Home : Gunslinger Sinners :

John Wesley Hardin

A Rare daguerrotype of the twenty-year-old. By this time, as one of the deadliest gunfighters in the Wild West, he had killed a number of men, had a confrontation with Wild Bill Hickock in Abilene, and was wanted by the Texas State Police and Texas Rangers.

John Wesley Hardin, who once described himself as "a warrior born of battle, a man who belongs to no man or set of men," is credited with forty killings in stand-up gunfights, ambushes, and running battles on horseback. The number may be accurate; whenever Hardin rode out of a frontier town, dead men were always left behind. The reason may be in his own philosophy: "There always seemed to be a man with a challenge and I never refused one ..."

Wes, as he was called, was born May 25, 1853, in Bonham, Fannin County, Texas, son of James C. Hardin, a circuit riding preacher who named his newborn after the fiery British founder of Methodism, and Elizabeth Dixon Hardin, "a cultured woman from an educated and comfortable family.”

Hardin lived most of his formative years in Sumpter, a small town in southeastern Texas, where he received formal schooling in an academy established by his father. He was a tall, slender, handsome boy, a natural born leader who organized footraces, wrestling matches, and contests shooting at marks. "We all carried guns in those days," he once explained.

In the winter of 1869 he rode into Towash, a wild cow town where brothels, saloons, and gambling halls were open twenty-four hours a day. The community was ruled by Jim Bradley, a desperado and killer who owned a crude racetrack on the edge of town and enforced his own law with a band of fugitives and gunfighters.

Even in this outlaw haven trouble was never far from Hardin. In a daylong poker game he cleaned out Bradley, who refused to let him pick up the winnings but took Hardin's boots and drove him out of the shed where the game was being played. The outraged, bootless Hardin borrowed a rifle, killed Bradley, and drove off his gang.

After playing hounds and hare with a Towash posse, Hardin finally reached Brenham on January 20, 1871. In a short time he killed two men, one a circus performer who drew first after Hardin had accidentally bumped into him, and a confidence man who used a young girl to lure him into a house to be robbed. Hardin took out fifty dollars in gold pieces and said it was all he had but promised to get the rest from his saddlebags. When the confidence man reached for the money, Wes let some of the pieces fall to the floor.

As he told the story: "He stooped down to pick them up and as he was straightening up I pulled my pistol and fired. The ball struck him between the eyes and he fell over, a dead robber ..."

The Brenham gambling halls saw a great deal of young Hardin. Here he met Ben Thompson and J. King Fisher, who would die together in San Antonio, and Phil Coe, who would be killed by Wild Bill Hickok in Abilene. It was Coe who gave him the nickname "Little Seven-Up" from Hardin's favorite poker game.

Hardin remained in Brenham only a few months. In March he left when he heard a patrol of state police were coming after him with a murder warrant. After months of drifting he ended up in Evergreen, Texas, where he won $300 from the notorious Bill Longley.

When he rejoined his father who was teaching school in Mount Calm, the Reverend Hardin urged Wes to continue his studies in Professor Landrum's Academy in Round Rock where his brother, Joe, was studying law. Wes, weary of running and drifting, agreed and rode to Round Rock where he enrolled in the academy.

He attended classes only one day when his father sent word the state police were on their way to arrest him. Hardin, as he recalled, left his classes but studied with his brother by the campfires of his hideouts. Professor Landrum agreed to give him an examination, which he passed; he picked up his diploma virtually on horseback with the state police only a few miles away.

In the winter of 1871, the Hardin clan moved into the north central Texas town of Comanche. Joe, who brought his wife and their baby daughter, Dora Jean Joe Belle Hardin, was followed by his parents, "Preacher" Hardin as he was to be known and his wife; their daughter Matt, a young son, Jeff, and several other children. Mrs. Hardin's relatives also joined them, including Tom and Buddy Dixon who were close to John Wesley Hardin and Manning Clements. As soon as he arrived, Joe became active in the tiny community. He joined the Masons and the Friends of Temperance, hung up his lawyer's shingle, and practiced real estate. A few years later he was appointed postmaster.

Assured by his father that "when the Democrats regained power I could get a fair trial but not under the Carpet-bagger rule," Wes said good-bye to his parents and rode for Shreveport, Louisiana, where he intended to hide out with relatives until the Yankees left Texas.

Before he could reach the border he was mistakenly arrested in Lake View for another man. There the state police caught up with him and made plans to remove him to the stronger Waco jail.

Hardin bought a .45 Colt "with four barrels loaded" from a prisoner for fifty dollars and his overcoat. He tied the weapon under his arm, killed his state police guard on the banks of the Trinity River, and rode back to Comanche. After a brief reunion with his mother and father, Wes took off for Mexico.

On the road between Belton and Waco he was taken into custody by a trio of state police. When the officers got drunk that night, Hardin killed them with their own weapons. "I took an oath right there never to surrender at the muzzle of a gun," he wrote.

Traveling at night he finally reached Gonzales where Manning Clements persuaded him to join a cattle drive to Abilene. While the ranchers rounded up their steers, Wes attended a relative's wedding parry where Clements introduced him to Jane Bowen, the pretty, darkhaired sixteen-year-old daughter of a local rancher. Hardin later recalled he fell in love with Jane the moment he saw her; she would always be "my life and my everlasting love ..."

Jane was attracted to the handsome, reckless young man with the awesome reputation. Before the drive started in late February they were engaged, with Hardin promising to return as soon as possible. Finally the herd was ready, the ranchers held a meeting and, although Wes was the youngest hand, he was elected foreman. Then one morning, the order was given, "Point 'em North," and the steers began heading for Abilene, the cow town with the magical name that made young Texans dream of beautiful "calico girls," endless barrels of whiskey, poker games without a limit-and a towering marshal named Wild Bill Hickok who didn't particularly like Texans ...

To John Wesley Hardin of 1871, badmen and legendary marshals "had as much influence on me as a snaffle bit has on a wild horse." The young puncher in worn boots, patched jeans, and battered hat looked amazed when he was confronted on Texas Street in Abilene by the stylishly dressed Hickok, by this time a living legend on the frontier as a man of consummate skill with firearms.

Hickok demanded that Hardin turn over his guns; the young Texan surrendered them-butts first. When Hickok reached out to take them, Hardin whirled the guns about in a "road agent's spin" and Wild Bill found himself looking into the muzzles of two six-shooters. Hickock quickly suggested they have a drink and talk things over.

Hardin returned to Texas in July 1871 to prepare for his wedding. On a horse-buying trip to Smiley he killed a Negro policeman who tried to arrest him and later single-handedly held off a fifteen-man posse, killing three and driving off the rest. The shooting at Smiley enraged Governor Davis who ordered his police to bring in Hardin dead or alive. Wes ignored the threats and returned to Gonzales and Jane, confident the governor's man hunters could not penetrate the tightly knit circle of kinsmen and friends in the county.

During the winter of 1872 Jane's father gave his consent and they were married in March. Hardin later insisted that as a married man he studiously tried to avoid strangers, who might be seeking to make a reputation as a gunfighter by killing him, saloon brawls, poker games, and Governor Davis's "carpetbaggers and scalawags," as he described the state police.

In July 1872 he was putting together a racing stable with Manning Clements and rode to Trinity City to inspect a mare making a reputation at the local racetracks. While waiting for a relative in John Gates's saloon and tenpin alley, he got into a game with a man named Phil Sublette (Sublet). There was an argument over a wager and Sublette threatened to kill Hardin. Wes lost his temper, slapped Sublette, then pacified him with a drink, and the game continued. After he had won Sublette's money he invited the customers to have a drink.

At the bar he suddenly noticed that Sublette had slipped out. Wes retrieved his guns from behind the bar as Sublette, armed with a shotgun, rushed in. Hardin, "hoping to avoid any new kind of trouble," fired over his head. A drunk grabbed Hardin and held him as Sublette fired, the gun's load hitting him in the stomach. Bleeding badly, Hardin staggered after Sublette who dropped his shotgun and ran. Hardin got off one shot, hitting Sublette in the shoulder. He continued down Trinity City's one street, firing at Sublette as he dodged from house to house. Finally Hardin collapsed, telling his friends: "If all the gold in the world belonged to me I would freely give it to kill him. I have one consolation, however, I made the coward run."

The unconscious Hardin was removed to a hotel where surgeons operated on his wounds. Manning Clements arrived with Jane and they remained at the bedside; Jane was told her husband would probably die. A few days later Clements rushed into the room with news that several armed state troopers had heard of the shooting and were riding toward the hotel.

While the horrified surgeons protested that he wouldn't last the hour, Clements and Jane helped Wes to dress and get on a horse. As Clements and Hardin slowly rode out of town, the troopers discovered Wes had escaped and set off in pursuit. In a wild gunfight on the outskirts of town, Hardin killed two troopers and received another wound in the thigh. But he and Clements drove off the patrol. As darkness closed in, they escaped into the hills.

By the following day Hardin was bleeding badly from both his operation and the new thigh wound. Leaving Wes at a hideout, Clements arranged his cousin's surrender with Cherokee County Sheriff Richard Regan, who promised not to turn him over to the dreaded state police.

Hardin, supported by Clements, rode to a rendezvous with Regan. He was put in a wagon and with Regan and his deputies riding on both sides, they drove to Rusk, then later to the Austin jail where, as the Austin Statesman reported, "Hardin is evidently tired of his troubles and seems to have no thought except to get through with it." In the fall of 1872 Hardin was transferred to the Smiley jail to await trial for killing the policeman.

A jubilant Governor Davis disclosed Hardin's capture and predicted the young gunfighter would soon be hanged. When he announced plans for his state police to take over the Smiley jail, Manning Clements arranged for his cousin's escape, probably by bribing the guards.

Battered, weak, and subdued, Wes rode back to Gonzales, promising Jane he would hang up his guns forever and return with Clements to their racing stable. Two daughters, Molly (Mollie) and Nan, were born, then a son, John Wesley Hardin, Jr.

While Wes Hardin was slowly recovering in the Austin and Smiley jails, the smoldering feud between the Sutton and Taylor families of Gonzales and DeWitt counties had erupted into one of the most savage of feuds in the Wild West. Towns and counties were armed camps, dead men were found on their doorsteps, on lonely roads, and cut down before the horrified eyes of wives and children. The feud's inception is obscure, probably beginning in the Carolinas, the birthplace of both families. The Sutton band was the stronger, and had the political blessing of Governor Davis and his state police.

Hardin realized Texas was no longer safe; he sent Jane and his children to her parents in Comanche, then fled to Alabama where he became a horse trader, stockman, and saloon owner under the name of James W. Swain. Ironically, the real Swain was a Texas marshal and Hardin's friend.

In August 1876, Jane, Molly, and John met him in Polland, Alabama, where Hardin had become a partner in a prosperous logging business on the Stick River.

In the meantime Brown Bowen, Jane's brother, who was under a murder indictment, joined them in Polland. After a few weeks he foolishly wrote to his father, Neal, Hardin's father-in-law in Gonzales County, revealing where the Hardins were living.

Some time before a young stranger who said he was interested in buying the Bowen general store had moved in with the Bowens as a boarder to familiarize himself with the business. He gave his name as John Duncan. Jane's father was impressed with Duncan's energy and courtesy and sold him several shares in the business. He was soon accepted as a member of the family, dining with the Bowens, joining them on the porch in the evenings, and playing cards with Neal Bowen.

Duncan was actually a Texas Ranger assigned to find John Wesley Hardin by Captain John Armstrong who had vowed to capture the famous gunfighter with the impressive list of dead men to his credit-and possibly collect the $4,000 reward the state of Texas had now posted for the capture of Hardin.

One day Duncan saw the letter from Brown Bowen. Late that night he read its contents. A coded dispatch was shortly on the way to Armstrong, advising him to investigate the mysterious James W. Swain in Polland, Alabama.

Undercover rangers were sent to Florida and Alabama; Swain was quickly identified as John Wesley Hardin. The gunfighter was shadowed and reports detailing his movements were delivered to Armstrong, recovering from a bullet wound in the leg. The Ranger captain, using a cane, obtained special permission to work on the case with Duncan.

On a hot August day in 1877, Hardin, accompanied by an old friend, Jim Mann, boarded a train at Pensacola, Florida, for Alabama. Without waiting for a court warrant Armstrong surrounded the train with his Rangers and local law enforcement officers. Four, dressed as passengers, casually boarded the smoking car directly behind Hardin. As the gunfighter sat down they leaped on him, handcuffing and disarming him. Mann, who was not wanted, ran down the station and was quickly riddled by rifle and six-shooter fire from the Rangers.

As Hardin bitterly wrote to Jane: "They had me foul, very foul, four men grabbing me by the arm and legs ... poor Jimmy was shot dead by the crowd [of Rangers] who were on the outside ..."

Hardin was indicted and convicted of Webb's murder, despite the testimony of witnesses that Webb had attempted to shoot him in the back. There is little doubt the Rangers viewed Hardin as a menace and were determined to get rid of him at any cost. Hardin later claimed some of his witnesses had been warned not to testify in his behalf. Comanche Judge Fleming sentenced the gunfighter to twenty-five years at hard labor in the dread Huntsville prison. The Texas court of appeals affirmed the conviction and sentence, not because Hardin killed Webb, but because of his reputation and "the enormity of his crimes and his associates ...”

John Wesley Hardin served nineteen years in Huntsville. On November 6, 1892, Jane died. Wes was stunned by his wife's death; Jane had been always there, waiting. Now she was gone. As he wrote Buck Cobb, "only Time alone can wash away the tears of [my] grief ..."

John Wesley Hardin was pardoned in the spring of 1894. He emerged from Huntsville a graying, pale, gaunt man, to enter a strange, alien society that viewed him as a curiosity, an anachronism from the "old days."

Hardin found former cow camps were now towns. Austin, where he recalled citizens fought off raiding parties of Comanche and Kiowa, was a bustling city. El Paso and San Antonio had trolley cars, brick houses, impressive stores, and public buildings.

Rutherford B. Hayes had been president when he entered Huntsville; now five presidents later, Benjamin Harrison was sitting in the White House. Old friends and enemies were long dead: Wild Bill Hickok - he now described Hickok in a letter as, "no braver man ever drew breath" - and Phil Coe, who had given him the name of "Little Seven Up"; Ben Thompson, who tried to talk him into killing Hickok during the wild days in Abilene. The Sutton and Taylor feud was long forgotten; the buffalo were gone along with the Indians, whom Hardin once told Jane he feared meeting on the Plains; only a few longhorn were kept by sentimental ranchers; and the great drives to the northern cow towns were fading memories cherished by white-haired men. Even Manning Clements, who had faithfully visited Wes every month in prison, was dead.

Hardin found his children adults, married, and with their own families. He was alone, a weary, sick middle-aged man, suffering constant pain from old bullet wounds and still grieving for the woman who had waited so long to join him.

Hardin had come out of prison a recognized lawyer. In October 1894, he opened his first office in Gonzales. From his letters he appeared to have had a respectable practice among the Mexican-Americans in that town and neighboring counties.

One shadow hung over his life, the fear that a gun-happy youngster might attempt to kill him to gain the reputation as the man who killed "the notorious John Wesley Hardin," as the newspapers called him. During the first years of freedom Wes carefully avoided saloons, gambling halls, and argumentative strangers.

In the winter of 1894, Hardin met Callie Lewis, a flirtatious, pretty young woman, many years his junior. Callie, intrigued by Hardin's colorful past, encouraged his attentions. In one letter, Captain Len L. Lewis, who may have been her father, warned him that "Callie is full of Hell ... perhaps your matter [marriage] should sleep awhile ..."

But Callie had completely charmed Wes and he courted her intensely. They were finally married, but after a month Callie returned to her family. The breakup with Callie was a shattering blow to Hardin. Depressed and embittered he returned to the gambling halls and saloons. He became irritable, morose, and overbearing. He entered politics, opposing a nominee for sheriff of Gonzales. He vowed in a letter to a local newspaper that "if he is elected I will not continue to live in this county." When the other man was elected, Hardin kept his promise and moved to El Paso where he opened a law office.

He was welcomed by the El Paso Times, which reminded its readers that Wes had been a part of Texas history, a man "who in his younger days was as wild as the broad western plains on which he was raised ... forty-one years had steadied the impetuous cowboy down to a peaceable, dignified quiet man of business ..."

Hardin was making a reputation as a criminal lawyer in El Paso when he met the attractive wife of Martin McRose, a cattle rustler. McRose, "on his way to talk about terms of surrendering," was killed by Ranger Jeff Milton and Deputy U.S. Marshals George Scarborough and Frank McMahon. The trio of lawmen were later indicted for the killing.

A rare photograph on a slab of the El Paso morgue shartly after he was killed by Sheriff John Selman on the afternoon of August 19, 1895, at the bar of the Acme Saloon. According to testimony of the bartender, Selman shot Hardin in the back of the head; the photograph reveals two gunshot wounds in the chest and upper arm.

One night Hardin, drinking heavily, boasted in a saloon that he had hired Milton and Scarborough to kill McRose so he could marry the rustler's wife. The lawmen were outraged. Milton went looking for Hardin and found him in a saloon. He offered to let John Wesley go for his gun but Hardin refused to face the younger man. Instead, for the first time he backed down and told the crowded bar: "When I said that about Captain Milton I lied." Later he wrote a note of apology to Scarborough.

John Wesley next encountered the Selmans, father and son. The younger Selman, an El Paso policeman, arrested the now widowed Mrs. McRose on a charge of carrying a gun. Hardin bailed out his sweetheart and went into a public tirade about officer Selman.

Like Hardin, the senior John Selman had a violent past. Charlie Siringo, the cowboy-detective, knew him as a dangerous man who had hunted Billy the Kid and more than once was on both sides of the law in the early days of territorial New Mexico.

Now he was chief constable of El Paso, a pillar of the community, and a very proud man. When troublemakers reported what Hardin had said about his son, chief Selman went looking for him.

On August 19, 1895, he found Hardin shaking dice for drinks at the bar of the Acme Saloon. Now the once superb reflexes, the deep hidden instinct of the hunted, failed to flash their alarm. Hardin never turned as Selman drew his gun, carefully aimed, and shot him in the back of the head as he raised his dice cup for a toss.

Selman was charged with murder and was defended by Albert Fall, who many years later would become one of the central figures in the Teapot Dome scandal. A jury acquitted him and he went back to wearing a tin star.

Ironically, several months later Selman was killed in a gunfight with United States Deputy Marshal George Scarborough, the lawman who had forced Hardin to apologize.

James D. Horan. The Authentic Wild West. The Gunfighters. Crown Publishers, Inc., New York. Copywright 1976.

John Wesley Hardin: Dark Angel of Texas Author Leon Metz describes how Hardin's bloody career began in post-Cicil War Texas, when lawlessness and killings were commonplace and traces his life of violence until his capture in 1878. A fascinating look into the mind of a man who is beleived to have killed thirty men. Winner of the Western Writers of America Spur Award.

---

top of page

back a page