Chapter 1: "How it all started"

I have been following my trade as a Shootist for about 12 years, now. I got my start at a very early age. I was born Hiram Percy Thomas, and I can't imagine where Ma ran across them two names. I had many a fight in the school yard and around town as a result of kids thinking that a boy with Percy in his name has to be as soft as lard. At least once a week I had to prove otherwise, and I got to be pretty damned good with free-for-all, catch-as-catch-can fighting. I did not always win my fights, but the other kid knew, win or lose, that he had been in a war!

I was 13 when I killed my first man. It was not planned or nothing, but it just worked out that way. Jimmy Hawthorn lost a fight to me that he had started by calling me "Percy the prick." Well, you know how it is—no self respecting 13 year old is going to stand still for that! To make a potentially long story short, I beat the living shit out of Jimmy. In the process, I broke his right arm.

Anyway, as soon as he could get to his feet, he went to his pa, who was working in the livery stable close by, and told him that I had broken his arm for no good reason. At that time, my pa was on the other side of the county working the spring roundup, so I had nobody to back me up.

Mr. Hawthorn came charging from the livery stable at me, madder than a hornet. He accused me of deliberately injuring his son, and said that he was going to fix me for that. Well, I had no idea what he had in mind, but I got the drift enough to take off in a dead run. He was carrying an ax handle, so I figured that I could expect to come out of this thing with more than one broken bone.

It had been long known that I could outrun anybody else in the county, so Mr. Hawthorn only chased me for a few steps before he gave that up as a bad job. The problem was that a whole lot of other kids had seen me run away, and I was never going to live that down if I did not do something to protect my reputation. He shouted after me that he was going to beat me to death the first time he could catch me. I did not know if that was a valid threat or not, but I was really pissed off about now and scared shitless!

What's a young kid to do in this kind of situation? I truly feared for my life, so I ran home as fast as my scared legs could carry me. Ma was out working in her garden so all she did was wave a greeting to me as I ran by. I dashed into their bedroom and pulled out the old Navy Colt that pa had been teaching me to use. That came with a holster to be worn at the thigh, and I strapped it on. I figured that I was going to keep wearing it until Mr. Hawthorn had a chance to cool down. He was a big man, 6' tall and 200 pounds, so I did not stand a chance against him in an unarmed fight. However, Pa had done a great job of teaching me how to use the Colt, so I was pretty fast on the draw and damned accurate with it. The Colt was the old fashioned cap and ball style, so I had a couple of extra fully loaded cylinders to carry in my pockets in case I needed a quick reload.

When I walked back outside, Ma saw me and that I was wearing the Colt. She said, "Hiram, you know your pa told you not to wear that gun unless he was with you. Now, you go back inside and put it where it belongs!"

"I can't, Ma. It's time for me to go to work swamping at the saloon, and you know that Mr. Jones said that he would fire me the first day I showed up late." I then told her about the run in with Mr. Hawthorn and why I was wearing the gun.

Ma said, "Well, I guess you do need the protection, and your pa did say that he was going to let you wear the gun all the time when he got home, now that you were a working man. Okay, go ahead and wear that gun, but don't you go picking fights just to show off your gun!"

That settled, I went to the saloon. Mr. Jones, the bartender and owner of the saloon was not happy to see me come in packing a gun. He told me I had to take it off if I was going to work for him. I explained my problem with Mr. Hawthorn, and Mr. Jones agreed to let me wear the gun if it did not interfere with my work. I assured him that it would not and grabbed the broom to start sweeping up the mess on the floor.

I had just begun to mop the floor, starting at the back of the room, when Mr. Hawthorn came in the door. He ordered a whiskey with a beer chaser, showing that he was mighty upset about something. That was when he saw me in the mirror behind the bar and screamed, "HIRAM THOMAS, YOU SON OF A BITCH! THE DOCTOR JUST TOLD UP THAT MY BOY IS GOING TO LOSE THAT ARM YOU BROKE! I AM GOING TO MAKE YOU PAY FOR THAT!"

He slammed his beer mug against the bar, breaking off a jagged piece. He waved the broken glass mug and came running toward me. Shit, I was scared! Several people, including Mr. Jones, yelled at him to stop, but he never slowed down. He was less than 10 feet away when he raised that mug to take a swing at me.

I had waited as long as I could. I flipped off the retainer that kept my gun from falling out of the holster, drew, and fired. That broken mug was headed for my face when I pulled the trigger. I jumped back, not having any idea whether or not I had hit my attacker, but just intent on getting out of the way of that wild swing with the broken beer mug.

Well, the Navy Colt in .36 caliber never was a man-stopper, but I got very damned lucky. My bullet entered Mr. Hawthorn's throat and struck his backbone in the back of his neck. I ain't exactly sure what that did to him, but he fell dead at my feet. That beer mug caught me a glancing blow on the left side of my face, and I bear the scar to this day.

Shit! I did not know what to do! However, I did have the presence of mind to empty my stomach into the mop bucket, instead of on the floor. I had to sit down, and Mr. Jones used his bar wiping cloth to wipe my wound. That cloth was saturated with spilled drinks, so I guess that it held enough alcohol to wash out my wound.

Mr. Jones said, "Hiram, I know it was not your fault; you were just protecting yourself. But I got to let you go. I can't have nobody working in here what has shot a customer."

"Sure, Mr. Jones. I guess I better go home and get my ma to sew up the gash. Can you pay me for what time I have worked today so that I do not have to come back?"

I collected the 4¢ he owed me and left for home. Ma was all upset when she saw the gash in my cheek, but she did a right good job of sewing it up for me. I told her what happened, and she agreed that I did not have any choice but to shoot my attacker. However, she was worried about what might happen in the near future, since Mr. Hawthorn was head of the local KKK. Normally, they did not bother us White folks, but they was sworn to protect each other, so she was afraid that one of his cronies might take it into his head to ambush me just to get even.

That was something that I had not considered! I asked her what I should do, and she figured that the best thing for me to do was to get out of Twin Oaks. We had a horse and tack that was nominally mine, so I could use that. Ma made up a pack of food for me, and I packed what I thought I would need to camp out. Ma gave me a $5 gold piece to get me started, but that was all she had to let me have. I would have to find another job before that ran out.