Northfield (17 page)

He looked up, chewing his ham, winked at his companion, and said to me: “What did you do with them?”

He didn’t believe me, neither, darn him. “They’re still there. Four of ’em. Came by my house this mornin’.”

“That’s a big haul.” He winked again, which I found mighty bothersome, and reached for his coffee. “Have you had breakfast, son?”

C
HAPTER
N
INETEEN
S
HERIFF
J
AMES
G
LISPIN

To me way of thinking, the James and Younger boys, or whoever had robbed the Northfield bank, had escaped. Sweet Mary, but I hoped they had, or at least out of Watowan County they’d stay The year 1876 found me in me third term as county sheriff, and in me jurisdiction, I liked things quiet. A six-shooter I carried, the county bought me a couple of shotguns, a Henry .44 and Spencer carbine, and above the door at me home hung the Springfield rifle I’d shouldered during the war. But I didn’t want to use them in the line of duty, not ever.

In the war, I’d seen enough killing, wholesale slaughter. Death eats at a man’s soul, and a horrible amount I’d seen during those awful four years, seen me friends die by the score, and had lost count of the number of brave Southern boys who’d fallen at me hand.

Enough I’d seen in the East, so West I came, settling here in Watowan County. ’Tis quieter than Massachusetts. Nothing but lads of the soil and real nice colleens. As a lawman, I’d have to break up fisticuffs once in a blue moon, but most of me such noble duties involved hauling off dead animals and collecting taxes. That changed after the 7
^th
of September.

For two weeks, I’d ridden all over the county, chasing rumors and fairies, chasing the wind, looking for those desperate men who’d robbed the Northfield bank. For two weeks, I’d ridden in the rain till a tadpole I felt I’d become. Now that the sun had come out, I hoped to dry out and rest, prayed those bad men were long past me county.

’Twas the 21
^st
of September, and I’d just finished breakfast and started making me way down the boardwalk to the livery by the Flanders Hotel, when Colonel Vought stepped outside, holding his rifle, followed by a corn-fed boy covered in dried mud.

“Jim,” the colonel said, “this boy says four men came by his farm this morning. He thinks they’re the Northfield bandits.”

A good look-see I gave the child. “What’s ye name, boy?”

“A.O. Sorbel. Well, Asle Oscar, but most folks call me A.O.”

“Ye be Ole and Guri’s boy, aren’t ye?”

“Yes, sir. I rode my horse all the way from the farm,” he continued. “Two men were walking down the road while Pa was milking Henrietta. They were filthy, in rags, and I looked at their boot prints after they walked on. Boots were worn to a frazzle, Sheriff. I could see the toes prints they was so bad off.”

“Two men?” I asked.

“That’s right. But while I was gone trailing them, two others come by the farm, said they was hunters, but one had to walk on a cane and the other had a bum right arm. That’s what Pa and Ma told me. They asked to pay for breakfast, but when Ma told them they’d have to wait, they said they needed to get along, so Ma gave them some bread.”

Colonel Vought added: “I had my doubts, but the boy’s persuaded me that these men are the fiends we seek.”

“Just four men?” I asked.

“That’s all we saw.”

Well, fine Christian folks were Guri and Ole Sorbel, tillers of the soil, like me own father had been back in County Cork, and I don’t think their son would ride all the way to town to tell some stretcher. Now, the Sorbel farm lay over in Brown County, not officially me jurisdiction, but I decided the devil with boundaries. They were close enough to Watowan County. To St. James I ordered me deputy, told him to send as many riders as he could round up to the Sorbel farm, then asked another lad to warn all the crews working the threshing machines, to tell them to unhitch their teams and make for open country. The last thing I wanted was innocent people getting shot, and I figured those outlaws would be desperate for horses, especially when they found out we were after them.

By then, Cap Murphy had ridden up in his buckboard with his little boy, probably coming for breakfast, and I’d sure want Cap along in a fight, even though I prayed it wouldn’t come to that. I’d want Colonel Vought along, too.

Cap told his boy to wait in the hotel, and then we went running everywhere, to saddle our horses, to fetch our guns. Young Sorbel told Doc Overholt that he could ride his horse, and the kid and Cap Murphy climbed into the wagon. To the farm we dashed, me, Colonel Vought, Cap Murphy, the Sorbel boy, Doc Overholt, Will Estes, and Big Jim Severson.

By the time we reached Ole Sorbel’s place, his cows had practically wiped out all the sign, but A.O. said he knew which way the strangers had gone. His mother didn’t want the lad to come along with us, but I promised to keep him safe, that he’d do nothing more than lead our way and hold our horses if to a fight it came. That didn’t settle Guri’s nerves anyway, and she went inside, wailing like a banshee.

Not long after that, Charles Pomeroy Jr. and George Bradford rode in from Madelia, and Ben Rice and G.S. Thompson, both of St. James, met up with us, too. We left the farm, letting young A.O. Sorbel show us the way. If Sorbel wasn’t mistaken, the four men were traveling southwest.

The alarm had spread, and another bunch of riders from Madelia and St. James we met. Mayor Strait of St. Peter also rode up with news that the Army had practically a company in the field after the outlaws. Our own army on the Madelia road kept growing.

We split up, Mayor Strait taking his party one way, and me leading mine toward Lake Hanska. Me heart pounded, and I found meself sweating like a man laid up with fever. I wanted to make sure these four men didn’t slip from our grasp, so that meant catching them before sundown would be our best hope. More importantly, I didn’t want to wind up killing or wounding four innocent tramps.

Enough innocent blood had been shed in Minnesota that month.

Across the fields we galloped, over roads, through fields and forests, and, as we neared the Watowan River country, I saw them. Four men, working their way across Hanska Slough.

“Hold up there!” I shouted.

They made it across, climbed out of the water, and toward the woods they bolted, though they did not make good time. Tired, I’d say they were, exhausted, limping badly the lot of them.

Severson and Doc Overholt opened fire.

“They’re out of range!” I shouted.

Doc didn’t listen, got off the Sorbel horse, handing young A.O. the hackamore, and squatted in the mud. He carried a Sharps rifle, one of those weapons the snakes-in-the-grass used during the war, now popular among the buffalo hiders, and squeezed off a round. By thunder if his bullet didn’t snap the cane one of the fugitives was using, spilling the man with a curse. Another helped him up, practically carrying him to the woods.

“Stop and surrender!” I yelled. “I’m sheriff of Watowan County!”

This time, they fired back before into the thicket they vanished.

Woods around Hanska be thick, daunting, providing plenty of cover, and a tough time we’d have getting through all those bogs and streams.

“We must go slowly,” Cap Murphy said from his wagon seat, “but with resolve.”

“And keep them afoot,” I said. “Don’t let them take any horses. Kill the horse if ye must.”

I’d rather see a horse dead than another man.

Four farmers, armed with shotguns, joined us, and glad I was to have them. Other groups rendezvoused with us till our number totaled sixteen. Sixteen against four, but those four, if indeed the guilty party, were killers, veterans at this kind of fight. I had a posse of store clerks and farmers, mostly, though some veterans of the war, including Cap Murphy.

Yet soon I spied other mounted men in the distance, and I dispatched Doc Overholt to intercept those troopers, to have them surround the thicket in which the lads hid.

Cautiously we closed in on our prey.

“What do you want?” called a ragged voice from the brambles.

“Throw up ye hands and surrender,” I replied, ducking as the bandit sent a shot in me direction. Not even aiming me Henry, I fired back, levered another round into the chamber, and the battle commenced.

Too hot for us out in the clearing, I directed our men to retreat and take shelter in the woods. There we gathered, regrouping, ready to formulate a final battle plan.

By now, I had no doubts that these four men were part of the Northfield gang.

Nor did Cap Murphy, who leaped down from his wagon, with A.O. Sorbel right behind him, taking cover in the sumac and ash. Taking charge Murphy did, and I let him. At this kind of thing, Cap Murphy had a lot more experience than me.

“Let’s go get ’em,” Murphy said. “Aim low, but shoot to kill for they’ll kill you if they can.”

“We’ve got them practically surrounded,” Willis Bundy said. “Why not keep them here, have a siege? Starve them out?”

“I have no patience for that,” Murphy said. “I’m walkin’ right in there. Who’s coming with me?”

During the war, charges I’d seen, took part in me share, but let me tell ye something…what Cap Murphy suggested would turn even the bravest lad’s stomach. This wasn’t open ground we’d be charging through. We’d fight our way through brambles and briars and brush thicker than Cap Murphy’s beard—against well-hidden man-killers facing a noose if captured alive.

I’m an Irishman, a Massachusetts man by birth, who sold farming equipment before pinning on a badge. I’d rather fight with me fists than with me gun, and I sure had no longing to commit suicide, but these farmers and merchants and friends had elected me sheriff, and though enough killing I’d seen, knew me duty I did. I stepped forward.

A.O. Sorbel, bless his heart, volunteered next, grabbing Ben Rice’s Winchester, but Rice, a Southerner by birth who’d spent most of his years in Minnesota, and had won more turkey shooting contests than anyone in St. James, pulled the gun away from the kid and tousled Sorbel’s dirty hair. “Brave boy, but mind your business and hold the horses,” Rice said, “like we promised your mother you’d do.”

“Dang it,” A.O. started, but I told the boy to hush and do as he was told.

Charles Pomeroy, a New Yorker who’d fought in the Sioux scare back in ’62, and George Bradford, who taught school in the winter and farmed during the summer, said they’d go. So did short, fat Jim Severson, who clerked in town when he wasn’t courting some lady or making a joke. Big Jim cocked his rifle and said: “This should make Miss Hildegard take a shine to me.”

We waited for others, but none of the ten stepped forward.

“Six,” Cap Murphy said, “should be enough.”

“Seven’s better,” Colonel Vought said at last, and stepped into the clearing, heading to the thicket.

Cap Murphy called out directions as he thumbed back the hammer on his rifle. “Keep fifteen feet apart,” he said, “just keep walkin’ right at ’em. When you see ’em, holler at ’em to surrender. If they shoot, shoot ’em. Shoot to kill, boys, and keep on shootin’ till they surrender or are all dead. Or we are.”

Our rifle barrels became machetes as we slashed our way through the brush, drowning out the noise of the bubbling water, of the singing birds, and I cringed at the noise we made approaching four bad men.

Sweat streaked down me face, and breathing became difficult. Fear? Certainly. During the war, never had I entered a battle when fear had not practically consumed me, but I understood that once the first shot was fired, instincts would take over, a will to survive, a duty, a knowledge of the job at hand.

We have them surrounded, I kept telling meself. Perhaps they will surrender.

I knew they wouldn’t. A fight unto the death this would become.

At that instant, a bearded man leaped just a few rods ahead of me, a snarl on his lips and six-shooter in his hand, pointed at me head. Out of the revolver’s cavernous bore belched smoke and flame.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
B
OB
Y
OUNGER

“This is all my fault,” I told my brothers, tears cascading, unashamedly, down my cheeks.

I’d wind up getting Jim and Cole killed, Jim and Cole, the best older brothers a man could want. They had tried to talk me out of riding north with Jesse, but I hadn’t listened. I’d been the fool, forgetting my family, forgetting how wise older brothers are. Now, it had come to this.

Jim and Cole, and Charlie Pitts, would die. Die like animals trapped in a thick forest. Die in a damned Northern state. Die because of me.

I’d die, too. Far from Maggie, my girl, and her son, who I’d prayed I’d soon raise as my own. Far from my sisters, far from Lee’s Summit, Missouri. I’d die for nothing, too. For $26 and 40¢. Die because of my own damned arrogance.

“Hush up,” said Cole, squatting beside me. “This ain’t your fault, Bob. Ain’t nobody’s…’cept mine.” The last two words came out as a whisper. “How you holdin’ up, Bob?” he asked again, and tried to smile.

“Arm still hurts like blazes,” I said. “But you give me a gun and I’ll fight alongside you, Cole.”

“You’d do us better was you to reload for us. Think you can handle that chore, Bob?” My head bobbed slightly, and my brother dumped some cartridges between my legs, along with a pair of pistols. We started reloading together, while Brother Jim and Charlie Pitts crawled about to scout out our situation.

I already knew our situation.

Hopeless.

I thought about what had brought me here. It was all for Maggie. She was a Yankee, and a widow, having moved from New England after her husband passed away from fever, and took up farming just over the Jackson County line. The most beautiful woman I ever met, and, Yankee blood or no, she captured my heart, which hadn’t put up much of a fight. She helped me get through the hard times when those damned detectives shot Brother John dead back in ’74. Her boy Jeremy, he was a strapping young fellow, and me and him got along just fine. Yes, Maggie was always there for me, and she said she’d marry me if I’d quit being an outlaw.

Which had always been my intention. Truth be told, I really wasn’t an outlaw, not in my eye, when I first fell in love with Maggie. I was a farmer, an honest one, who just happened to be named Younger. Now Jim, he loved being a cowboy, and Cole liked debating religion and politics or dancing and having a good time, and working cattle, too, but I guess I had more of Pa in me than anything else. Farming. That’s all I really wanted to do, and it’s what I would have done if those Yankees had left me alone, if they hadn’t killed my father, drove my ma to her grave, and murdered John.

We were Youngers, and the law would hunt us down just because of our name. They didn’t give a tinker’s damn if I was a farmer, if I’d never popped a cap on anyone, if I’d never robbed a bank or train, if I’d done nothing except live a honest life, which I had, at first. They’d never let me be, so that’s why I joined up with Jesse. That’s why I became an outlaw. That’s why I robbed the train in Muncie, Kansas, with Frank and Jesse, Cole and Clell. Maybe, I figured, if I could get that farm up and running, get myself out of debt, maybe that would make things easier, make Maggie understand. She’d become my wife.

After the Muncie case, I had leased farmland down around Greenwood—had to make up a name to do it—but things remained hard, and wasn’t long before I needed more cash, which was a hard crop to raise in Missouri after the war. Maybe if I could haul in enough cash, I could buy that farm, be my own man, even if I had to use another fellow’s name. I needed money again, for me, and Maggie and Jeremy. So I started paying Jesse these visits, and, well, to hear Jesse and Bill Chadwell— no, Stiles was his real name, Bill Stiles—talk, the streets of Minnesota were paved with gold. Greed, I guess, greed and love had brought me here.

Brought me here to die.

Charlie Pitts came back, shaking his head. “Capt’n,” he told Cole, who busied himself thumbing shells into his Smith & Wesson, “they got us entirely surrounded. Best surrender. Ain’t no way out.”

My brother didn’t look up. “Charlie,” he said, “this is where Cole Younger dies.”

I’ll never forget the look on Cole’s face, the tears that welled in his eyes, when Charlie said: “All right, Capt’n. I can die as game as you can. Let’s get it done.” Ducking, Charlie Pitts headed to some tree and brush, thumbed back his hammer, and waited.

Jim came to us, picked up a revolver I’d just finished loading, and shook his head. “A bunch of them are coming right for us, Cole,” he said. “Ten, fifteen feet apart, I’m thinking six or seven.”

“Brave sons-of-bitches,” Cole said.

“Yeah.”

Waiting.

I was twenty-one years old. Today, I felt like as though I were sixty-one.

The Yankees drew nearer, making a terrible racket in those woods. Then Charlie Pitts jumped up and fired at a mustached man wearing a badge. Charlie had always been a mighty fine shot, but he missed—don’t ask me how; maybe it was just how bad our luck kept turning—and the man with the badge dropped to a knee, brought his rifle up, and pulled the trigger.

Charlie Pitts died game. Things happened slowly, it seemed, Charlie staggering back with a bullet plumb center in his chest, then the rest of the posse opened up, and more bullets slammed into that brave comrade, driving him against a tree and, finally, to the wet ground.

Cole charged forward, leaving me and Jim, firing his Smith & Wesson, until reaching Charlie. He swore savagely, tossed his empty pistol aside, and pried Charlie’s Colt from his dead fingers, drew the Smith & Wesson from Charlie’s holster. A bullet clipped the Colt as Cole brought it up in his right hand, tearing off the extractor, but Cole acted like nothing had happened. The Colt roared back. Then he was standing and ducking, snapping shots, as bullets flew all around us.

My big brother is quiet by nature, but in a battle he is consumed with rage, like he’s a totally different person. I reckon he learned that riding with the boys during the war. I reckon the war made him that way.

“Make for the horses, boys!” Cole called out, emptying Charlie’s Colt, dropping it while tossing the Smith & Wesson to his right hand. “Ain’t no use stopping to pick up a comrade here, for we can’t get him through the line. Just charge ’em. Make it if we can!”

We were about to charge, and I was ready to follow Cole. I’d be like Charlie Pitts. I could die as game as my brother.

From the Yankee line back in the woods, I heard one of the laws shout in his Irish brogue: “Stand firm, laddies! Stand firm!”

They stood firm, and cut loose with a cannonade of rifle fire.

Cole, who I always considered invincible, fell to his knees, blood pouring from his nose and mouth.

“Cole!” I cried out. “Cole! Cole! Cole!”

All during this time I had been reloading Jim’s pistol, but now I stood, watching as Jim raced by me, firing his Colts, screaming a Rebel yell. One of the Yankees doubled over, and I thought he would fall, killed, but he straightened, raised his rifle. His face disappeared in the gunsmoke.

“Come on, Bob!” Jim yelled to me.

An instant later, a bullet slammed into Jim’s mouth, blowing out teeth and jaw bone and blood, spraying a tree trunk with blood. He fell hard, and did not stir.

I leaped forward, trying to reach him, but bullets drove me back, clipping branches off the trees, and I fell down, exhausted, pain shooting all up and down my right arm. I looked for a pistol, a rock to throw, anything, and hugged the ground tightly, looking up.

Jim I couldn’t see from my position, and I figured he had to be dead, figured they were both crossing over the River Jordan, but Cole had pulled himself up.

“Come on, you Yankee bastards. I’ll kill ever’ one of you yellow sons-of-bitches. Come on!”

Buckshot slammed into his back, but Cole laughed, turning, firing toward the shotgun blast. “Is that the best you can do?”

“Cole!” I cried out over the deafening roar of musketry. “Cole!”

He didn’t hear me. I don’t think he heard anything in those final moments. I don’t even think he knew he was in Minnesota. “Muster ’em out, Arch! Make ’em pay for my daddy!…Come on, Buck, it’s time to light a shuck…. Hell’s fire, it’s Charlie Hart, look at that brave man ride!”

Another bullet drove him backward, but he still stood, lifted another revolver, squeezed the trigger.

“Birds belong caged, don’t you know that? So let’s step inside the vault, fellows.”

He fired again. My ears rang. I think he took another hit, but, stubborn as all us Youngers, he just wouldn’t fall. Wouldn’t quit. Wouldn’t die.

“Ride out! Save yourselves!”

The hammer struck an empty chamber, but Cole didn’t notice. He thumbed it back, pulled the trigger. Another
click.

“Ride out, damn you. You ain’t leaving nobody!”

Tears blinded me.

“For God’s sake, boys, hurry up! They’re shooting us all to pieces!”

I wiped my eyes, cleared my vision, tried to pull myself up as the bullet slammed into Cole’s head, and he sank into the brush and lay still, silent.

Down I fell, crying softly, unable to do anything, hating myself, trying to shake the image of seeing my brave brothers, and a great pard like Charlie Pitts, cut down before my very eyes. A few more shots sang out, and I just tucked myself into a ball and rocked back and forth, back and forth.

My fault. All my fault.

“Hold ye fire!” a voice bellowed. “Hold ye fire!”

Silence. The ringing left my ears, and sounds from the thicket drifted to me, of the bubbling water, of the wind rustling through the trees, but no birds singing. Not any more.

“Is anyone still alive? Speak up. Speak up and surrender!”

I made myself stop bawling. Hell, I was a man, a Younger, and no Yankee bastard was going to see me cry. I pulled a dirty handkerchief from my pocket, lifted myself to my feet, and walked toward the posse, waving the handkerchief over my head in my left arm.

“I surrender,” I said. “They’re all down but me.”

The man with the badge stepped forward, a taller man with a thick mustache and beard (but no side whiskers) beside him wearing boots tucked inside his striped britches, and a battered bowler hat. He didn’t look much like a fighter with his triangular face and the biggest dad-blasted ears I’d ever seen, and he had no badge pinned on his vest, but I figured him to be the man in charge.

“Put both of your hands up,” he told me.

“I can’t. The right one’s broken.”

“Then come on toward us, but walk slowly, and keep your left hand raised.”

“It’s over, Cap,” the Irishman with the badge told Mr. Big Ears.

I kept walking. That’s what I was doing when somebody on the bluff behind them shot me in the chest.

At first I didn’t know what to think, couldn’t even believe they’d shoot me while I was giving up, holding a flag of truce. Yet when my left hand dropped the handkerchief and reached over to my side, it felt sticky with blood, my knees buckled, a wave of dizziness consumed me, and slowly I sank to the ground, thinking: You lying Yankee sons-of-bitches.