynched.”

Dick wanted to know what made Hardin think he wouldn’t do the same himself. Harrel said Wes had heard from people he trusted that Dick Reagan was a smart and honest lawman with no love for the State Police. “Kind of him to think so well of me,” Dick said, “but I wonder if I ain’t due more than just half the reward, considering all he wants.”

Half the reward was a far sight more than no reward at all, Harrel said. “Five hundred dollars ain’t nothing to sneeze at. And you get the glory of being the man who captured John Wesley Hardin. A heroic accomplishment like that could do a man with political ambitions a lot of good if he made proper use of it.” Dick had to grin at the truth of that. “Just one thing,” he told Harrel, “it’s a state warrant, so I’ll have to take him to Austin first when he’s strong enough. But the warrant’s for a killing in Gonzales County, so he can be sure of going there for trial.” And so they had a deal.

Sheriff Dick owned a hotel in Rusk, and that’s where we put him. The news of John Wesley Hardin’s arrest had carried ahead of us on the wind, the way such news always does, and naturally damn near everybody in town turned out to have a look at him. You’d of thought he was a one-man sideshow, the way they gawked at him when we put him on a litter and carried him inside and up the stairs. I do believe some expected him to have horns, tail, and hooves—and they seemed downright disappointed that he didn’t. I heard one sprout say, “Shoot, he don’t look so dang different than us.”

A flock of folk followed us upstairs, bold as you please, and right into the room where we laid him on the bed. Gawkers were packed in the hallway. Dick had gone to check things at the jail, and since he hadn’t said not to let nobody talk to him, I let them go ahead and do it. They asked him how many men he’d killed and who was the toughest man he ever met. (Which he answered, by the way, by saying, “I’ve killed only as many as necessary to defend my own life,” and “I’d have to say Simp Dixon, although Wild Bill Hickok is nobody’s little sister, for damn sure.”) One peckerwood made so bold as to ask if he’d ever shot a woman. “No, sir,” Hardin said, “I never have. But that don’t mean I ain’t known a few who wouldn’t of been a whole lot better for it if somebody had shot them every now and then.” I’ll admit I laughed right along with everybody else at that one.

All that attention seemed to pump vigor into him. His face took on good color and his eyes brightened up and he was talkative as a jay. He probably would of answered their questions all day long if Doc Jimson hadn’t finally showed up and chased everybody out.

He laid up in Sheriff Dick’s hotel for near three weeks, mending fast under Dr. Jimson’s care and Mrs. Reagan’s looking-after. Dick complained that his wife was feeding Hardin better than she was him, but she’d just tell him to hush, that Hardin was a bad-injured boy in need of nourishment to get his strength back. Mrs. Reagan had a reputation for being nobody’s fool, so it was amazing to see the way Hardin could charm her into smiling and giggling every time she brought his meals to the room. He appreciated all her good cooking too. Took seconds at every meal and cleaned his plate every time. He looked to be putting on a couple of pounds a day. He wasn’t but skin and bones when we brought him in, but he’d beefed up plenty by the time Dick and me moved him to Austin.

We turned him over to Sheriff Barnhart Zimpelman, who was surprised to see we hadn’t put any more restraints on him than one set of handcuffs. “No need to,” Dick told him. “He gave his word he wouldn’t try to escape.”

Zimpelman assured Hardin he’d be transferred to Gonzales in just a few days, and he told Dick he could claim the reward money over at State Police headquarters. Dick gave Hardin a wink and went on over to collect it. Later that afternoon he went back to the jail and gave Hardin his half. Next morning Dick and me headed back to Cherokee County and I didn’t lay eyes on Hardin again, but I naturally heard lots more about him.

He was in the river jail in Austin for about a week before a half-dozen State Policemen transferred him to the Gonzales lockup to await trial for killing a state lawman named Parramore. All the way from Austin to Cherokee County, as Dick and me made our way back home, we heard a good deal of saloon talk that Wes Hardin wouldn’t make it to Gonzales alive. The betting was that the police would shoot him dead somewhere along the way and claim he tried to make a run for it.

But they didn’t. Maybe because public opinion had got so bad about the State Police way of doing things and there’d been so much holler in the newspapers lately to punish State Policemen who shot prisoners in their custody. Or maybe because those lawmen figured that if they murdered him on the trail, his kin and close friends wouldn’t rest until they’d evened the score with every policeman on the detail. Or maybe just because the detail was under the command of Captain Frank Williams, who was said to be one of the few honest men in the Davis police. Whatever the reason, it’s a fact they delivered him alive to the Gonzales County jail.

Oh, he was a smart pup, that Hardin! Surrendering to Dick had been just plain foxy. He’d been bad wounded and had half the lawmen in Texas hunting for him. He needed doctoring and nourishment and time to heal up without fear of the law sneaking up on him. He got all that when he surrendered to Dick—and he got half of his own reward. And he got transferred to a jail he knew he’d be able to practically walk right out of. Like I say—smart.

And I’m glad he was. Let me tell you, I got to know Wes Hardin fairly well in the time we’d had him in Rusk, and I say he was a pretty good old boy who wasn’t guilty of a thing except defending himself and refusing to be dogwhipped by a bunch of damn Yankees or Davis’s crooked police.