This is a cherished family story from back in the day (circa 1800s). I’ve based my rather stylized account on one given in the Hendrix family history book compiled by John David Hendrix. The basic facts are as given in the family history; the dramatic embellishments–which I’ve tried to clearly identify–constitute the exercise of my poetic license.
Most of Mom’s family (the Hendrixes) originally hailed from Texas. I only mention that, because, 1) Texas is a wonderful place from which to hail, and 2) Cousin Harbolt wasn’t in Texas when the following, fateful incident took place, even though he was married to one of the Hendrix gals. Nobody’s said exactly how the two of them wound up in California, so we have a mystery right off.
The fact remains, however, they were there.
Now, Harbolt was a fighter, and he always fought with a knife. I guess he fought early and often, because folks who knew him said he was knife-scarred from head to toe. (I don’t know, but I’m betting the fact that he was in the saloon business may have accounted for a good number of those fights and the resultant scars.)
It seems a band of ruthless outlaws were operating in the vicinity (which we have now narrowed down to somewhere in California). The lawmen had done their level best to round up the brigands, but in this case, the law’s level best just wasn’t good enough. So, they approached Harbolt. I imagine the conversation went something like this:
Sheriff: “Listen here, Harbolt. We done rode all up and down this here countryside, chasin’ them rascals. But if you want to know the God’s-honest truth, we don’t even rightly know who-all we’re supposed to be lookin’ for. Nobody’s ever caught a good look at that bunch.”
Harbolt (keen-eyeing the sheriff, as he wipes down the bar): “You don’t say.”
Sheriff: “It’s true, though it pains me to admit it. That’s why I’ve come to you. Word has it, you’re a fearless, adventurous sort and not unacquainted with dangerous work.”
Harbolt (fingering a jagged knife scar hooking down his left cheek): “I’ve been known to get into it, I guess.”
Sheriff: “Well, here’s the thing: We want you to help us. Fall in with those fellers, if you can. Find out who they are and help us figure out how we can take ‘em. What do you say?”
Harbolt: “I’ll do it.”
And he did. He fell in with that outlaw band and got to know their names quite well (to paraphrase Marty Robbins). Thanks to Harbolt’s undercover work, the peace officers got all the outlaws. All but one, that is. We’ll call him “Blacky.”
Blacky knew who’d delivered his gang into the long arms of the law, and he meant to do something about it. It was probably high noon–as everyone knows, wild-west confrontations like this always took place at high noon–when he pushed through the swinging doors of Harbolt’s saloon … and shot him in the chest, three times, with a Colt .45.
Now, you have to think Blacky was pretty confident right then. Three point-blank shots from a .45 ought to put any troublemaker in his place, namely, Boot Hill. The thing is, in this case, Blacky had seriously–not to mention fatally–underestimated his opponent.
Grievously wounded, but utterly enraged, Harbolt reached under the bar, grabbed his trusty knife and–with three slugs in him, mind you–leaped over the bar and gave chase. Blacky–who, though no doubt astounded, evidently possessed a sterling instinct for self-preservation–lunged for the swinging doors.
But, as we all know, crime never pays and justice always prevails.
Just as Blacky hit the swinging doors, his boot heel caught. Down he went. Bloodied, but too mad to care, Harbolt was on him in an instant, his trusty knife glinting and flashing in the dusty sunlight, as he slashed and hacked at his assailant. He cut the man to pieces. (And that’s a quote.)
As he lay dying, folks gathered round, bending low to hear the last words of one of the toughest men any of them ever hoped to meet.
Harbolt didn’t disappoint them. “I’m satisfied to die,” he gasped, “as I’ve killed the man who killed me.”
