Sixteen year-old William Ayres was sure he could be one of
the greatest gunfighters of all time. He longed to see his name and exploits written
about in the dime novels. Just what he would do to become famous, he was not
sure, but he knew it involved being good with a gun. He practiced every day with
his old Navy Colt, drawing and dry firing until he was sure he just might be
the fastest man alive with a gun. All he needed was cartridges and opportunity
to prove himself.
Every day William went into the woods outside of Jefferson
and practiced. He would draw and pull the trigger in one smooth motion. He mimed
firing until he could save up for ammunition. William was worried
about his nickname. Billy the Kid was taken. He thought he would go by Six Gun Bill
or maybe the Jefferson Kid. Ayres was
reluctant to refer to himself as “Kid”. He was slight and small of build. His features
were boyish and a bit feminine. His gun was manly enough he thought.
Ayres took a job far beneath his self-worth when he agreed
to drive some hogs to the railroad chute on the west side of Jefferson. His
handful of greenbacks allowed him to buy a box of shells. He was amazed when he
finally got to fire his revolver that he could not hit his target. He learned
from the dime novels that all of the great gunfighters could hit an ace on a
playing card with their six-shooter as easily as pointing a finger. He tacked a
playing card to the trunk of a slim maple tree and convinced himself he just barely
missed and he was fast enough to fire twice while his opponent was still
drawing his gun from the leather holster. Finally, William Ayres hit the trunk
of the maple right above the playing card and the Jefferson Kid knew he was
ready to take on the wild wooly west.
He didn’t want to ruin a playing card anyway, he convinced
himself. William had never played poker, but he knew the rules and was sure he
would be good at it. There was no reason to ruin a deck of cards, he decided.
After a while he became sure he missed the card on purpose. William stood and emptied
the gun quickly into the trunk beside the other bullet from a distance of about
eight inches. He smiled smugly. It felt good. That’s the way a true gunfighter
can shoot.
The next morning William walked into the bank, pointed his gun,
and robbed the teller of just over forty-five dollars. Ayres stole a horse and
rode rapidly out of town. He first headed east then circled back to the west, sure
he outsmarted any Sheriff’s posse. The self-minted Jefferson Kid was convinced
he was now on the road to fame and fortune.
Two weeks later The Jefferson Kid spent the last of his
coins to pay a fare to cross the Mississippi River into St. Louis. He was broke,
tired, and humiliated. Bad luck started when he lost almost twenty-five dollars
somehow. It must have fallen from his pocket buying supplies. Then, who knew it
cost so much to stay in hotels and eat in dining rooms and boarding houses? The
last place he stayed wanted a dollar to put up his horse in the livery barn for
the night. Then his horse threw a shoe and he had to pay a blacksmith to
replace it.
William rolled a drunk for a crumpled banknote and pocket change. He made a dry camp next to the
Missouri River in St. Charles, shivering in his blankets in the damp air. That
evening The Kid entered a poker game in a riverfront dive and lost all of his
cash in just a few minutes. He accused the winner of the hand of cheating. “You
want to take that back, boy?” asked the man in the nice black suit, his eyes
narrowed in anger. “I will allow you spoke in haste, being so young and all.”
William greedily eyed the modest pot in the center of the
table. “I ain’t no boy, I am the Jefferson Kid, also known as Six Gun Bill, and
I don’t take kindly to cheaters,” William spoke, his voice cracking just a
little. Two players on either side of the poker table scooted away out of the
line of fire. The tall man in the suit stood up. William palmed his gun as he
half-rose from his chair. He felt the slug hit his gut before he had his gun
half out of the leather. He fell
sideways from his chair, the shock and pain beyond anything he ever imagined. Tears
filled his eyes as he moaned in agony. His stomach felt like it was on fire.
“Six Gun Bill? More like Slow Gun Bill,” quipped the tall
man. The laughter hurt the kid almost as much as the bullet lodged in his
abdomen. The tall stranger gathered up
the pot and walked calmly out of the tavern. William Jefferson died three days
later, crying for his mother, in intense pain. He was buried in an unmarked
grave.
Fifty years later, Jacob Wyatt winched the trunk of a big
maple tree onto the slide and adjusted the saw blade. He began to cut long
boards from the heartwood. He heard a strange metallic sound on the previous
cut. He leaned over the trunk to watch the blade as he pushed the log forward
again. The big blade hit a chunk of lead from several bullets buried deep in
the heart of the tree. The log kicked back suddenly and with force, striking
Jacob in the head. He fell back, the saw blade screaming into the afternoon. A
bullet from the gun of the Jefferson Kid had finally killed a man.
