Chapter 3: "The Twin Oaks Kid"

I rode into a little town looking for a meal. It was noontime, and I had eaten only a small breakfast in an overnight camp. This town was so small that it had only one saloon! I looked around for a restaurant, though it looked like it would take a miracle to find one. Not seeing anything that looked appropriate, I settled for the saloon.

I figured that there was a good chance that I could find a sandwich in the saloon, since Mr. Jones always had the makings available for a customer who wanted to eat along with drinking his beer. I figured that if a body could get a sandwich in the saloon in Twin Oaks where I worked as a swamper, any saloon should be able to do the same.

With that in mind, I went into the saloon and asked about some food. The bartender said, "Well, if you can stomach chilli what is two days old, I can dish up some of that."

What the hell? I might as well give it a try. My stomach was so empty that I was ready to start chewing on my saddle if I could not find anything else! I ordered the chilli and a Mexican beer to go along with it. Pa had advised me that I should always ask for Mexican beer if I was ever someplace I did not know. It was his opinion that Mexican beer was always safe to drink, and I had no reason to doubt him.

The Mexican beer and the chilli were delivered in due course by the swamper to my table, and I settled down to eat. Man, that chilli was hot! Just the way I liked it! I did consume all of the bottle of beer before I finished my chilli, so I ordered another one. The swamper put the bottle of beer on my table and turned away.

I was reaching for the beer when a big hand swooped down on the table and jerked it up. "Thanks, Stranger! I have always wanted to try a Mexican beer, but you are the first one to buy it for me."

"Hey, that is my beer. Go get your own if you want a beer!"

"Ha, you sure do not know who you are talking to! I am Billy Bob Hooper, and I take whatever I want in this town!" There was no question that the galoot was bigger than most men. He was over 6' tall, not counting his heels from his riding boots. Not only that, he looked like he weighed close to 300 pounds, and not all of it was blubber!

"Put that bottle back where you found it or you are asking for trouble!" I had been bullied by experts, and this galoot did not look like he was in that category. I figured that he was used to getting his way without having to back it up with action, so I was not going to take any guff from the likes of him.

"Ha, where are you going to find an army to back you up, you skinny maggot?"

"I do not need an army! I am wearing all of the backup that I need. Now give me back my beer and get your ass out of my sight!"

That chilli was really beginning to talk to me, so I needed the beer to cool me down real quick. The bully reacted to my last statement by reaching for his gun. I do not know if he intended to shoot me or was just trying to bluff me. Whatever his reason might have been, I could not afford to take a chance on it.

I leaned back in my chair a little bit and drew my gun from my left shoulder holster. I am sure he expected me to stand up before drawing my gun, so I must of caught him by surprise. Anyway, I had my gun out and fired off a shot into the middle of his chest before his gun completely cleared his holster. I figured that the bully must be dead, but I shot him between the eyes just to be sure.

I had just finished my beer to quiet the chilli and was in the last stages of looting the body when the marshal showed up. He asked, "Are you the yahoo what shot Billy Bob?" I answered in the affirmative, and he said, "Well, let me be among the first to congratulate you! Billy Bob Hooper has been a problem practically from the day he was born. He was even kicked out of the Confederate Army for being such a bully. There ain't no point in asking if it was self defense. With Billy Bob, it was always self defense. I need two-bits from you to pay for the burial; there will be no funeral. I will call for the undertaker. You have a good day, you hear?"

"Thank you, Marshal. I sure plan to do that."

As I was leaving, the bartender asked my name. He wanted to know the name of the man what put down Billy Bob Hooper so easy-like. I told him that my name was Hiram Thomas, and he frowned at that.

"Hell, Man, the hombre what shot Billy Bob Hooper ain't no Hiram Thomas. Ain't you got a fighting name?"

I regretfully told him that I did not, so he asked where I was from. I answered that I was from Twin Oaks, Texas, so he said, "Mister, from now on, you are The Twin Oaks Kid!" I admitted to liking that name, so that was the one I adopted.

I had only gotten under $2 from Billy Bob, and I did not think that his gun or knife were worth taking, so I left them as a tip for the swamper. That job never paid enough, and he could use all of the help he could get. I rode out of town with a full belly and a new name, and I was not sure which one I liked more. Ain't that a 13 year old boy for you?

The next three days were really boring, but I kept riding north in hope of finding something worth my time. The only available jobs that paid a living wage were as a cow puncher, and I was not interested in that, so I kept looking. On the fourth day after my adventure with Billy Bob Hooper, I chanced upon another occasion where my gun was needed.

I heard some gunshots ahead and rode over a little hill to find a stagecoach robbery in progress. The shots I heard were the three bandits shooting the driver and the shotgun guard. They had just ordered the passengers out of the coach when I was close enough to pull out my Henry and take an active interest in the goings-on.

I dropped to the ground behind a few bushes and lined up my first shot. I squeezed that one off and hit a bandit in the side just above his right hip. He dropped like he had been hit in the head with an ax handle, and I turned my attention to another bandit. These galoots were not as dumb as the average crook and dove under the coach for whatever protection they could get.

The first man that I had shot was not dead, but he was out of action, so I concentrated on the two bandits under the stagecoach. They had spotted my gunsmoke and were firing in my direction. However, the only long gun they had was a shotgun, and I was well out of range for that. The other bandit had a revolver, but he was also outranged by my Henry.

The two remaining bandits had two choices: they could run away or they could hope to draw me in close enough to be shot. For some stupid reason, they did not try to run away. I had plenty of ammunition, and I was in no hurry, so I just stayed where I was and took my time waiting for a reasonable target to show itself.

Every once in a while, one of the bandits would try to shoot at me. I guess that, like they say, "hope springs eternal." Nevertheless, I was not about to give either one of them a chance to shoot me as long as I had the high ground. After a while, one of the bandits moved so that a leg was exposed. I guess that he was getting tired of staying in one position, but that was his undoing. I put a bullet into that leg just above the knee, and you should of heard that galoot scream in pain. I must of broken a bone from the way he was yelling and screaming.

The noise went on for a while, I guess 15 minutes, when there was another shot from under the coach, and the noise stopped. I suppose the third bandit had gotten tired of the noise his partner was making and shot him to shut him up. Damn, I hope I never have "friends" like that!

The desultory shooting between the last bandit and me went on for another half hour. Finally, the last bandit's nerve must of broken. He ran from under the coach toward their horses. I could see him and had a clear shot, so I managed to take him out with a shot in the back. This was the only one of the bandits that I killed with one bullet if you do not count the first bandit what bled to death while I was shooting at the other two galoots.