Forty Times a Killer (25 page)

I returned to my hotel room sick at heart. The man I'd known and adored as John Wesley Hardin was gone forever, in his place a scared, drunken imposter.

And only I could help him.

El Paso was a rickety skip in the middle of a vast, desert sea. By late afternoon, a strong east wind drove sand along the street outside and drove people to the boardwalks where the sting was less severe.

As he had for most of the day, John Selman was at his post under the awning of the New York Hat Shop, his eyes fixed on the window of my room.

Well, I thought, let him stand there all he wants. In a few hours, Wes will be clear of this burg forever.

We'd agreed to meet that evening at the Southern Pacific Railroad Station to board a sleeper train leaving at seven-thirty for San Antonio with a connection to Austin. In the meantime, I sat in an easy chair, a box of good cigars and a bottle of brandy at my elbow, rising occasionally to check on Selman.

Despite the windblown sand, he stood at his post like a good soldier, ever watchful.

That puzzled me. Why this interest in me? Did he suspect something and didn't want Wes to escape his clutches?

Only time would answer that question.

I rose and retrieved the Colt revolver from my valise.

During all my western adventures I'd never carried a gun, never fired at another human being. That was about to change. I prayed for one good shot, just one straight aim . . . one unerring bullet.

Yes, I said I prayed, but not to God. I prayed to the devil.

 

 

I arrived at the station fifteen minutes before the appointed time.

The train arrived twenty minutes late. I watched it pull in, load up with passengers, and depart. I did not see John Wesley.

A Southern Pacific slumber car was to be the start of my redemption plan for Wes, but it had failed. I knew there could be no other unless I made it happen.

I returned to my room, dropped off my bag, and shoved the Colt into my waistband as I'd so often seen Wes do.

Though the town lights were lit and the wind had grown stronger, John Selman had returned to his post on the boardwalk. I suspected that he'd followed me to the station and back.

That was all to the good. He was where I wanted him.

I walked . . . I should say
hobbled
, since my stump was paining me . . . down the stairs. The same desk clerk was on duty.

He saw me and smiled slightly. “The Acme. This time of night.” He told me where the saloon was.

“Do you have a back entrance?”

“Of course,” the clerk said. “Just turn right and follow the hallway. Good luck, Mr. Bates.”

Surprised, I looked at the clerk, but he'd turned his back to me and I couldn't see his face.

The back entrance took me out onto Overland Street. Despite the driving sand, it was busy with people and wheeled traffic.

My head bent against the wind. Constantly checking the position of the revolver, I turned left and walked along a street lined on both sides with boarding houses and commercial buildings. I can't remember its name.

Then I turned right onto San Antonio Street. The desk clerk had told me the Alamo would be on my left, opposite the Clifford Brothers grocery store.

I hadn't caught a glimpse of Selman, but I was sure if he intended to follow me he'd have picked up my trail by now. My legs dragged as I drew closer to the Alamo and faced the harsh reality of what I planned.

People passed, heads bowed, without sparing me a glance.

A windblown leaf hit my face, then fluttered away, and I found myself listening to the
thump-thump-thump
of my artificial leg on the walk, like a bass drum at a funeral.

The Alamo was lit by electric lights and glowed in the darkness. I walked closer and heard the voices of men inside the saloon. I was sure I recognized John Wesley's drunken laugh.

Despite the wind, the night was warm. The door of the saloon was ajar. I heard footsteps behind me and looked around, but they'd suddenly stopped and I saw nothing.

I pulled the Colt and stepped closer to the door. My heart thumped in my chest and my mouth was dry, the brandy I'd drunk sour in my stomach.

I stopped at the door and looked inside. Wes stood at the bar, his back to me, playing dice with a man I didn't know.

I swallowed hard. Dear God, was I doing the right thing?

Then the thought, like a whisper in my ear.
Take the shot, Little Bit. It's an act of mercy, the first and only noble thing you've ever done for your friend.

I pushed the Colt through the doorway and took aim.

“Brown, you've got four sixes to beat,” Wes said.

I pulled the trigger.

 

 

Before you ask, yes, I saw the bullet hit.

I saw it crash into the back of Wes's head, saw the sudden eruption of blood and skull—and then John Selman was on me like a rabid wolf.

He shoved me aside and I fell on my back in a heap.

Selman rushed inside and I heard two shots, then a yell of triumph. “I killed him, by God,” he shrieked. “I'm the man who killed John Wesley Hardin.”

You know, after that yell, I heard a few scattered cheers.

I didn't wait to hear more.

Sick to my stomach, I got to my feet and lurched into the night. My long torment of grief and guilt had begun.

John Selman, his hand on his gun, saw me off at the train station.

I remember his words to me plainly. “I knew you would kill him the first time I ever saw you. You had to do it, didn't you?”

“Yes, I had to do it. Once, John Wesley was a great man and my friend. I could not let him suffer any longer.”

“Well, you keep your damn trap shut about what really happened, understand?” Selman said.

“I will never boast of it.”

“See you don't, or I'll come looking for you.” Selman's eyes were ugly.

“No you won't, Mr. Selman.” I smiled at him. “You are the man who killed John Wesley Hardin, remember? You will be killed very soon.”

And he was.

Without John Wesley, the end of my story is of no importance.

I resumed my writing career, but was stricken with a virulent blood cancer and given months to live.

Fearing to die alone and unmourned, in the spring of 1914 I bestowed my fortune on the Sisters of Charity on the condition that I be allowed to spend my last days in one of their hospices.

The good sisters readily agreed, and now, as it snows outside, my last hours are at hand and the sisters stand around my bed.

Putting pen to paper is very difficult for me, but I am at peace with God. I know he's forgiven my most grievous sin.

I know Wes has forgiven me and will meet me at the gates of Paradise.

Oh wondrous sight!

Golden revolvers will be strapped to his chest and he'll hold the reins of two milk-white horses. And he'll be as he was in his shining youth.

He'll grin at me as he did so often of old and say, “Mount up, Little Bit. We've got riding to do.”

I'll run to him then, wearing my old army greatcoat and bowler hat, but on two sturdy legs.

And we'll

William W. Johnstone was born in southern Missouri, the youngest of four children. He was raised with strong moral and family values by his minister father, and tutored by his schoolteacher mother. Despite this, he quit school at age fifteen.

“I have the highest respect for education,” he says, “but such is the folly of youth, and wanting to see the world beyond the four walls and the blackboard.”

True to this vow, Bill attempted to enlist in the French Foreign Legion (“I saw Gary Cooper in
Beau Geste
when I was a kid and I thought the French Foreign Legion would be fun”) but was rejected, thankfully, for being underage. Instead, he joined a traveling carnival and did all kinds of odd jobs. It was listening to the veteran carny folk, some of whom had been on the circuit since the late 1800s, telling amazing tales about their experiences, that planted the storytelling seed in Bill's imagination.

“They were mostly honest people, despite the bad reputation traveling carny shows had back then,” Bill remembers. “Of course, there were exceptions. There was one guy named Picky, who got that name because he was a master pickpocket. He could steal a man's socks right off his feet without him knowing. Believe me, Picky got us chased out of more than a few towns.”

After a few months of this grueling existence, Bill returned home and finished high school. Next came stints as a deputy sheriff in the Tallulah, Louisiana, Sheriff's Department, followed by a hitch in the U.S. Army. Then he began a career in radio broadcasting at KTLD in Tallulah, which would last sixteen years. It was there that he fine-tuned his storytelling skills. He turned to writing in 1970, but it wouldn't be until 1979 that his first novel,
The Devil's Kiss,
was published. Thus began the full-time writing career of William W. Johnstone. He wrote horror (
The Uninvited
), thrillers (
The Last of the Dog Team
), even a romance novel or two. Then, in February 1983,
Out of the Ashes
was published. Searching for his missing family in a post-apocalyptic America, rebel mercenary and patriot Ben Raines is united with the civilians of the Resistance forces and moves to the forefront of a revolution for the nation's future.

Out of the Ashes
was a smash. The series would continue for the next twenty years, winning Bill three generations of fans all over the world. The series was often imitated but never duplicated. “We all tried to copy the Ashes series,” said one publishing executive, “but Bill's uncanny ability, both then and now, to predict in which direction the political winds were blowing brought a certain immediacy to the table no one else could capture.” The Ashes series would end its run with more than thirty-four books and twenty million copies in print, making it one of the most successful men's action series in American book publishing. (The Ashes series also, Bill notes with a touch of pride, got him on the FBI's Watch List for its less than flattering portrayal of spineless politicians and the growing power of big government over our lives, among other things. In that respect, I often find myself saying, “Bill was years ahead of his time.”)

Always steps ahead of the political curve, Bill's recent thrillers, written with myself, include
Vengeance Is Mine, Invasion USA, Border War, Jackknife, Remember the Alamo, Home Invasion, Phoenix Rising, The Blood of Patriots, The Bleeding Edge,
and the upcoming
Suicide Mission.

It is with the western, though, that Bill found his greatest success. His westerns propelled him onto both the
USA Today
and the
New York Times
bestseller lists.

Bill's western series include
The Mountain Man, Matt Jensen, the Last Mountain Man, Preacher, The Family Jensen, Luke Jensen, Bounty Hunter, Eagles, MacCallister
(an Eagles spin-off ),
Sidewinders, The Brothers O'Brien, Sixkiller, Blood Bond, The Last Gunfighter,
and the upcoming new series
Flintlock
and
The Trail West.
May 2013 saw the hardcover western
Butch Cassidy, The Lost Years.

“The Western,” Bill says, “is one of the few true art forms that is one hundred percent American. I liken the Western as America's version of England's Arthurian legends, like the Knights of the Round Table, or Robin Hood and his Merry Men. Starting with the 1902 publication of
The Virginian
by Owen Wister, and followed by the greats like Zane Grey, Max Brand, Ernest Haycox, and of course Louis L'Amour, the Western has helped to shape the cultural landscape of America.

“I'm no goggle-eyed college academic, so when my fans ask me why the Western is as popular now as it was a century ago, I don't offer a 200-page thesis. Instead, I can only offer this: The Western is honest. In this great country, which is suffering under the yoke of political correctness, the Western harks back to an era when justice was sure and swift. Steal a man's horse, rustle his cattle, rob a bank, a stagecoach, or a train, you were hunted down and fitted with a hangman's noose. One size fit all.

“Sure, we westerners are prone to a little embellishment and exaggeration and, I admit it, occasionally play a little fast and loose with the facts. But we do so for a very good reason—to enhance the enjoyment of readers.

“It was Owen Wister, in
The Virginian
who first coined the phrase
‘When you call me that, smile.'
Legend has it that Wister actually heard those words spoken by a deputy sheriff in Medicine Bow, Wyoming, when another poker player called him a son of a bitch.

“Did it really happen, or is it one of those myths that have passed down from one generation to the next? I honestly don't know. But there's a line in one of my favorite Westerns of all time,
The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance,
where the newspaper editor tells the young reporter, ‘When the truth becomes legend, print the legend.'

“These are the words I live by.”