Forty Times a Killer by William W. Johnstone Read Free Book Online

him just a lad.”
    I scraped up the last of my stew, set the bowl aside, and got to my feet. “I’m going to see Wes.” I balanced my hat on top of my bandaged head.
    â€œSeems like there’s a sandstorm blowing up,” Glee said, looking at the sky and not at me. “If’n I was you, I’d step real careful.”
    Longview seemed a dark, joyless place as I walked along the boardwalk to the town lockup, my steel-caged leg clumping on timber with every step. Maybe it was because of the wind-driven sand that lifted off the street in tattered yellow veils, found every rip and hole in my clothing, and rasped like sandpaper against my skin that the town seemed so bleak.
    But more likely it was the melancholy fact that the Yankee law had John Wesley in its talons and would drag him all the way to the gallows.
    In those days, the Longview jail was a low, log structure with a single timber door with three massive wrought iron hinges, each hammered into the shape of what the French call a fleur de lis .
    Above the door was a rectangular painted sign. F IAT JUSTITIA RUAT CAELUM
    In keeping with the door, I figured the motto must be written in French, and I had no idea what it meant.
    It was only many years later when Wes became a lawyer that he told me it was Latin for Let justice be done though the heavens fall .
    Like me, he never forgot that sign.
    To the left of the door was the window of the jailer’s office. On the other side was a barred window, one of the panes spider-webbed by a stray bullet.
    To this day, jailhouses make me uneasy, but I swallowed hard and pushed on the door. It swung open on oiled hinges and I stepped inside.
    A tall man rose from the desk opposite from where I stood and his ice blue eyes warned Stay right where you are and don’t make any fancy moves.
    The jailer had a close-cropped square head, like a Prussian soldier’s, and a waxed mustache that curled up at the ends in magnificent arcs. But his forehead was disappointing, low and brutish with massive brow ridges that gave him the appearance of the lowest form of Negro.
    Nonetheless, his voice was pleasant enough. “What can I do for you?”
    He was a good four inches over six feet and I felt intimidated, like a puny David getting his first glimpse of Goliath.
    â€œI’m here,” I said, my voice breaking, “to see John Wesley Hardin.”
    â€œState the manner of your business,” the lawman said.
    â€œNo business. John Wesley is my friend and I’m here to visit.”
    â€œComfort him like.”
    I nodded. “If he needs comforting.”
    â€œHe does. Any man facing the gallows needs comforting.” The jailer ran his eyes over me from the crown of my battered hat to the fat bandage around my head and then to my down-at-heel shoes. His gaze lingered for a moment on the outline of the steel brace that showed through my pants.
    â€œYou can see him,” he said. “God knows you’ve got enough to contend with without me giving you another problem. What’s your name, son?”
    â€œMost folks call me Little Bit, but my given name is William, William Bates. Bates by name, Bates by nature, my ma always told me.”
    â€œUh-huh.” The jailer lifted the keys from a hook on the wall behind his desk and said, “Ten minutes.”
    â€œThank you kindly,” I said.
    Perhaps lest I thought him too friendly, the man then said, “Name’s Alan Henry Dillard and I’m a hundred different kinds of hell in a fight.”
    â€œI imagine you are.”
    Dillard nodded. “Just so you know . . . you and John Wesley Hardin.”

CHAPTER EIGHT
A Daring Plan
    â€œDid Dillard search you?” Wes asked.
    I shook my head.
    â€œGood, then he trusts you.”
    â€œWhat’s your plan, Wes?”
    There was only one cell, furnished with an iron cot and a straw mattress, a bucket that stank and a framed, embroidered motto on the wall