Except for some things I’d done with naked women, I’d never felt such a nice rush up my backbone. I saw the future in a flash: we’d slip into the burg nice and quiet, and if we didn’t spot him right off we’d stake out their house and wait our chance and it would damn sure come and by God we’d have our man!
But first I had to take my leave of Neal Bowen without arousing his suspicions. John and I had arranged a ploy. I sent a telegram to “Bill Alworth” at the Duchess Hotel in Cuero, saying, “Bill, I like the store.” The next morning here comes John into Bowen’s store with his Ranger badge pinned on his coat and throws down on me with a shotgun and says I’m under arrest. You could’ve knocked Bowen over with a feather when John tells him my name ain’t Croves, it’s Harris Cobb and I’m wanted for horse theft in Travis County. He put the cuffs on me and got me mounted up and we trotted out of Coon Hollow with him cussing me good and loud and saying he’d blow me out of the saddle if I tried anything smart. Bowen and a bunch of other citizens watched us go with their eyes bugging in their heads.
We galloped straight to Cuero and took the next train to Austin. John took me with him when he reported to General Steele and told him what we’d found out. The general was impressed and congratulated me on my detective work, then went off to Governor Hubbard’s office and came back in an hour with the arrest warrant. That night we were on a train for Alabama. We played cards and sipped at a flask of rye as the dark countryside flashed past the coach window. Every once in a while we’d look each other in the eye and just grin and grin.
Rather than get off the train in Polland and risk tipping him off that we were there, we went on to the last Alabama stop, eight miles farther east at Whiting. The place wasn’t anything more than a tiny station house, a water tank, and a few small houses set at the edge of the piny woods. The midday air was hot and heavy and smelled of wood pulp. We went in the depot to ask the stationmaster where we might rent ourselves some mounts and found a handful of men gathered around a short, hard-looking fellow with a fresh blue goose egg on his cheek. He was telling the story of the fight where he got the bruise.
He’d got into it with a bigmouthed peckerwood and had beat the rascal like a rug. We were a circle of grins around him as he acted out the whole fracas for us, punching and kicking the air and enjoying hell out of it all over again. “About the time I’ve got him looking like stomped-on sin,” he said, “the sonbitch turns tail and runs off till he sees I ain’t about to chase him for the pleasure of whupping him some more. So he stands over there across the tracks and hollers, ‘Just you wait till my brother-in-law gets back, Shipley! He’s John Wesley Hardin is who he is and he’ll shoot you dead as soon as spit!’” Everybody roared at that. Me and John just looked at each other, and I guess my eyebrows were up as high as his. You see what I mean about how our luck ran on this thing. “Sorry son of a bitch,” Shipley said. “Can you beat that? I hollered back, ‘Yeah!—and my brother-in-law’s Jesse James!’ I tell you, that fucking Bowen’s crazier’n my Aunt Reba, and that woman talks to the trees.”
“Pardon me, sir,” John says to him, and shows him his Ranger badge. “I wonder if we might have a private word?”
* * *
When Shipley found out Swain really was Hardin, he got all excited and said he’d be glad to help us any way he could. “Hell, I like the fella fine as Swain,” he said, “except he’s the luckiest man with a hand of cards I ever saw. Takes me a week to win back from the sailors what he wins off me in one night. But hey, if that bastard Bowen really could sic him on me, well, I don’t need that. Besides, ain’t I heard something about a reward?”
I nearly laughed out loud at the look on John’s face. He and I had agreed that I was in for half the reward—two thousand dollars—and that if he cut in anybody else, the cut would come out of his half. He took Shipley aside and they dickered for awhile. I never did find out how much he gave him. For all I know, John shared out his whole half of the reward to everybody who helped us. But he never was after the money; he wanted the glory of bringing in Wes Hardin. For me, two thousand dollars was glory enough.
Whatever John paid Shipley, he was worth it. He was a mother lode of information. He knew for a fact that Hardin was in Pensacola just then. He’d gone to buy supplies for a timber camp he was operating upriver in Alabama. “He just sent the goods through today,” Shipley said, “and he’s bought a ticket for tomorrow’s train to Polland.”
He ordered a special engine and car for us and we rolled into Pensacola late that afternoon. A cool salt breeze was coming off the bay from under a high purple line of thunderheads. Our arrest warrant was for Alabama, but if we could take him in Florida we would, and damn the legalities. We’d leave that worry to General Steele.
We determined to take him when he boarded for Alabama. As much as he hated to do it, John decided we’d best get the local law to back us up, just in case the thing got mean. He went to the Escambia County sheriff, Will Hutchinson, and brought him in on the play, him and his deputy, Ace Purdue—and of course cut them in for some portion of the reward.
We stayed in the sheriff’s office all morning and afternoon, planning our moves. Hutchinson insisted on putting riflemen on the rooftop of the hotel adjacent to the depot. “We’re talking about a desperate killer,” the sheriff said. “I’ve read all about him, you bet. A few rifles on the roof will make a damn big difference if it comes to a shootout.” John argued against the riflemen but finally had to give in if he wanted the sheriff’s help. But he told Hutchinson that if any of his men opened fire for any reason except Hardin running out of the car with a gun in his hand, he’d hold him personally responsible. “Remember,” he told him, “this reward’s for his capture. If he’s killed, there’ll be no reward for anybody—and that would make Detective Duncan very angry.” I did my best to look menacing. “Don’t you boys worry none,” Hutchinson said. “It’s my cousin Nolan who’ll be in command of the shooters. I’ve used them boys before and they always done just fine. They can follow orders, you bet.”
If any of them had taken a look up at the hotel roof, they would have spotted the shooters for sure. Those stupid peckerwoods kept peeking over the top of the wall to see what was going on, instead of keeping their heads down like they’d been told to do. But Hardin and his friends were joking and laughing and not paying much attention around them. Hardin had been living in that region for over a year by then without a bit of trouble from the law. He’d gotten to feeling safe there. That was our big advantage.
There were maybe eight or nine other passengers boarding for Alabama. Hardin was accompanied by three fellas who worked with him at the timber mill. Shipley said the youngster named Mann was tough as he looked and would be quick to fight if he had the chance. The other two—Shep Hardie and Neal Campbell—had never been known to even carry a gun.
John and Hutchinson stood over by the baggage car, smoking cigars and chatting like a pair of old pals. I was standing with Shipley and Purdue near the ticket agent’s window. As Hardin and his party headed for the smoking car, he looked our way and Shipley and Purdue smiled and raised a hand to him. “What say, John,” Purdue said. He’d sat in on plenty of poker games with him at Shipley’s. Hardin smiled at him and Shipley and said, “Hey, gents,” and gave me a quick look-over and a nod, and I nodded back. They went aboard and we watched them through the big coach windows as they made their way to the rear of the car. Jim Mann took a seat on the window, facing front, and Hardin sat beside him, on the aisle. The other two sat in the facing seat. I looked over at John. He tossed his cigar under the baggage car and tugged down his hat. It was the signal to make our move.