Northfield (14 page)

That’s where we got the notion to leave all of our horses. Jim Younger was right. If we kept stealing horses and borrowing youthful guides, the laws would find us certain sure, but it also came to Jesse that the posse would be chasing six men on horses. One of the horses we had borrowed was a fancy bright gelding. “Yaller horse,” Charlie called it, and it was sure to attract attention. ’Course, we could have simply left that horse, but we figured on making better time afoot in the brambles and sloughs and woods. We’d sneak on past the posses.

That’s what we done.

This is the life of an outlaw, worse than being chased by Pinkertons or Redlegs, worse than anything I’d experienced in Missouri during our war for liberty. We made four miles the first day afoot. When the rain stopped, the mosquitoes came out, and Jim’s shoulder wound started festering. I figured Bob—in fever, delirious, breaking sticks in his mouth the pain was so fierce—would wind up losing that arm, or the rot would set in and kill him. After the mosquitoes had damned near sucked us dry, the rains would start again, damned torrents.

We ate watermelons till we grew sick of them. Green corn that laid some of us low with bowel complaints. I cussed Jesse and his idea to abandon the horses, not so much for not having anything to ride, but I figured I could always cut a sliver off the saddle strings and chew on it like jerky.

We walked, trudging along through mud, fording sloughs when we had to, soaked to the skin, about to catch our deaths.

The worst came after Jesse and Charlie snuck up to this farm, and caught us chickens and a turkey and, after wringing their necks, brought us back supper. Fresh meat at last. Charlie even had some lucifers that wasn’t soaked and ruined, and we decided to risk a fire. Cole and I rigged up Bob’s blanket over a tree branch, hoping that would catch most of the smoke and keep the rain off our cook fire. Jim cleaned the turkey while Charlie and Jesse plucked the chickens, and soon we had them birds roasting over our small fire.

Hell, I was so starved, I could have eaten them all raw.

Which is what maybe we should have done.

When you look back, it was a damned poor idea, because, sure enough, somebody either smelled the smoke or seen it or smelled the fowls cooking, ’cause here came some Minnesota sons-of-bitches sloshing through the woods, making more noise than a regiment of Yankee cavalry.

We had to run, leaving behind those birds, still roasting under the soaked blanket. Painful. What a tragic waste.

Next day was Wednesday. Almost one week since we’d robbed the damned bank in Northfield, and what did we have to show for it? Starving bellies. Ruined clothes, boots, hats. Two infecting wounds tormenting Jim and Bob, and the rest of us shot up and ailing considerable. Even Jesse had caught a flesh wound back in Northfield, though, Jesse being Jesse, he never let on till I spied it one evening when he was trying to doctor himself with a strip of his own underwear. Almost a week, and, damn it all to hell, we were still in Minnesota. Not even to Mankato.

“We got to find us a guide,” I finally said.

“We’ve discussed that,” Cole began. “The risk….”

“The hell with the risk, Bud!” I was wet, cold, hurting from a bullet that had torn my leg up bad. I missed my mother and my wife, and I just wanted to get out of these damned woods, get out of the rain. Noose or a bullet looked a far sight prettier than rooting in them wilds like some feral hog. “They got a thousand men chasing us, if you believe that farmer Charlie saw the other day when he was scavenging.”

“But they haven’t caught us,” Cole argued.

“Yet. They will. Look at that damned tree over yonder, Bud. You see it? You remember it? You should, with that double fork and the deer’s skull at the base. Ain’t likely to be another like that from here to Eden. But that’s the third damned time I’ve seen it.”

“Lord have mercy,” Jesse said. “We’re going in circles.”

Thunder rolled. The wind picked up. They all stared at me as I hadn’t finished my stumping.

“We have to get past Mankato. Then Madelia. I think if we can make it to the Dakotas, we can get out of here alive. But we’re on foot, and Mankato’s a big town, and we sure as hell are lost.”

“So we borrow another guide?” Jim asked.

“Damn’ right. Just to get us to the other side of Mankato, maybe near Madelia.”

“And what happens to us after he tells the law, Buck?” Cole asked.

“He don’t tell nobody nothing,” I said, “if we bury the son-of-a-bitch.”

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN
T
HOMAS
J
EFFERSON
D
UNNING

Tell me you wouldn’t have done the same thing I done. You tell me that if a man pointed a cannon in your face and said to do as he’d say or he’d kill you, you tell me you’d be brave as Achilles. Tell me you wouldn’t be shaking in your brogans if you got shanghaied by the notorious James-Younger band of murderers.

I didn’t wet my britches. I didn’t cry or beg— well, not then, not till later—and you’d have done the same, damn it. I didn’t do nothing but do as I was told. Does that make me yellow? I don’t think so. Tell me you’d have done different.

Hell, I ain’t no gunman. Ain’t no lawman. Ain’t Wild Bill Hickok or some other dime novel hero. I’m a farmer. Don’t even work my own homestead. Just a working man. Field hand. Farm manager. Rich man’s white nigger. What was I supposed to do?

Name’s Thomas Jefferson Dunning, but I answer to Jeff, and I work for Mr. Henry Shaubut, one of the richest by-God farmers in Le Sueur County. All them Shaubuts in these parts is rich. Mr. Shaubut’s a good man, though, treats me decent, pays me decent, goes to church regular, and I don’t think he’d’ve done no different than I did.

That morning, Wednesday, September 13
^th
, found me in the field, herding some cows afoot, maybe 6 o’clock or thereabouts, when I spotted six men walking straight toward me. They was all dressed practically in rags, sickly looking, and at first I thought they might be part of the hordes of damned fools chasing the killers who raided Northfield the week previous. Chasing ghosts, if you’d asked me then. By that time, I figured those killers had long escaped Minnesota law, was likely back in Missouri, laughing at our peacekeepers and bounty men. So did Mr. Shaubut. Reckon lots of folks now thought the same as we did. The Jameses and Youngers was long gone, and the posses still out in the Big Woods and such was chasing themselves. Only it come to me that these men coming toward me, if they was part of the pursuers, they wouldn’t likely be walking, limping mostly. By jacks, I think the rewards posted for those killers brought out more fools than a keg of forty-rod whiskey.

“’Morning,” one of them said with a smile, and he leaned on this cane he had made himself (I could tell). His left hip was wrapped tightly with a dirty strip of cloth, and he’d been bleeding a mite. “We’ve kind of lost our way. Wonder if you might help us?”

Well, right then I knew those six men was the very same killers half the country wanted, and right then those six men knew what I knew because the one with the beard that wasn’t from a lack of shaving, he drew a wicked revolver, earring back the hammer before it ever left the holster, and stuck it under my nose.

“To hell with good manners, Bud,” the man said to his friend, then told me: “We need food. Clean clothes. And we need to get the hell out of this damned state. This your farm? Answer me, you son-of-a-bitch! Is this your farm?”

“I just work here,” I said.

“Where’s the house?”

I pointed past the pasture. “Just beyond that tree line.”

“Anybody home? And don’t lie, you miserable bastard, because, if you lie, we won’t just cut your throat before we blow your brains out. We’ll kill everyone in the damned house. Every man. Every woman. Every kid, dog, chicken, and pig.”

“Nobody. Mister Shaubut went to Mankato for a few days. I’m alone.”

“You know who we are?”

“I got a strong notion.”

“You know where we’re from?”

“Missouri,” I said, nodding. I’d read about it in the
Record.

“We’re a damned long way from Missouri. But you’re going to help us get there. Savvy?”

My head signaled yes.

“We need to get through Mankato. How well do you know this country?”

“Not well at all___”

The tall man struck me with the butt of that revolver, and down I went, rolling in the mud, tears streaming down my face. Damn, that hurt, hurt like a son-of-a-bitch.

“Don’t you lie to me!”

“I ain’t lyin’….”

He kicked me in the ribs, but I must have known what he planned, because I rolled away from his boot and his toe just glanced my ribs. Only one of the other men stood behind me—ain’t got the foggiest how he got there—and booted me hard in the back, and I gasped and groaned, but before I could even get my lungs to work again, another mean-looking man jerked me up by my hair and back, pinned my arms till I thought they’d bust.

“How well do you know this country?” I was asked again.

“I wasn’t…lyin’…I….” I had to catch my breath, though I figured the outlaw would kill me before I had the chance to explain. Somehow, he didn’t shoot me, or slit my throat, just waited. Maybe he believed me.

“How well?”

“I just hired out here…late summer. Ain’t even from…this area.”

“Well, you know it better than we do. Savvy? You know who we are. You know we killed that banker in Northfield?”

“And the Swede,” I said.

“What?” This came from the fellow leaning on the cane, the one who had acted polite at first. The Indian-looking man about to break my arms suddenly released me.

“What?” repeated the one on the cane, the one called Bud.

“Swede,” I said. “Or some foreigner. The one shot…in the street. He died…day or so ago. Mister Shaubut told me.”

Sighing, the man sagged against his cane.

“You all right, Capt’n?” the one behind me asked.

“Hell.” He sighed again.

The bearded man tapped the pistol barrel on the side of my head that he hadn’t clubbed. “The banker wouldn’t open the safe for us. That’s why he died. He would be alive if he had done as directed. So we scattered his brains across the wall. So you know what I reckon…? I didn’t catch your name.…”

“Jeff. Jeff Dunning.”

“Well, Jeff Dunning, I reckon the next time we rob a bank, the cashier won’t be so damned stubborn. Won’t play the hero or play the fool. He’ll be thinking about that dead man in Northfield. You reckon that’s right, Jeff Dunning?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So if you don’t get us to Mankato and across the river, then I guess we’ll blow your brains out so the next fool we come across won’t be after no reward. But if you do as we say….” He lowered the hammer slowly, his eyes never leaving mine, and slammed the revolver in his holster.

“Now let’s go to the farm. And remember what I said, Jeff Dunning. Remember it well.”

They wolfed down the corn pone and potatoes in Mr. Shaubut’s home, looked around for powder and ball, or even a weapon, but Mr. Shaubut didn’t own nothing but an old muzzleloading shotgun and he had taken that with him to town. They did find Mr. Shaubut’s brown clay jug, which he kept hidden under his bed, but didn’t drink it, not then. They made me milk the heifer, and they gulped it down, relishing it like they was eating in some fancy restaurant in St. Paul, only making a big mess. They washed their wounds—I think every damned one of them had a bullet hole in him, if not more—and then the big mean one who hadn’t said a word but looked like a red nigger, only one with a mustache and beard stubble, he forced me outside and had me dig a hole. First I thought it was my grave, yet soon I realized they was just burying the bloody rags they had been using for bandages.

Once they was all filled and refreshed, the bearded one with the big pistol said: “Jeff Dunning…‘A hundred thousand welcomes. I could weep, and I could laugh. I am light and heavy. Welcome.’” That ain’t no stretcher. That’s what he said, and he was smiling when he spoke them words. Reckon food and shelter will do that to a body that has been suffering so. Ain’t got the slightest notion what he meant.

Groaning, the tall man stood up, and put his right hand on the butt of the revolver, the friendliness gone from his eyes. “Which way?” he asked.

“Bluff Road, I reckon,” I said.

“Lead the way.”

When we got near town, they decided to have a little parley in the woods. I trembled as I walked, fearing this was their pretense, that they’d kill me here and leave me to the worms, but they all sat down and passed the jug of sipping liquor they had stole from Mr. Shaubut.

“Can we swim the river, Jeff Dunning?” another one asked. If you was to question me on the subject, I’d say he looked like the bearded man’s brother, only shorter, but both had them same cold eyes, and this one packed three big-caliber pistols on his belt, showing them off cavalierly. He struck me as a peacock, only peacocks never killed no man in cold blood.

“No,” I said, which was the Lord’s truth. “Water’s too high. Minnesota and the Blue Earth, both. Current’s mighty swift. You fellows would all drown, in your condition.”

“How about stealing a boat?”

“I reckon that’s a good notion,” I said. “Only I don’t know where we’d find one.”

“Where else can we cross?”

“Dingus,” the man with the cane said, “this ain’t worth a tinker’s damn.”

“What do you mean?”

“Turn this farmer loose. He got us to Mankato. We can find a way through town, sneak in after dark.”

“The idea, Bud,” the man called Dingus said haughtily, “was to find a guide to get us past Mankato. Over the river. Maybe to….” He shut up, and cast me a cold, disdainful eye.

“The idea,” the one known as Bud said, “was we’d be richer than Midas, the way you and Stiles talked, but it didn’t turn out that way. The farmer got us this far. I think we can go the rest without him.”

“That’s fine,” said Dingus’s brother, hand on his weapon.

My mouth went drier than a Mormon’s icebox.

“You going soft because of that Swede?” Dingus asked Bud.

Bud looked riled, and his grip tightened on the cane, but he spoke calm. “We can turn him loose, give him a chance to get back to his farm before his boss. That way they’ll be no suspicion, and I got a strong feeling this lad’ll keep his trap shut. Ain’t that right, Jeff?”

“Yes, sir.” Those words flied out of my throat.

“Maybe so,” Dingus’s brother said, “but I have a recollection of us deciding on another way to keep his trap shut.” He drew his revolver, already cocked.

Right then and there, I fell to the ground, right on my knees, clasping my hands in front of my chest. Almost at that moment, rain started drizzling, and I won’t lie to you. I cried. I begged. I didn’t want to die, especially not here alone, not now. Do that make me a coward? I don’t think so. You tell me how you’d just stand up and face a killer like that and tell him to shoot and shoot true. Tell me. Tell me that to my face and I’ll call you a damned liar or a damned fool or both.

“Shut up!” Dingus snapped at me, kicked at me. “Buck up there, boy. Be a man, damn you.”

“I don’t want to die. Oh, please, God, please don’t kill me. I won’t tell a soul. I promise. I swear on my dead mama’s grave. Just please, please let me live.” I couldn’t shut up, probably wouldn’t have never shut up if Dingus hadn’t buffaloed me with one of his pistols.

Down I went, aching but still living. I prayed, prayed with the rain coming down harder, drenching my face, mixing with the blood and mud and leaves in my hair, prayed—and I hadn’t prayed in so long. Prayed while killers debated over my life.

“Killing him won’t help us,” the decent one named Bud said. Well, I’m calling him decent since he hadn’t hit my head or abused me none and was arguing for my life.

“And letting him live will?” Dingus said. “We let this yellow bastard go and every man jack son-of-a-bitch in Mankato and beyond will be on our ass. Kill him!”

Dingus’s brother leveled his pistol. I closed my eyes, expecting to hear the gunshot—if I heard anything at all—but instead Bud’s voice reached my ears.

“No, we will not kill him.”

“Like hell, Bud. It’s the only way.”

“It’s no good. We let him go, he keeps quiet, and he will, or we’ll come back and slit the son-of-a-bitch’s throat from ear to ear. You hear me, Jeff?” I opened my eyes, saw Bud’s face inches from my own. Dirty water dripped from his reddish-colored mustache and goatee. “You won’t say a word, will you?”

I sputtered out something. Reckon I agreed to what he was saying.

“Well.…” I don’t know which one said that. My eyes was blinded again by tears and rain, but some men jerked me to my feet and shoved me against a tree.

Dingus’s brother holstered his revolver, shaking his head as he said: “We are at a crossroads. The Rubicon. I say this, let Bob decide this bloke’s fate. Bob’s hurt the worst amongst us.”

Bob stepped forward, sweating, or maybe that was just the rain water, holding his right arm close to his chest. Dingus’s brother wasn’t lying none, that boy was hurting. Hurting bad.

“You’re the judge, dear Brother,” Bud said, and we waited.

I figured I was dead for sure, but Bob shook his head, finally hung it, and muttered something that I could just barely make out. “If he joins pursuit, there’ll be time enough for shooting. I say…I say, hell, I’d rather be shot dead than to have that man killed for fear he might put a hundred men after us.”

“Amen,” the Indian-looking savage said, which surprised me. “What’s another hundred when they got a thousand chasing us already?”

The kind man shoved me past the tree, toward the road, right into Dingus’s brother’s arms, and I started blubbering again, bawling like a newborn baby, knowing they was bound to murder me no matter what Bob and Bud and the mean-looking one said. Sure enough, Dingus’s brother rammed the barrel of his revolver into my Adam’s apple.

“‘Luck is a mighty queer thing. All you know about it for certain is that it’s bound to change.’ You know who wrote that, Jeff Dunning?”

“Shakespeare? Jesus Christ?”

“Bret Harte, you ignorant son-of-a-bitch. Now get back to Mister Shitbutt’s farm, and, remember, if you sell us up the river, I’ll be back. If I get killed, I’ll send one of my pals, and we got many, many pals. We’ll slit your throat in your own damned bed, but, before you die, we’ll cut off your pecker and shove it down your throat. Remember that, Jeff Dunning. Remember it well.”