The Pistoleer: A Novel of John Wesley Hardin

Comanche was a small community less than twenty years old on the edge of the West Texas frontier. The town square was built around a stone courthouse and shaded with live oaks. The nearest rail tracks were a hundred miles away. The roads were difficult. Except for an occasional cattle crew passing by, the place had few visitors.

I’d spent the previous six years reporting and editing for a San Antonio newspaper, but a whiskey habit as relentless as a bulldog finally got me fired. I was also in pressing financial circumstances at the time—and under the dark shadow of an ugly legal suit for breach of matrimonial promise to a young lady who’d proved to be neither as young as she’d led me to believe nor as much of a lady as I had presumed. Thus, when the editorship of the Chief, Comanche’s weekly newspaper, was offered to me by its devil-may-care publisher one besotted evening in a Castroville cantina, I accepted the position on the spot and accompanied him to Comanche the following morning without even a rearward glance at San Antone. And that is how I came to be there when John Wesley Hardin made his fateful trip to Comanche in the spring of 1874.

By that time his brother Joe had been a resident of the town for three years. His first child—Dora Dean Belle Hardin—had been born there, and his second, Joe Hardin, Jr., was soon to be. He practiced law and sold real estate, served as the town postmaster, belonged to the Masons, and was a member of the Friends of Temperance. But although he was generally popular and admired, he did not lack for a strong core of critics. It was rumored that he was in league with corrupt agents of the state land office in Austin who were getting rich from the sale of worthless titles to unclaimed Texas land grants. Further, a stockman in neighboring Brown County had recently claimed he’d been defrauded by Joe Hardin in a cattle deal. Joe simply ignored all such mean talk and carried on in his usual gregarious fashion.

The Reverend and Mrs. Hardin and all the rest of their brood now lived in Comanche, as well. So too did John Wesley’s Anderson and Dixon cousins.

Wesley had first visited Comanche in January, and Sheriff John Carnes had been apprehensive about it. But when Joe introduced him to his famous brother on the gallery of Jack Wright’s saloon, Sheriff John was much relieved to find that he was a personable young man who wished only to enjoy a short stay with his family before returning to his cattle business in Gonzales. For his part, Sheriff John assured him that state warrants were of no consequence in Comanche, which preferred to tend to its own legal business and let the rest of the counties tend to theirs. Wesley said that was an enlightened judicial attitude if ever he heard one and offered to buy Sheriff John a drink. I bellied up next to them at the bar and Sheriff John introduced me. Wesley gave me a sharp look. He said he’d been the victim of many a false newspaper story and had come to distrust all pen pushers. I said I didn’t blame him a bit. “I don’t trust a damn one of them myself,” I told him, which was the truth. That got a laugh out of him and he stood me to a drink. Thus did we become acquaintances.

His wife Jane and daughter Molly came with him on that first visit. So did a cousin named Gip Clements and a rough-hewn little man named Dr. Brosius, who had recently hired on as his cattle crew foreman. Toward the end of January they all returned to the Sandies, and a few weeks later Joe went to visit him.

Before we saw either of them again, we got the news that Jim and Billy Taylor had murdered Bill Sutton in broad daylight at the Indianola docks. Billy Taylor had been arrested shortly thereafter and was locked up in the Galveston jail. Jim Taylor was said to be hiding out at John Wesley’s cow camp in the Sandies. Rumor had it that both Joe and Wesley had been involved in the killing, although not directly. Supposedly, the Taylors had learned of Bill Sutton’s intention to take a steamer to New Orleans, but their informant had not known the exact date of his departure, and so Wesley had prevailed upon Joe—the only one among them not known to Bill Sutton—to go to Indianola to try to get that information. Joe, the rumor had it, was successful. He sent this information to Wesley, who relayed it to the Taylors, who boarded Sutton’s steamer as it was about to leave the dock and shot him two dozen times in front of a terrified crowd.

It was nothing new to hear such tales about Wesley Hardin, the notorious mankiller and ally of the Taylors. But Joe? The attorney-at-law and upstanding citizen? The Mason? The Friend of Temperance? The postmaster? Who could believe such a thing about him? The few who did were the same people who already thought him guilty of land swindles and cattle fraud. Most Comanche citizens scorned the idea that he’d had anything to do with Sutton’s assassination. Joe might be a bit of a legal hornswoggler, they said, but he wasn’t one to take part in a murder plot.

When Joe returned from the Sandies, he brought Jane and Molly back with him. Over coffee and honey biscuits in the Coop Cafe, he informed me that Wesley had already dispatched one herd north in charge of his cousin Joe Clements, and was busy rounding up another. While the crew finished with the branding, Wesley would come to Comanche for another visit, and then, when Doc Brosius brought the herd up to Hamilton, a little town southeast of us, Wesley would join the crew for the drive to Wichita. Jane and Molly would live at Preacher Hardin’s while Wesley was away.

And so in April Wesley showed up—accompanied by Jim Taylor, who had a five-hundred-dollar price on his head for killing Bill Sutton. It was unlikely anyone in Comanche would try to collect the reward. These were not men to let down their guard. Even in the midst of drunken frolic, they were ever vigilant for danger. Moreover, the entire “Hardin Gang”—as Wesley and his usual entourage of Taylor, the Andersons, and the Dixons had come to be known—would certainly retaliate on the instant if any among them were attacked. Yet I never once saw them bully anyone or present a deliberately menacing aspect. To the contrary, they took special care not to antagonize the townfolk and were generous about buying a round for the house wherever they went. They were popular with the town’s saloon crowd, and they had a friend in Sheriff John, and it certainly behooved them to keep it that way. Wes bought a beautiful racehorse named Rondo from a local breeder and kept busy overseeing the animal’s training.

They hadn’t been in town long, however, before we heard dark rumors that Charles Webb, a Brown County deputy sheriff, was calling John Carnes a coward for his refusal to arrest Wes Hardin and Jim Taylor. He was threatening to come to Comanche and serve state warrants on them himself. I was present in Jack Wright’s saloon when Jim Anderson relayed the rumor to John Wesley and Jim Taylor at the bar. They both laughed. Taylor loudly proclaimed that if Charlie Webb came for them, the only thing he’d succeed in arresting would be his own life.

Toward the end of May, the Hardin brothers began promoting a set of horse races to be held on the twenty-sixth, which would also be Wesley’s twenty-first birthday. Joe drew up a racing flier, had hundreds of copies printed, and hired a dozen men and boys to distribute them throughout Comanche and all the neighboring counties. He also turned a handsome profit on the advertisements placed in the fliers by a goodly number of local businesses. By then, the latest rumor out of Brown County was that Charlie Webb had arrested an entire cattle crew at Turkey Creek and pistol-whipped its ramrod, who he had insisted was none other than Wesley Hardin. When he was told the tale in the Wright saloon, Wesley spat ferociously. “You really believe he thought that fella was me?” he said. “I tell you, for somebody I ain’t never laid eyes on, that sonbitch is starting to chafe me raw.”

On the day of the races the entire county turned out, as well as a good many visitors from the neighboring regions. The town square was clamorous with people and horses and dogs. The streets were crowded with wagons, and from the moment they opened their doors that morning the saloons did a floodtide business. A huge red banner announcing “Races—May 26” had been stretched across the courthouse façade for several days, and Carl Summers’s string band was strumming and fiddling on a low platform in the courthouse yard. At ten o’clock all the contestants paraded their racers around the square to permit the spectators a close look at them. The betting was loud and furious and kept up as everybody headed out to the track about a mile northeast of town.

Three races had been matched, and the Hardin Gang was represented in each one. Joe’s beautiful chestnut mare, Shiloh, was entered in the first race, Wesley’s Rondo was in the second, and Bud Dixon’s handsome buckskin Dock was running in the third. An air of festivity pervaded the Hardin entourage. Not only was it John Wesley’s birthday, but the whole family was still celebrating the birth of Joe Hardin, Jr., who’d entered the world a few days earlier.

Spectators were lined six deep along the track from starting line to finish. Their exuberant yowling could probably be heard all the way over in Brown County. Shiloh and Rondo won their matches easily, but Bud Dixon’s Dock was severely tried by a speedy black from Eastland County. It was a thrilling race all the way to the finish line, but Dock crossed first by a neck. The Hardin brothers won small fortunes in cash bets, and received further winnings in the form of property. Wesley had made the most and the biggest bets, and he reaped more than three thousand dollars in specie and paper money—as well as a buckboard, a new Winchester carbine, and eight saddle horses. The entire Hardin party was jubilant, and we all rode back to town whooping like Indians.

The celebration in Jack Wright’s saloon was a boisterous and thoroughly sodden affair. The place was awash in whiskey. Preacher Hardin stopped in and seemed appalled by the proceedings. He took Joe aside and spoke to him in serious aspect. Joe stared down at his feet and nodded, and a moment later they left together.

Carl Summers and his band had been coaxed into the saloon with an offer of free drinks in exchange for a steady flow of music. Wesley bought round after round for the house. He was unrestrained in his celebration. At one point he drew his pistol and shot the glass eye out of a deer head mounted on the rear wall of the saloon. Jack Wright remonstrated with him about the damage to his trophy, and was placated with a shiny double eagle. Jim Taylor suggested to Wesley that he should perhaps slow down his drinking. “If there’s a scrap,” he said, “you don’t want to be shit-brained.” Wesley waved off his concern and ordered another round for the house.

Sometime later Deputy Frank Wilson shouldered his way up next to Wesley at the bar and shouted through the din that Sheriff John wanted a word with him. Wesley hollered, “Sure!” but insisted that Frank have a drink first, which he did, and then they went outside. I followed along with Jim Taylor and Bud Dixon.

The square had cleared considerably. A few wagons were still in the street, with tight-lipped women and tired-looking children waiting for the man of the family to finish up his celebrating and take them home. A small group of men—none of whom I recognized—stood in the street flanking the building. Wesley spotted them instantly and stopped short, his demeanor suddenly and remarkably alert. At the bottom of the steps, Frank finally caught sight of them too.

“Brown County?” Wesley asked. Wilson nodded grimly. “Listen, Wes,” he said in a low voice, “Sheriff John thinks you ought maybe head on home—you know, before things get out of hand. You know John’s your friend, Wes. He’d appreciate the favor.”

Wesley cast another look at the Brown County party in the side street. They wore dark expressions, and I caught sight of guns under coat flaps. “Sure, Frank,” Wesley said. “I’ll just fetch a cigar and be on my way.” Then Bud Dixon said, “Here’s that damn Brown County deputy.”

Charles Webb was strolling our way down the street as casually as if he were on his way to supper. He had both hands behind his back and his open coat revealed a pair of six-shooters on his hips. Jim Taylor whispered, “Now ain’t that a sight!” Wesley fixed his gaze on him as intently as a hawk. As he came abreast of the saloon, Webb gave us an indifferent glance, then nodded a greeting to Frank Wilson as he passed him by.

“Say, you there!” Wesley called out.

Webb paused and looked up at him. “Are you talking to me?” His manner was self-possessed but without hostility. He was not young, yet looked hardy and capable, and his eyes were black and quick.

“Is your name Charles Webb?” Wesley asked.

Webb stepped nearer the gallery and scrutinized him closely. He stroked his mustaches with his left hand but still kept his right behind him. “I don’t know you,” he said.

“My name is John Wesley Hardin. I am told you have made threat on my life.”

“Say now, men—” Frank Wilson began, but Webb cut him off, saying, “I’ve heard of you. But I have never made threat on your life. You’ve been listening to the talk of idle fools, Mr. Hardin.”

“What’s that behind your back?” Wesley asked. His own right hand was inside his vest. I heard my blood humming in my skull and set myself to leap out of the line of fire. Jim Taylor and Bud Dixon eased away from either side of Wesley, and the men in the side street seemed to contract toward the corner of the building.

Webb grinned and slowly brought his hand around and displayed the unlit cigar in it. I felt my breath release and heard Bud Dixon’s low chuckle. Wesley lowered his hand and said, “Well, Deputy, I reckon we got no matter between us.”

Charles Webb shook his head, still smiling, and said, “Never did, son.”

“I was about to take a drink before heading home,” Wesley said. “Can I stand you to one?”

“My pleasure,” Webb said.

Wesley turned to go inside and Webb went for his gun. Someone yelled “Wes!” and I was jostled hard and fell back against the wall as Wesley lunged sideways at the same instant Webb fired. I heard a woman scream and Wes grunted and there was a simultaneous discharge of firearms and a bullet thunked into the wall inches from my head. Webb fell to one knee and his face was smeared red above one mustache and Wes and Jim and Bud all shot him again at the same time and he pitched over on his back. Then Jim Taylor and Bud Dixon ran down and stood over him and emptied their pistols into him.

Frank Wilson stood rooted with his hands up. “Not me, boys!” he pleaded. “Not me!” The square had cleared completely. Jim Taylor grabbed up Webb’s pistols, tossed one to Bud Dixon, and they both hopped back up on the gallery. Wesley was stuffing a bandanna against the wound he’d taken in the side from Webb’s first shot. Some of the men in the side street peeked around the corner of the building, guns in hand, and more men were coming fast from the other end of the street. “It’s all Brown County!” Bud said.

Sheriff John was hurrying over from the jail with a shotgun in his hands, and from farther across the square came Joe and Preacher Hardin. “Best take cover, boys,” Wesley said—and I ran behind him and Jim into the saloon.

The last of the customers were bolting out through the side and back doors. Jack Wright stood behind the bar, holding a pistol. Jim Taylor leveled his gun at him and said, “Our side or theirs, Jack?” Wright said he only wanted to defend himself if he had to, and Jim let him be. Alec Barrickman and Ham Anderson had taken cover behind an overturned table. They looked scared but ready to make a fight of it.

The street resounded with outraged accusations of murder and shrill exhortations to hang Wesley. “Listen to that,” Wesley said, grinning ruefully at Jim Taylor. “You boys put ten pounds of lead in the bastard to my two rounds, and it’s me they’re calling to hang.”

“It’s the price of fame, bubba,” Jim said, reloading his pistols. “You’re welcome to it.”

I crouched down behind the far end of the bar, cursing myself for running into the saloon instead of into the alley alongside the building. That’s what Bud Dixon had done, and he’d gotten clear. I peeked around the counter: through the space under the swinging front doors I saw Sheriff John at the foot of the gallery steps, trying to get the crowd under control. He said he’d already telegraphed the State Rangers for assistance and they were on their way.

“It’s a damn mob,” Wesley said, standing alongside the front window with a ready pistol and taking fast looks outside. His side was slick with blood.

Suddenly the shouting grew more strident and there was a cursing scuffle. I glimpsed Sheriff John struggling with several men. His shotgun was wrested from him and he was roughly pulled from my line of vision. I saw Reverend Hardin trying to break through the crowd, but he too was wrestled out of sight.

A large rock crashed through the front window in a spray of glass, followed by a volley of gunfire that shattered the back-bar mirror and gouged chunks out of the mahogany bar. Jack Wright gaped at the damage and cursed with religious fervor.

“To hell with this!” Jim Taylor shouted. “It’s nothing but peckerwoods out there. If we rush them all at once, they’ll run like rabbits or goddamnit we’ll kill them all!” He looked deranged enough to try it.

“No!” Wesley said. “I got family out there, you crazy galoot!” He ran to the side door and opened it a crack to peek outside. “By damn! Look here!” Taylor rushed over and peered out as Wesley gestured for Ham and Alec to join them.

“Well now,” Jim said, “ain’t that a sight!”

“Let’s do it before they get wise,” Wesley said, tugging his hat down tight. “Let’s go!”

He threw the door open wide and they raced across the side street to a line of untended horses hitched at a rail. As they swung up into the saddles, somebody shouted, “Here! Over here, goddamnit!” They galloped off as a barrage of gunfire cut loose behind them. Gunfire and curses.

As the front doors banged open I ducked behind the bar and hunkered down—I don’t know why, I was no outlaw. “Don’t shoot, you dumb shits!” Jack Wright cried out.

Boot heels pounded the floor. A terrible apparition in a red beard suddenly loomed above the bar, glaring down at me from the far end of the twin barrels of a shotgun. The muzzle was bare inches from my face and looked like death’s own portals. My fear was paralytic—I could not speak.

The barrels abruptly flew upward and discharged and blew a hole in Jack Wright’s ceiling the size of a frying pan. Sheriff John had snatched up the gun an instant before the redbeard pulled the triggers.

He shoved the man away and peered over the counter at me. “Holden,” he said, “are you all right?” As dust and splinters and flakes of paint descended gently on my head, I felt the content of my bladder spreading warmly over my lap.

The next two weeks were the most violent in Comanche’s young history—a fortnight of marauding and murder and vigilante justice, if justice it can be called. The events that followed did not, of course, possess the orderly coherence with which I now present them. It was a time of furious confusion, erratic report, wild and frightening rumor. Not until after the terrible culmination of those events was I able to reconstruct them in proper sequence and perspective.

Within minutes of Wesley’s escape, the town square was swarming with Brown County deputies. No, not deputies—vigilantes. Vigilan tes is what they were. They were joined by a number of armed Comanche residents who held grudges against the Hardins. The streets were in full clamor to hunt down Charlie Webb’s killers. Less than an hour later, posses were in pursuit.

That evening a contingent of Frontier Battalion Rangers arrived in town. They were under the command of Captain A. E. Waller, who went by the name Bill and who swiftly took charge of the manhunt. His orders from Austin were to capture or kill the outlaw John Wesley Hardin and every member of his gang who was with him when they did, and he duly authorized all vigilante possemen to carry out those orders.

Wesley and his friends rode directly from Comanche to Preacher Hardin’s house, about two miles northwest of town. They were met there by Joe, the Preacher, and Sheriff John. While Jane tended Wesley’s wound, the men discussed the possibilities. They all agreed Wesley had acted in self-defense and should therefore be acquitted in a fair trial, but Sheriff John said if the mob got to him it was likely he’d never be allowed to stand trial at all, never mind get a fair one. It was a blood-smelling mob they were dealing with, he said, and he wouldn’t be able to protect any of them against it. But the Rangers were coming, and Preacher Hardin wondered if they could be trusted to be fair with Wesley. Sheriff John said maybe. But when he got back to town and met Captain Waller, he knew there was no chance of that, either.

As soon as Wesley’s wound was bound, they fled to Round Mountain, some eight miles west of town. They really did believe the town’s fury would slacken, and that once the Brown County posse went back home they would be able to return to Comanche and justify themselves. However, when Joe and the Preacher saw the continuing hubbub in the streets, and when guards were posted at their homes, and when they learned of Captain Waller’s devout intention to see Wesley dead or jailed, they began to comprehend the full gravity of the situation.

The next morning Joe and the Dixons rode out of town before sunup, trailing a brace of racehorses on lead ropes. They were followed by a Ranger posse, but the Dixons were masters of the brush country and they managed to lose the Rangers in the mesquite thickets several miles outside of town. While the posse beat the bushes in search of their trail, Joe and the Dixons made their roundabout way to Wesley and informed him of the town’s deadly mood. Joe advised him to remain in hiding awhile longer. In addition to the fresh mounts, they’d brought plenty of food and ammunition, and Joe promised to return the next day with the latest news.

But as soon as they got back to Comanche, Joe and the Dixons were arrested and clapped shut in the courthouse jail. Captain Waller charged them all with giving aid to the fugitives, though they denied having done so. Captain Bill wasn’t the only one angered with them. There was mean muttering all over town about “those damned Hardins and all their kin.”

Then Preacher Hardin and his family—as well as Jane and young Molly—were taken to Joe’s house and there kept under arrest, together with Joe’s wife and children. Alec Barrickman’s family was also put under heavy guard and not permitted to leave the premises or receive visitors.

Wesley must’ve thought his family was still at his daddy’s, however, because he tried sneaking up to the house one evening. He was spotted by one of the dozen guards posted around the property and all hell broke loose. In the poor twilight visibility, the excited and confused guards mistook each other for members of the Hardin Gang and shot it out for several furious minutes. Wesley escaped—and without having fired a shot, he left two dead and five wounded possemen behind him. Captain Bill’s rage was apoplectic.

Now Doc Brosius showed up. He had arrived at Hamilton with the herd as planned, and then, wholly oblivious to the situation in Comanche, he had come to town to find Wesley. When he said he was looking for his boss, Wes Hardin, he was promptly arrested. He was interrogated for hours, then put behind bars. In the meantime, Waller sent a posse to Hamilton to apprehend the rest of the crew and take possession of the herd. Three of the cowhands eluded capture, but three others were brought back in handcuffs and locked up with Dr. Brosius.

Then even the weather turned mean. Daily thunderstorms flashed and blasted. Water tumbled down the gullies and the Leon River overflowed. Creeks swamped their banks. The bottoms flooded. The sky turned to iron and the rooftops clattered all night long under the relentless rain. The world was sopping and made of mud. Posses rode in and out of town around the clock. Sightings of the Hardin Gang came from every corner of the county.

A posse headed by Waller himself ran up on Wesley and Jim Taylor in the south prairie and gave them chase in a ferocious rainstorm. “I still don’t know how in the hell they got away,” a Ranger told me that night over a bottle of bourbon in Jack Wright’s. “We must of fired a hundred rounds at them while they was gutting it up the slippery side of a gully we’d boxed them in. We hit everything but Hardin and Taylor theirselfs. I saw Hardin’s horse hit three times and that damn animal didn’t hardly flinch. I know I hit Hardin’s saddlebags, and I saw him get a damn boot heel shot off. One shot knocked Taylor’s hat over his eyes—and the sonbitch laughed, I swear. You could hear him laughing like some kind of damn demon over the gunfire and the thunder. They had a hundred-yard lead on us by the time we made the top of the gully, and in another minute they were flat out of sight. I don’t know what they paid for them racers they was riding, but they damn sure got every last nickel’s worth, tell you that.”

In town the mob grew restless. Its mood worsened in the sudden cessation of news of Wesley. For three days after the Rangers lost them on the south prairie, not one reliable sighting of the Hardin Gang was reported. Hunting parties continued to comb the stormy countryside, but there was no sign of Wesley anywhere. The possibility that he might have fled Comanche County for parts unknown added to the possemen’s black rage. When they were not in the saddle, the vigilantes kept to the saloons, drinking resolutely and cursing the killers of that good man Charlie Webb—whose memory grew more venerable by the day. They drank and glared through the rain at the courthouse across the square and growled more and more murderously.

Shortly before midnight on the evening of June fifth, I was awakened by a clamor in the square. I stumbled to the window of my quarters directly above the Chief’s office and saw a mob surging at the courthouse door. The clouds had broken, and the scene was illuminated by a bright moon and a host of flaming torches. Shadows leapt and quivered on the courthouse wall.

The crowd roared as Bud and Tom Dixon were hauled outside by several men holding them fast by the arms. The brothers were spat upon and struck with clubs, and their hands were swiftly bound behind them. Another knot of men brought out a struggling Joe Hardin and shoved him into the clutches of the mob. His hands too were bound, and someone punched him full in the face. Then the three prisoners were swept into the square as if on a river current. My heart thumped in my throat. I could not spot Sheriff John or any of his deputies in the swirling crowd.

I hastily pulled on my trousers and boots and, still in my nightshirt, plunged headlong down the stairs and out into the street. I ran toward the mob, shouting I know not what. A pair of grinning men with clubs came toward me as the mob crossed the square and headed into the oak grove at the edge of town. “This is murder!” I yelled. I was clubbed on the neck and knocked to my knees. I recognized the man who hit me as a Brown County deputy. As I started to get up I was kicked in the stomach. I sagged on all fours and vomited while my assailants hurried away to rejoin the mob. Gasping, I got to my feet and staggered after them.

The mob had halted in a clearing and was swarming before a tall spreading oak—howling, laughing, having a revel, their faces devilish with murderous glee. At the fringe of the crowd I spotted a local townsman. “The law!” I shouted at him. “Where’s the damn law?” He stared at me as if I were speaking Chinese. In the flickering light of the torches, he looked stricken and ghostly, as stunned by his helplessness as I was by mine to do anything but bear witness to the horror taking place.

The torchfires brightly lighted the underbranches of the tree. A noose sailed over a lower limb, and then another next to it. A third flew over a separate branch. The nooses danced macabrely as they were lowered to eager hands.

A great animal howl went up as Tom and Bud Dixon suddenly ascended into the mob’s full view—hanging side by side and kicking their bare feet crazily. Their faces were horrifying above the crushing nooses. The mob cheered wildly, laughed, and threw stones at the dying men.

A moment later they hanged Joe from the other branch and the cheering was greater yet, the laughter louder at his distorted face and his pale feet flailing the empty air under him. There were shrill whistles and piercing rebel yells, and he too was stoned as he died. A woman screamed—whether in anguish or celebration I could not say—and a child laughed in firelit delight from his perch on the shoulders of a grinning man.

In the morning a Ranger named Dick Wade told me the Hardin family women were wailing with such grief in Joe Hardin’s house it broke his heart to hear them. Preacher Hardin had asked if the report of the lynching was true, and Wade had confirmed the terrible truth. At dawn he had been to the site of the murders and seen for himself the three dead men dangling in the cold mist. “The old Preacher cried like a child when I told him,” Wade said. “The only good news I could give him was that his friend Matt Fleming and two of his niggermen took down the bodies after sunup and gave them a proper burial.”

Sheriff John had been out of town at the time of the lynchings. He got back late the next day. When I stopped in to see him that evening he was red-eyed with drink and despair. Bill Stones had come to him on the previous morning and told him Alec Barrickman and Ham Anderson had been hiding on his ranch out by Bucksnort Creek for the past two days after having separated from Hardin and Taylor. Stones said he’d let them stay at his place because they’d once helped him round up some loose calves in the thicket and seemed like nice fellas. But when he found out it was Captain Bill Waller looking for them, he got scared for his own skin. If Barrickman and Anderson were found on his place, Captain Bill might think he was part of the Hardin Gang too. So he’d come to Sheriff John to give them away.

Sheriff John went out after them with a posse of eight men, including Stones. They reached the ranch late that night and sneaked up to within twenty yards of the lean-to set against the rear of the house, where Ham and Alec were sleeping. Sheriff John spread the posse in a wide half circle around the back of the house in case Alec and Ham tried to run for it. He had given strict orders not to shoot unless the fugitives fired first—but before he could halloo Ham and Alec and tell them they were under arrest, somebody in the posse squeezed off a shot and ignited a blazing fusillade of rifle fire that went on for a good thirty seconds before John was finally able to make them desist. It was too late to do Ham and Alec any good. They found them lying dead on the floor, still wrapped in their blankets, shot all to bloody hell.

“None of them would say who started the shooting,” John said, “but I know it was that Stones bastard. He was scared they’d kill him one day for turning them in.” He took a big pull from the bottle. “Then I get back here,” he said, “and find there was a hell of a necktie party while I was gone.” Frank Wilson and a handful of Rangers had been on guard in the courthouse, but they all claimed the mob had taken them by surprise and forced them to give over the prisoners. They swore they didn’t recognize any of the vigilantes. All the other Rangers had been out on patrol with Captain Bill. “Ain’t that something,” Sheriff John said, staring at me with a face as sick as sin. “Well hell, Holden,” he said, and toasted me with the bottle. “Fuck ’em all!”

And now Comanche knew true fear. The lynchers had mostly been Brown County men, but the murders had taken place in Comanche, and the good citizens reasoned that Wesley would therefore take the worst of his revenge on them. Black rumors flew through town like frightened bats. They said he would kill twenty men for each of his two cousins, and thirty to get even for Joe. He would fill Comanche’s streets with blood to his stirrups. He would burn the town to the ground and scatter the ashes. Women kept to their houses and prayed for deliverance from the wrath of John Wesley Hardin. Children slept under their beds and woke shrieking in the night. For weeks a dozen armed guards walked the town square every night and kept great fires burning at every street corner, the better to see his terrifying specter when he came to murder the good people in their beds.