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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.