Chapter 2

Currently, I had no job, and I was living on the money I had received when I sold my Vermont farm. That could not go on forever, and it was time for me to buckle down and start earning some money. By the time I bought that second Remington and a derringer hideout gun, I would have only about $60 left to my name.

I wound up that evening spending some time talking to the bartender of the first saloon that I came to. I had just launched into the story of my life, at least the part I was willing to talk about, when the local marshal joined the conversation. He was sympathetic about what I was looking for, but he did ask, “Are you just putting off settling down, or are you serious about your hunt?”

“I am serious, all right. The problem is that farming in Vermont has soured me on that kind of life. I am looking for something with more excitement in it. It will be a long time before I could be happy just standing around watching plants grow!”

The bartender laughed, and said to the marshal, “How about we steer Mr. Adams toward some sort of lawman’s job?”

This time, the marshal laughed. “Hell, Bob, you know as well as I do that being a marshal is mostly boredom piled on top of boredom. My joy is that I like it that way. No, the only way to get much excitement in being a lawman is to become a bounty hunter.”

I chipped in with, “Bounty hunters have a bad name, do they not?”

“Yeah, that may be, but they are a necessary part of the West. My authority extends only to the town limits, unless it is in hot pursuit. That is one of the things that makes being a town marshal so quiet. On the other hand, being a deputy sheriff will extend your authority as far as the county line. There it stops, even for hot pursuit. The only place I know of with a real working state police is in Texas with the Rangers. Somehow or other, they have the authority to go anywhere in the United States, but they stick to Texas, mostly.

“Bounty hunters are in a unique position. They are not licensed or charged by any specific government, but they can go anywhere they like, even to Mexico or Canada. Of course, then they would have to deal with those governments, and that ain’t such a great idea.

“All you need to be a bounty hunter are a gun and guts. When you pick up a prisoner, dead or alive, as the case may be, you turn him into the nearest marshal and get a receipt. Then you take that receipt to the nearest court house to collect your bounty or reward. You pick up reward posters at the same court house. By the time a man makes it to a reward poster, he is wanted dead or alive, and I suggest that dead is the best deal for you and everybody else.”

I thought for a moment. “Okay, I guess that I will become a bounty hunter. At least, I will give it a try. Where is the nearest court house?”

“Try Coffee Springs. NMT (New Mexico Territory) counties are damned large, so there are court houses in places besides the county seat. Pick up some posters and start riding around looking for trouble.”

“Thank you for the advice, Gentlemen. I will become a bounty hunter as of tomorrow.”

I spent another hour listening to the local gossip, but finally decided to call it a day. The local hotel did not impress me, so I spent the night with my horse on a pile of hay at the livery stable.

The next day after breakfast, I went around to the local gunsmith to purchase a second revolver. That was when I was introduced to the Starr DA. I had heard of them, but had never used one. The “DA” stands for double-action, and that means that pulling the trigger also cocks the hammer, a great time saver. I tried one out at the gunsmith’s range, and immediately fell in love with the gun’s action.

I traded in my Remington single-action for two Starr DAs in .44-40 caliber to match my Winchester. I also picked up a double barrel derringer reworked to use shotgun shells in .410 size. They contained three #00 ( .33 caliber) buckshot and was deadly up to about 10-15 feet. Perfect for a hideout gun, or so I was told.

When I walked out of the shop, I was down to only two double-eagles and some change, but I did feel a whole lot safer. I was sold on the idea of a sawed-off shotgun, too, but I was going to need more money before I went in for that. Maybe I would be lucky before I starved to death.

I got directions and rode out toward Coffee Springs. I had been watching for road agents ever since I crossed the Mississippi River at St. Louis, but I had never seen one. It may have been that I looked so disreputable in my traveling clothes that I was written off as not worth the effort. Up until St. Louis, I had been traveling by train, but I had to start riding a horse at that point. Fortunately, I had been in the cavalry, so I knew how to ride. My only minor problem had been getting used to the Western style of saddle after enduring four years of the McClellan saddle issued by the army. That really was not a problem because the Western saddle was so much of an improvement.

Anyway, the idea had occurred to me that I should look a bit more prosperous if people were going to take me seriously, so I was better dressed than I had been. It looked like I may have been correct about my manner of dress, because I was accosted by a road agent about mid-morning. There were no trees in this area, but there was tall grass, so he had hidden himself easily behind a low hill.

He was about 15 feet away when he appeared. “Stand and deliver!” I wondered how that old English expression had managed to become popular in the West. It certainly was not open to interpretation when a gun was pointing at one’s belly.

Like any other greenhorn, I was somewhat surprised by the brigand’s sudden appearance. At least, I had the good sense to raise my hands. “Give me all of the money you have, and be quick about it.” His gun was cocked, so I was not about to argue with him.

“My money is in my pants pocket. I will have to put my hands down to fetch it.”

“Okay, but remember that I am ready to shoot at a false move.”

“Yes, Sir. I can see that.” Now I immediately saw the advantages of a pistol in a crossdraw holster at my right waist. The pistol butt was pointed the wrong way for quick use by my right hand, and that appeared to be as far as the road agent was prepared to think.

It is hard to put your hand in your pocket while seated in a saddle, so the road agent was not concerned when I moved my left hand over to pull the pocket into a better entry position. As I slid my right hand into the pocket, I released it with my left hand and drew my pistol as fast as possible with my left hand.

In my company, it had been the practice to hold the saber in the right hand and the pistol in the left hand; therefore, I had plenty of practice shooting with my left hand, and I had gotten pretty damned good at that task.

The road agent never seemed to notice that I had my pistol in my left hand. I whipped it around and fired two shots as fast as I could pull the trigger. That double-action really made a difference! The first bullet hit the brigand in the chest and the second bullet hit him in the hand holding the gun. That was enough to spoil his aim when he reflexively pulled the trigger of his Colt. I did not know where the bullet went, and I certainly did not care when it missed both me and my horse.

I wish that I could take credit for where my bullets went, but I will just have to chalk them up to Lady Luck, whom I thanked fervently for her good graces. The road agent did not fall from his horse, so I was even saved some work in that case.

I have a pretty good memory, and I remembered seeing this man’s face on a wanted poster; therefore, I was going to deliver him to the nearest marshal. I dismounted and tied his feet together under his horse’s belly so that he would not fall when his horse walked. I did not remember the bounty for this man, but that was kind of beside the point. The main thing was that I had just made my first “capture” as a bounty hunter.