I’d been drifting for nearly a year when I got to Abilene, Kansas. Back in those days, it was pretty rough, especially on the other side of the tracks, where all the rowdy cowboys were staying.
I was a mite surprised when two or three of Abilene’s leading citizens came over the tracks and asked for me. “We,” they said, “would like you to, um, uh, well, do something about Texas Pete. If you’re successful, why, we’ll pay you $200.00.”
All I would say was, “I’ll think about it.” Though they hadn’t outright said it, I knew what they were hinting. They wanted Texas Pete dead. $200.00 was a sight of money to a cowhand who didn’t have a job and couldn’t get one. Why, it was near 5 months wages! But to rid a town of a killer like Texas Pete, it was rather shy of a man’s hide. It meant something when a man had 15 notches on his gun, back when folks didn’t carve notches on their guns to make them look pretty. Even so, I was down to only three dollars and it would be mighty nice to be packing two hundred instead of three. I figured I might just go talk to those business men again and see about the job.
“You’ll do it? You’ll get rid of Texas Pete?”
“Now hold on. I haven’t said a word yet.” These men seemed right anxious for Texas Pete to ride out on his own, or else be carried out feet first. “Why do you want him gone?”
“He’s threatened to kill us for telling him not to come on this side of the tracks.”
“Why isn’t Bear River Smith doing anything? I thought he was marshal.”
“We told him not to do anything, because he’s worth more to us alive to keep everyone else in line, than gunned down by Texas Pete. Besides, his jurisdiction doesn’t go down to the cowboy town.”
“Well, why are you having me do the job? I’m sure there’s others who’d like to earn two hundred dollars.” Really, I wasn’t sure why they were asking me to run Texas Pete off. I did have a ‘tough’ reputation for being handy with a six-gun, but nothing more.
“There was others . . . not anymore. Johnny Kitchen said he’d do it. Well, Texas Pete planted him in boot hill within the hour. I hear he never even cleared leather.”
“I’ll take the job. But, mind you, I ain’t going to back shoot anyone.”
I was still studying how to best tell Texas Pete to move on when we met on the street. He looked at me and asked, “Who are you?”
“Who said I’d tell you? By the way, Texas Pete, California’s a nice place. You should go visit someone out there.” I figured now was as good as time as any.
“I ain’t moving on. If you say one more thing about leaving, I plant you just I like did Johnny Kitchen!” By this time he was only a step away. His hand dropped to his holster. Before he could touch his gun handle, I grabbed his wrist with my left hand and gave him a right in the jaw. The blow was so unexpected that he just fell over. I stepped over him and tossed his guns under the sidewalk. They say Texas Pete was real quiet the next few days.
I guess it wore off, because but four days later he barged into Jim Dodge’s General Merchandise store, (where I was) and shouted, waving his hands, “Get out of here, I’m burning this place to the ground!”
I turned and started toward him. “I’m afraid you aren’t.”
He just looked at me without recognition, and then it all struck him. “You-“ He shouted, his hand dropping for his .45. I whipped out my revolver and shot the hammer of his gun, which being an old type, went off. I don’t know whether the bullet actually hit him in the big toe, a tale Dodge adamantly affirmed, but he did hop and dance enough on his way out to grant credibility to Dodges’ story.
Texas Pete was the laughing stock of the town the next day. Headlines in the Abilene Caller read: “TEXAS PETE KNOCKED OUT BY STRANGER; TEXAS PETE SHOT IN TOE TO PREVENT HIM FROM FIRING STORE. The headlines were the kindest. The articles underneath were plain mean. To Texas Pete, that is.
I was walking by the print shop when the editor, James Westormore, came flying out. He didn’t have no angel wings; I mean to say someone threw him out. And I knew who it was. Sure enough, Texas Pete stamped out, after setting the floor on fire.
I was getting tired of trying to make Texas Pete get out. He just couldn’t get the hint, or else he wouldn’t. I was taking no chances now. I threw my Henry rifle to my shoulder and worked the action. Texas turned my way. “I reckon you better go back in that print shop and put out the fire.” Long ago I had learned that the easiest way to scare a man on the bad side of your gun in a stressful situation was to talk to him real calm, like you was talking to a preacher at a Sunday picnic. When you do that, their brain starts reacting like you’re in charge. Had I acted excited, I’m certain he’d have gone for his six-gun, but since I wasn’t, he just kind of looked at me, and eased back into the print shop, where he extinguished the fire.
I didn’t think Texas would come out the front, because then he’d have to get past me. And he was starting to learn that Hinsons are mighty tough and right knowledgeable when it comes to using a gun. No, Texas wanted no finale gun fight right here with a burning building to his back and a hostile town in front. And I didn’t cotton to the idea him shooting me from inside where I couldn’t see him. It was legal, because I did start the fight. Consequently, I eased around back.
Sure enough, Texas slipped out the back door, looking careful to the right and to the left. He saw a shadow move behind the picket fence and shot it. I could see that the shadow was a pet dog, and an old timer was behind it, cleaning his shotgun. As soon as his dog fell, that old timer got up, and, judging from the way he handled that shotgun, he was a tough customer.
“Hey, there, mister! Where you going so fast?” He stepped around the corner of the fence, leveling his 4 gauge shotgun. Texas Pete stopped cold when he saw the size of those barrels. Why, they looked about big enough to open up a hole in a man the size of a cannon ball!
“Why, I, uh . . .”
“Sherriff says I can shoot trespassers, killers, and wolves. You’re an almighty tight walking definition of all three. I figure you’d look better draped over my fence drying in the sun!”
If I didn’t do something quick, then Texas Pete and the old timer were going to kill each other. Texas reached for his gun. Just as his .45 was coming up, I laid hold of his collar and jerked him around the corner. At the same moment, the old timer fired both barrels. I had drawn my gun thinking I’d have to shoot Texas or knock him out or something, because a gunfighter like him would be coming around shooting. Turned out, I didn’t have to, because the shotgun blast caught Texas in the gun hand bad enough to render him subdued, especially with my gun in his ribs.
The old timer stuck his head around the corner, his shotgun reloaded. “So there’s two of you! No worries, I have two barrels!”
Suddenly, I remembered the face from a South Dakota range war. “Micah Williams, put that gun down!” He eyed me carefully before slowly lowering the barrel of his gun.
“That you, 5-Notch Hinson?” he asked, referring to the five notches I had on my gun handle, the only five I had marked, the only five I’d ever mark. They were for a gang of desperados who had murdered my wife and young son just over a year ago. I tracked them down and got all five in a fair gunfight. Since then I had roamed the west, riding through Oklahoma, Texas, Arizona, and New Mexico, seeking similar desperados and in that way helping to protect the good folk of the west.
“It’s me. Texas Pete here seems to have trouble leaving town. Think you could saddle his horse?”
“I’ll be glad to.”
Well, Texas Pete rode out mighty fast, notwithstanding his mangled hand. And I don’t think he ever came back. As for me, I kept on going, looking for more bad men like Texas Pete.
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Dusty Trails 