TL/DR

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.