Wes Hardin was the archetype, quintessential western gunfighter who, by his own account, had killed 42 men when he went to prison. (The newspapers of the day said 27, but who's counting?) He was killed by an El Paso constable named John Selman on the night of August 19, 1895, and buried the next day in El Paso's Concordia Cemetery. My focus here is on the cemetery and Wes' grave, but for more on the life and times, check out the webpage of the Texas State Historical Association.
Concordia covers many acres, but the Hardin grave is easy to find. Enter through the Yandell Street entrance and walk a diagonal path to the left. It's the one (like Billy the Kid's in New Mexico) protected from the brain dead by a steel cage. (Whoever erected the thing decorated it with crossed revolvers at the top, and you gotta know that would give ol' Wes a good laugh...)
Postscript: In 1995, a hundred years after John Wesley Hardin died, there was a confrontation at the site of his grave. A group representing several great-grandchildren sought to relocate the body to Nixon, Texas, to be re-buried next to the grave of his first wife. A group of El Paso locals sought to prevent the move. At the cemetery, the group representing Hardin's descendants presented a disinterment permit for the body, while the El Paso crowd presented a court order prohibiting its removal. Each side accused the other of seeking the tourist revenue generated by the location of the body, and no doubt each side was right. A lawsuit was filed, and the subsequent ruling mandated that Wes Hardin's remains would stay in El Paso.
He had. There's "the dark lady," he said. You see her at night, usually around 2 am, and she's just at your side and moves quickly past; she wears a bonnet and a dress that goes all the way to the ground, but the figure is dark and impossible to see clearly. She's there, you see her kind of out of the corner of your eye, and then she's gone... He's seen the dark lady often, he said, but the one that really spooked him was in a section of the cemetery near Wes Hardin's grave, and only happened once. It was around midnight, and he was just standing and looking out at the lights of El Paso when he heard the sound of hoofbeats behind him. Hoofbeats, getting louder and closer, like a man on horseback about to run him down. He spun around and -- of course -- nothing was there. He doesn't know what to make of it. Neither do I.
Post-post-postscript: A friend of mine in Wyoming is related to John Wesley Hardin. She has a Colt Peacemaker that he once carried, passed down to her by "Grandma Hardin." I'll write a piece on that one of these days...