Forty Times a Killer (23 page)

John Wesley was to spend a year in the Travis County Jail as his appeal progressed, so I will describe at some little length, that grim bastion as it was the first day I ever set eyes on it.

Imagine if you will, a massive building fifty feet wide by sixty long with walls of solid stone two feet thick. It contained twenty-four dank, dark cells only eight feet by ten, their ceilings two stories high. A lever arrangement meant that all the doors could be opened and closed at the same time, without the jailors coming in contact with the prisoners.

There could be no escape from such a bastille and Wes was well aware of that fact.

After we left the courthouse, Alice and I walked down Eleventh Street to the jail. Gas lamps lined the shady avenue. We drew many stares, some highly amused, others openly hostile. A couple of ragged country bumpkins were a rare sight—one to see and talk of later.

The coming of the Houston and Central Texas Railway had attracted many wealthy, sophisticated residents to the city. The beautiful Austin belles in watered silk fascinated Alice, their huge bustles and tiny hats perched atop masses of glossy, piled up hair in stark contrast to her own threadbare, homespun dress and shabby leather shoes.

As we walked, I vowed there and then that Alice would one day wear silk.

Foolish Little Bit, again building his rickety castles in the air.

We were ushered into a tiny visiting room partitioned by an iron grill. The prisoner stood on one side, the visitors on the other. There were no chairs or benches and no window, the gloomy interior lit by an oil lamp hanging from the ceiling.

When Wes was ushered inside, a prison guard cradling a shotgun stood against the door. He made it perfectly clear when he stared at Alice and me, he didn't like what he saw.

The feeling was mutual.

Wes looked really good. His hair was neatly combed and brushed straight back from his forehead and his mustache was trimmed. He seemed to be in good spirits. “So what brings you here to Austin?”

I smiled. “You, of course. How are you getting along?”

“Real good. My lawyers say I'll be out of this hellhole within the week.”

“I'm glad to hear that, Wes. Have you made plans?”

“Of course I've made plans. And the most important of them is to get even with them as put me here. Beginning with that damned traitorous dog Brown Bowen.”

I wanted to say
I told you so,
but I didn't.

“Take it easy, John,” the jailor said. “Keep it light.”

“Sorry,” Wes said. “But Bowen tried to pin all his foul and disgraceful crimes on me.”

“I know that, John,” the jailor said. “But you'll be a free man when you see him hang.”

For some reason I've never been able to fathom, law enforcement officers of every stripe liked John Wesley. The big jailor was no exception. Maybe they saw something of themselves in him—Wes's regard for law and order and his grit, determination, and coolness under fire. Whatever it was, he received respect and admiration from lawmen all his life.

In fact, Wes also liked peace officers. He proved that to me when he said, “Little Bit, if you see Ranger John Armstrong, tell him I've got no hard feelings. He treated me fair and square and he's a credit to Texas.”

“I sure will, Wes,” I said, although I'd no intention of ever talking to Armstrong again. My one brush with him on the train was enough. To bolster Wes's spirits, I told him a little lie. “I've been working on the business proposal for the Wild West show.”

Wes smiled. “How much funding do we need?”

I picked a number out of the air. “I'd say twenty thousand.” To soften the blow, I added, “But maybe a lot less.”

“Hell, twenty thousand is nothing,” Wes said, grinning. “I can make that at the gambling tables in a good year.” He thought for a moment, then said, “Or I can talk to Sam Luck again.”

“Either way, we can raise it, Wes.”

“Good. Then bring the proposal to me and I'll read it.” He slammed his right fist into the open palm of his left. “Damn it, Little Bit, we're off and running.”

“I'll let you read it in a few days, once I add a few finishing touches.”

“Yeah, take some time and get it right. I might even be out of here the day after tomorrow.”

“I sure hope so.” I believed him, every word. I really believed Wes's lawyers could work a miracle.

Out of the blue, Wes asked, “Where is my gun, Little Bit?”

I shook my head. “Wes, I have no idea.”

“Then talk to the Rangers, get it back for me. It's my property, not theirs, and I'll need it when I'm freed.”

Rather than suggest that asking for his gun might not be such a good idea, I said, “Hell, Wes, you can buy a new one.”

“No. I want my own Colt back. I've never used a revolver that balanced as well as that one.”

“I'll see what I can do.”

“I'll see what I can do,” Wes repeated in a high, sarcastic tone. “Don't see. Do it!”

“Of course, Wes. I'll get it for you.”

“Time's up, John,” the prison bull said.

I talked fast. “Wes, say howdy to Alice. You remember her.”

Wes gave my intended a stiff little bow, his face empty.

“We're getting hitched,” I said. “Right here in Austin.”

“Don't forget the gun.” Wes turned on his heel and the iron door clanged shut behind him.

Alice spoke into the ringing echoes of the door. “He doesn't like me.”

I smiled at her. “You're Bowen kin and he's upset about Brown telling all those lies on him.”

“It's not that.”

“Then what is it?”

“You're showing some independence, William, and John doesn't like that. He has nothing but contempt for you, but he enjoys the idea that you count on him for everything, even your self-esteem.”

I laughed then. “Alice, I don't have any self-esteem.”

“I know, because John Wesley Hardin took it away from you. But I'm going to give it back to you, William.”

“Well, Wes told me that he wanted his gun is all.”

“Damn him and his gun!” Alice yelled. She stomped out of the room, her back stiff.

I stood openmouthed with shock. I'd never heard sweet little Alice cuss like that before.

John Wesley's appeal dragged on for a year and kept him behind bars.

During that time, his family—he now had three children—descended into poverty. Jane, already dying from cancer, moved them in with Wes's mother. The Reverend Hardin had passed away in 1876 while his son was on the scout in Florida.

I can't say that Wes's spirits were high.

I believed that in his heart of hearts he knew his appeal would founder and that twenty-five years in state prison was close to becoming a grim reality.

Alice and I were married by then. She restricted my visits to the jail, but one day after he'd spent five months in his cell, I found Wes elated, beside himself with joy.

“Good news! Hot dang, Little Bit, I'll be out of here soon.”

Happiness is contagious, and I eagerly awaited the good tidings.

“Read this!” Wes yelled. His face fell. “You can read, can't you?”

“Wes, you know I can read.”

His face brightened. “Oh, yeah, that's right. You can.”

The jail rules dictated that nothing could be passed from prisoner to visitor, so Wes held a letter up to the iron grill. “Read it!” he shouted, or I should say
roared.

The prison guard stirred uneasily and gripped his scattergun tighter, his eyes never leaving Wes for a moment.

I moved closer to the grill, and saw that the letter was from Elizabeth, Wes's ma. After telling her son to praise the Lord and look to Heaven for guidance, she wrote:

After I indicated that I'd read the letter, Wes said, “Well, what do you think? Don't Ma milk a good cow?”

Since his attorneys had used this same argument before the jury that found Wes guilty, I figured his ma was milking a dry cow.

As it happened, indeed she was. The reverend's statement never saw the light of day.

But I withheld my gloomy misgivings. “Wes, that's wonderful. Just wonderful.”

“Damn right it is. Everybody believes a reverend, don't they?” Wes carefully folded up the letter and put it in his pocket. “You get my Colt back?”

I lied my way out of that question. “I sure did. Ranger Armstrong gave it to me and it looks as good as new.”

“They hung Brown Bowen,” Wes said. “They say he died pretty well.”

I nodded. “Heard that.”

“There will be others like him when the reckoning comes.”

I didn't know the guard and he looked mean. I changed the subject. “I'm still working on the business proposal for the show.”

“Yeah, good,” Wes said, with little enthusiasm. He looked me over. “You look like hell, even skinnier. That woman not taking care of you?”

“She takes care of me just fine.”

“How's the leg?”

“Bad as ever.”

“All right, that's enough. Move it, Hardin.” This from the guard.

Then this from Wes, “Sure thing, boss.”

After he was gone, I felt oddly depressed about two things. The first was that Wes didn't remember that I was a reader, the second that he was losing the respect of his jailors.

Later, I read in the newspaper that Wes had beaten an old trusty to within an inch of his life for being late with his dinner. This might explain the change in attitude of the guards.

But his memory slip troubled me. It was the first indication I had that Wes's mind was going. It would be a long, destructive process, spanning decades, but in the end it would contribute to his death.

Alice found work as a kitchen maid while I stayed at home to write what I knew best—dime novel tales of the West, its heroes, bad men, and beautiful maidens in every stage of distress.

After a few tries, I got the hang of the thing, and was soon selling on a regular basis.

From this happy time in my life, I'm sure you recall that my best sale was for a book I wrote in less than a week.
Hands Up!
Or
John Wesley Rides The Vengeance Trail.

Sadly, the day the novel came out, Wes's appeal being denied, he was transferred to the Huntsville Penitentiary in June of 1879 to east Texas to begin his quarter-century of confinement.

I wrote him and gave him my address,
Mr. & Mrs. William Bates, 27 Sunnycourt Crescent, Austin, Texas
, and asked how he was faring in that dreadful prison.

Several months later, Wes replied. He addressed the envelope to
Little Bit, Esq.
He said he'd already made two attempts at escape, and both were foiled. After the second one . . .

Wes's letter depressed me and may have been the cause of my bad leg finally giving out on me two days after Christmas. Cancerous, it was amputated in my own bedroom. The surgeon used chloroform so I felt little at the time, but the stump pained me considerably and my drinking worsened.

I experienced even greater pain when Alice, who'd been failing for some time, died of what a doctor said was, “consumption and a mighty hard life.” She passed away in the spring of 1881, not yet twenty years of age.

I was lost. The happiness I'd known had been abruptly snatched away from me, and I turned more and more to the whiskey bottle for solace. Yet through it all I continued to write, thanks to the urging of my editor, Frank Starr, a fine man who never gave up on me. I was, I believe, the first drunken writer in Texas, though others have since followed my path.

My novels sold very well, and, despite myself, I began to prosper.

I was fitted with a fine artificial leg that helped me walk better than I ever had before, and I gradually reduced the amount of whiskey I drank. By 1884, the Little Bit of old was gone forever. My old leg brace, bowler hat and filthy army greatcoat I burned . . . and with them the name, Little Bit.

I was a fairly rich man and I dressed the part, favoring three-piece ditto suits of somber shade and winged collars with an ascot tie and diamond stickpin.

 

 

“Bill, you owe that man nothing,” Frank Starr said. “What did he ever do for you but turn you into a drunk and a fugitive?”

We sat in my parlor while Cassie, my housemaid, served us afternoon tea, Frank being a temperate man.

“I owe him a great deal. Wes helped me survive. What chance did a crippled little runt like me have in Texas after the war? Wes was my protector and my inspiration. I wanted to be like him.”

“If you'd turned out like him, you'd be serving time in Huntsville right now.”

“Maybe, but without John Wesley, I'd probably be dead.”

Cassie poured the tea and I said, “Earl Grey. I hope you like it. I understand it's a favorite of old Queen Vic. And please make a trial of the sponge cake.”

After Frank declared the tea good and the cake better, I reached into my inside coat pocket and produced a letter and a newspaper clipping. I passed the clip to Frank, but he declined.

“I left my spectacles on the train from New York,” he said. “I'm afraid you'll have to read it to me.”

“It's short. The newspaper is dated September 12, 1884, and it says, ‘The health of the notorious John Wesley Hardin is very bad and has taken a turn for the worse. He is not expected to survive much longer. He has served out five of his twenty-five year sentence.”

“Well, I guess I'm sorry to hear that,” Frank said. “But what has it got to do with you?”

I opened Wes's letter. “This may explain why.”

I read aloud, “‘The shotgun wounds I got from Phil Sublett and the pistol ball injury that Charlie Webb inflicted on me became first inflamed and then abscessed. Little Bit, they did not allow me in the prison hospital but confined me to my cell where I lay in great pain for eight months. When they thought I was recovered, they told me I must work in the rock quarry, but I spit in their eye. I was lashed and after two weeks on a bread and water diet, was sent to make quilts in the tailor shop.'”

I looked at Frank and said, “And then this. ‘No one comes to visit anymore. Manny came a few times but not for the past couple years. Has the world forgotten me, Little Bit?'”

Frank flicked the letter with his forefinger and smiled. “No, Mr. Hardin. The world's moved on and you've been left behind.”

“I've not left Wes behind,” I said. “I'm going to visit him.”

“Bill, you just signed a contract for four more novels.”

“And I'll meet my deadlines. I'll only be gone for a week at most.”

Frank drew a deep breath. “I hope you know what you're doing. Hardin has always been a baleful influence on you and I'd hate to see you go back to what you were.”

“What was I?”

“I can tell you what you were
not
. You were not a successful, respected author who makes enough money to live comfortably for the rest of his life.”

I smiled at that. “Trust me, Frank, I won't stumble and fall.”

“Then I'll take you at your word,” Frank Starr said. “I don't want to bury you in a pauper's grave like I did Edgar Allan Poe.”