Forty Times a Killer Read Online Free Page A

you pushed the fight with Ben Bradley.”
    â€œHe cheated me at cards and then called me a coward. A man who deals from the bottom of the deck and calls another man yellow needs killing. At least in Texas he does.”
    â€œI was there, Wes. You kept right on pumping balls into him after he said, ‘Oh Lordy, don’t shoot me anymore. ’ I remember that. Why did you do it?”
    â€œBecause in a gunfight you keep shooting till the other man falls. And because only a man who’s low-down asks for mercy in the middle of a shooting scrape, especially after he’s gotten his work in.”
    I was silent.
    Wes said, “Well, did Ben Bradley need killing?”
    I sighed. “Yeah, Wes. I guess he did at that.”
    â€œThen what’s your problem?” Wes’s face was dark with anger. “Come on, cripple boy, spit it out.”
    â€œDon’t enjoy it, Wes. That’s all. Just . . . just don’t enjoy it.”
    Wes was taken aback and it was a while before he spoke again. “You really think I like killing men?” he finally asked.
    â€œI don’t know, Wes.”
    â€œCome on, answer me. Do you?”
    â€œMaybe you do.”
    â€œAnd maybe I was born under a dark star. You ever think of that?”
    Above the tree canopy the stars looked like diamonds strewn across black velvet. I pointed to the sky. “Which star?”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter, Little Bit. Whichever one you choose will be dark. There ain’t no shining star up there for John Wesley Hardin.”
    Depression was a black dog that stalked Wes all his life and I recognized the signs. The flat, toneless voice and the way his head hung as though it had suddenly become too heavy for his neck.
    In later years, depression, coming on sudden, would drive him to alcohol and sometimes to kill.
    It was late and I was exhausted, but I tried to lift his mood. “Your Wild West show is a bright star, Wes.”
    I thought his silence meant that he was considering that, but this was not the case.
    â€œI don’t kill men because I enjoy it. I kill other men because they want to kill me.” He stared at me with lusterless eyes. “I just happen to be real good at it.”
    â€œGet some sleep, Wes,” I said.
    He nodded to the body. “I’ll drag that away first.”
    â€œSomewhere far. You ever hear wild hogs eating a man? It isn’t pleasant.”
    Wes was startled. “How would you know that?”
    Tired as I was, I didn’t feel like telling a story, but I figured it might haul the black dog off Wes, so I bit the bullet, as they say. “Remember back to Trinity County when we were younkers?”
    â€œYeah?” Wes said it slow, making the word a question.
    â€œRemember Miles Simpson, lived out by McCurry’s sawmill?”
    â€œHalf-scalped Simpson? Had a wife that would have dressed out at around four hundred pounds and the three simple sons?”
    â€œYes, that’s him. He always claimed that the Kiowa half-scalped him, but it was a band saw that done it.”
    â€œAnd he got et by a hog?”
    â€œLet me tell the story. Well one summer, I was about eight years old, going on nine, and you had just learned to toddle around—”
    â€œI was a baby,” Wes said.
    â€œRight. That’s what you were, just a baby.” I hoped he wouldn’t interrupt again otherwise the story would take all night to tell.
    â€œWell, anyhoo, Ma sent me over to the Simpson place for the summer. She figured roughhousing with the boys might strengthen me and help my leg. Mrs. Simpson was a good cook and Ma said her grub would put weight on me.”
    â€œWhat did she cook?” With the resilience of youth, Wes was climbing out from under the black dog, and that pleased me.
    â€œOh pies and beef stew, stuff like that. And sausage. She made that herself and fried it in hog fat.”
    â€œI like peach pie,” Wes said.