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Authors: James Carlos Blake
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hawker down and started putting the boot to him, the squaw ran up and got in some pretty good kicks of her own, which sounds like she was ready for a change of men. The way the story goes, Simp took her to live with him in a cabin deep in a woods by the Navasota. They say him and the squaw were completely bare-ass and humping like hell on the riverbank one evening when a Yank hunting party snuck up and shot them more than a hundred times.
F UGITIVE D AYS
The El Paso Daily Herald,
20 AUGUST 1895
Frank Patterson, the bartender at the Acme Saloon, testified before the coroner as follows:
“My name is Frank Patterson. I am a bartender at present at the Acme Saloon. This evening about 11 o’clock J. W. Hardin was standing with Henry Brown shaking dice and Mr. Selman walked in at the door and shot him. Mr. E. L. Shackleford was also in the saloon at the time the shooting took place. Mr. Selman said something as he came in at the door. Hardin was standing with his back to Mr. Selman. I did not see him face around before he fell or make any motion. All I saw was that Mr. Selman came in the door, said something and shot and Hardin fell. Don’t think Hardin ever spoke. The first shot was in the head.”
(Signed) F. F. Patterson
The Life of John Wesley Hardin as Written by Himself
“I liked fast horses and would bet on any kind of a horse race, a chicken fight, a dog fight, or anything down to throwing ‘crack-a-loo’ or spitting at a mark.”
——
“I had been receiving letters from my father and mother urging me to quit my wild habits and turn to better ways.”
——
“I was young then and loved every pretty girl I met.”
——
“If there is any power to save man, woman, or child from harm, outside the power of the Living God, it is this thing called pluck.”
——
“Everybody … tried to help me and everybody was my friend, but the infamous police were after me and there were several mischief-makers about me.”
M y wife, Slider, was cousin to Wes and introduced us at a get-together over at Jim Page’s place on the Brazos River, where Wes and his brother Joe were staying. They’d come down after visiting at Slider’s momma’s house in Hillsboro for a time and everybody was damn happy to know Wes was all right. We’d only recently heard of the Yankees’ back-shooting murder of Simp Dixon and had been worried the blues might of got to Wes too.
We hit it off right away, me and Wes, but Joe was standoffish and we never did cotton to each other much. When I found out how much Wes liked gambling and horse races, I told him he’d surely enjoy Towash, a small but high-kicking town a few miles from the Page place. It had plenty of loud saloons and gambling halls, and just outside of town was the Boles Track where they raced quarter horses. On race days that little town was just booming with action. Wes said he liked the sound of it, and we agreed to go to the track together on the coming Saturday.
Joe wasn’t keen on the idea at all. “Are you forgetting there are soldiers hunting for you?” he asked Wes. “Soldiers who intend to shoot you on sight?”
“To do that,” Wes said with a big smile, “they got to see me before I see them.” He tried to make light of Joe’s nagging, but I could see it irritated him. I don’t believe he was sorry when Joe headed on back home to Navarro County the next day.
During the next couple of weeks we spent plenty of time in Towash, me and Wes. Like I said, it was a wild place, and Wes took to it like a redbone to a hollow full of coon. That boy would gamble at anything. He was the best I ever saw at calling the turn at the faro table—at guessing the exact order of the last three cards in the tiger, the box the dealer deals the cards out of. Calling the turn pays four-to-one, and Wes won himself just fistfuls of money. We played mostly in The Alabama Star because it had the best table layout—and because they had a dealer there named Sad Horse Tom,
F UGITIVE D AYS
The El Paso Daily Herald,
20 AUGUST 1895
Frank Patterson, the bartender at the Acme Saloon, testified before the coroner as follows:
“My name is Frank Patterson. I am a bartender at present at the Acme Saloon. This evening about 11 o’clock J. W. Hardin was standing with Henry Brown shaking dice and Mr. Selman walked in at the door and shot him. Mr. E. L. Shackleford was also in the saloon at the time the shooting took place. Mr. Selman said something as he came in at the door. Hardin was standing with his back to Mr. Selman. I did not see him face around before he fell or make any motion. All I saw was that Mr. Selman came in the door, said something and shot and Hardin fell. Don’t think Hardin ever spoke. The first shot was in the head.”
(Signed) F. F. Patterson
The Life of John Wesley Hardin as Written by Himself
“I liked fast horses and would bet on any kind of a horse race, a chicken fight, a dog fight, or anything down to throwing ‘crack-a-loo’ or spitting at a mark.”
——
“I had been receiving letters from my father and mother urging me to quit my wild habits and turn to better ways.”
——
“I was young then and loved every pretty girl I met.”
——
“If there is any power to save man, woman, or child from harm, outside the power of the Living God, it is this thing called pluck.”
——
“Everybody … tried to help me and everybody was my friend, but the infamous police were after me and there were several mischief-makers about me.”
M y wife, Slider, was cousin to Wes and introduced us at a get-together over at Jim Page’s place on the Brazos River, where Wes and his brother Joe were staying. They’d come down after visiting at Slider’s momma’s house in Hillsboro for a time and everybody was damn happy to know Wes was all right. We’d only recently heard of the Yankees’ back-shooting murder of Simp Dixon and had been worried the blues might of got to Wes too.
We hit it off right away, me and Wes, but Joe was standoffish and we never did cotton to each other much. When I found out how much Wes liked gambling and horse races, I told him he’d surely enjoy Towash, a small but high-kicking town a few miles from the Page place. It had plenty of loud saloons and gambling halls, and just outside of town was the Boles Track where they raced quarter horses. On race days that little town was just booming with action. Wes said he liked the sound of it, and we agreed to go to the track together on the coming Saturday.
Joe wasn’t keen on the idea at all. “Are you forgetting there are soldiers hunting for you?” he asked Wes. “Soldiers who intend to shoot you on sight?”
“To do that,” Wes said with a big smile, “they got to see me before I see them.” He tried to make light of Joe’s nagging, but I could see it irritated him. I don’t believe he was sorry when Joe headed on back home to Navarro County the next day.
During the next couple of weeks we spent plenty of time in Towash, me and Wes. Like I said, it was a wild place, and Wes took to it like a redbone to a hollow full of coon. That boy would gamble at anything. He was the best I ever saw at calling the turn at the faro table—at guessing the exact order of the last three cards in the tiger, the box the dealer deals the cards out of. Calling the turn pays four-to-one, and Wes won himself just fistfuls of money. We played mostly in The Alabama Star because it had the best table layout—and because they had a dealer there named Sad Horse Tom,
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