Northfield (7 page)

Ignoring his colleague, Mr. King continued. “Full of war, but also full of God’s message, Colonel Vought. Remember Psalms, Chapter Forty-Six. ‘He maketh wars to cease unto the end of the earth; he breaketh the bow, and cutteth the spear in sunder; he burneth the chariot in the fire.’ And in Samuel, the same chapter from which you quote, there is a message of love. ‘God is my strength and power; and he maketh my way perfect.’”

I was not about to surrender. “‘And I have pursued mine enemies, and destroyed them; and turned not again until I had consumed them.’ That’s not exactly Jesus Christ’s message. Is it?”

He nodded, somewhat sadly, eyes vacant, as if my Scripture had reminded him of something. For the longest while he did not speak, finally bringing the cigar to his mouth and sucking hard, then spitting, and fishing out a match from his coat pocket to re-fire it.

“Many men pursue their enemies with the wrath of the Old Testament. It’s a damned shame, isn’t it, landlord? Society remains intolerant. That’s why Christ was put to death on the cross. That’s why Lee may have surrendered, but the war is not over. Intolerance. Power. Religion. Wait a few years, and we shall be fighting again, probably for the same reasons, but maybe using some other words, Abolition or states’ rights, the Indian question or the Texas border. You’re a freethinker?”

“I merely have doubts to the veracity of the Bible.” I tapped my rosewood pipe against the arm of my rocker.

“Fascinating.” He leaned back and stretched out his boots. “I have a friend of mine, my best friend, name of…well, we call him Buck…and he and I get into these debates all the time. Now, his mama and his brother are about as hard shell as they come, and his daddy was a Baptist preacher, though he died years ago. But Buck? He’s neither agnostic nor atheist nor Bible-back. What about you? Come from a religious family? You must, the way you can recite Scripture.”

“My parents were Catholic. Mass every week, and I served as an altar boy. My doubts began at Pittsburg Landing. They have not been erased.”

“No offense, sir. My curiosity can get me in trouble, and if I have dredged up horrible memories or intruded on your privacy, my apologies, landlord. Religion is a favorite subject of mine, but I shall drop it.”

Actually I enjoyed the debate. Not many men had the courage to argue religion, at least, not in Madelia. Even I lacked the courage to tell Hester of my doubts. I found myself glad these two men had decided to stay in town, at the Flanders Hotel. My reading of their strong faces had not been in error.

“What about the war?” Mr. Ladd asked, his voice a hard drawl. “You got any notion how the South lost? They had the best generals, best soldiers.”

“Overconfidence,” I said perhaps too quickly. “Lee came to Gettysburg thinking he could not lose. I think history may tell us this is also what happened to General Custer in that battle this past summer against the Sioux. It happened to Napoleon. And to many of your kings in your Bible, Mister King.”

“You weren’t at Gettysburg,” Mr. Ladd snapped, “and you damn’ sure wasn’t with Custer.”

“And you were?” My own voice had turned angry

Mr. Ladd’s face flushed, but Mr. King slapped his thigh and pushed himself back in his rocker. “Over-confidence, eh? That’s an interesting theory.”

“Custer,” I said, “won his laurels at this place in the Indian Territory…I disremember the name…but from reports I have read, he never faced real Indian warriors, not until June of this year. Remember, Minnesota had its run-in against hostile Sioux during the late war. Many were hanged just over in Mankato. I have neighbors who fought against the Indians. Many more of my friends and neighbors served in the late war. We have all seen the elephant. Certainly Lee had been tested against valiant soldiers, but he never should have ordered that charge. The war was lost then and there, if not before. Overconfidence. Seeking glory. That has killed more good men than anything.”

The next morning, to my sadness, the newcomers checked out, paying their bill and shaking my hand. I handed Mr. King a list of farmers who might entertain purchase offers and wished them luck. The stable boy brought their horses, and they mounted up.

“I wish you success,” I told them.

Mr. King nodded. “May the God of peace be with you,” he said, and trotted his fine horse out of town.

Peace. Well, that I would not find, not for a while, my mind suddenly stoked with images from Tennessee, Mississippi, and Alabama, with nightmares brought about from childhood memories of Bible stories, of vengeful nuns and stern priests. Later, I would smell the brimstone, taste the sulphur, feel the heat of battle, my last campaign. I would come to think that a merciful God saved me in that battle, a matter I would eventually discuss with Mr. J.C. King.

Only then, approximately three weeks after our first meeting, I would address him as Cole Younger.

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN
J
IM
Y
OUNGER

Never turn your back on family. That’s the most important thing. At least, it’s the way we Youngers have always been raised. Only, Bob, my kid brother, he forgot, just wouldn’t listen. Not to Cole. Not to me. Not to anyone. Nobody but Jesse, and Jesse wasn’t family. Land’s sake, Charlie Pitts was closer to blood than Dingus. Only the way Bob, who ordinarily didn’t act so damned mule-headed, talked, Jesse James had the most brilliant mind since Mephistopheles, and we’d make a big haul in Minnesota, where nobody would be expecting the Jameses and Youngers to raid, and we’d avenge our father’s murder. We’d make the Yankees pay for all the torment they caused our family. We’d come away wealthy men.

I didn’t buy a word of it, but I came to Minnesota. Had to, since Bob wouldn’t turn back, wouldn’t listen to reason.

Family.

After a little respite in St. Paul and Minneapolis, we parted company. Cole and Charlie Pitts rode one way, Bob and Bill Stiles went another, and I stuck with Frank and Jesse and Clell Miller. Stiles had suggested we rob the bank in Mankato, so Cole and Charlie agreed to scout the land out west of there, but Frank had the notion that maybe Red Wing would be easier, so we eased our way in that direction.

From the beginning, I knew Red Wing wouldn’t work. Oh, the banks were mighty enticing. The city supported three of them, including the First National at Plumb and Main with, word went, $100,000 in the till. Plus, upstairs sat the Goodhue Savings Bank, and Jesse—Mephistopheles that he is—said we could rob both banks at the same time. Wouldn’t work, though. I’ll give the James brothers credit. They had a peculiar talent, and, most times, Jesse or Frank planned everything real careful. That’s why we had been in business for the ten years since the war’s end.

You have to take a lot of things into consideration robbing a bank, especially since we found ourselves in a foreign country.

The way things worked, we always plotted our escape route, and that didn’t look good in Red Wing. With only two roads in and out of town, robbing a bank or banks in Red Wing would get us all shot to pieces or hanged.

My job in these forays typically involved the hardware stores, to see what kind of guns they might supply. Red Wing had more than a few hardware stores selling double-wheel hoes, Acme cultivators, and Granger seeders. The city had Whitney’s Gunshop, where I bought a few boxes of .44 cartridges. Weasel of a clerk made the comment that he didn’t sell many shells that large, but he stocked them, along with a few Winchesters, too, even a Remington Rolling Block and one traded-in percussion Sharps, not to mention the little popgun pocket pistols and shotguns. Jesse didn’t like that, either. Too much firepower. If the alarm spread that the bank was being stuck up, we might find ourselves leaking like sieves, shot to pieces.

So Frank and Jesse rode to Northfield, and Clell and I headed to St. Peter.

Sometimes I thought we’d never rob anything in Minnesota, that this grand adventure would turn out to be nothing more than a sabbatical, that we’d have our fun tossing coins to wide-eyed children, playing poker, and poking whores, race some horses, buy some sound stock, run out of money, and light a shuck back to Missouri. Then, I’d bid good bye to Cole and Bob and ride the rails back to La Panza, where no one knew me as an outlaw. Start over. Start a family.

Family.

I’m the worrier of the Youngers. Cole, he’s the kind-hearted one, though most people, those who don’t know him, would likely figure him as the hardest of the hard rocks. Bob? I don’t know. If you’d asked me before the summer of ’76, I’d call him the kid, the follower, but he sure made a stand, against Cole and me, against all reason. Against the family, damn it all to hell. Impetuous. Guess that’s how I’d label him now. And me? Like I said, I’m the worrier.

Which is why I started drinking.

Cole, he’d seldom pull a cork, certainly never when we were hitting a bank or a train. Liquor robbed a man of reason, and Cole demanded we be alert and ready when on a case. That’s another reason we had been in business so long, despite turncoats and Pinkertons and other laws. My older brother could preach temperance like some circuit-riding Methodist. Nor would Cole ever take a hand of poker if Bob and I were sitting at the table. Figured it would lead to repercussions.

Neither St. Peter nor Northfield held much interest to us, not at first, not after hearing all that flapdoodle Bill Stiles, or Chadwell as he sometimes was called, spouted off about money for the taking in Mankato. Those stories reminded me of all that talk about buckets full of gold just waiting to be picked in California and Colorado.

I knew better. I started drinking after we rode up to St. Peter. Some of the boys were supposed to join us there, but, when they didn’t show, my nerves began tormenting me. I’d buy every newspaper I could find, and spend breakfast or supper reading every item, slurping coffee, trying to learn of any arrests.

Nothing.

So I’d sweeten my coffee with John Barleycorn. After a day, I quit with the coffee. Finally Bob and Stiles showed up, but we still hadn’t heard anything from Cole and Charlie Pitts, scouting, we believed, somewhere around Watowan County.

“The hell with this,” Jesse said. “Let’s do Mankato and be done with this damyankee state.”

So we rode to Mankato, meeting up at last with Cole and Charlie.

It was September 2
^nd
.

City was a-bustle when we came riding in from the South Bend Road. After breakfast, I inspected the hardware stores, then watched as Frank entered the First National Bank to change a $20 bill and get the lay of the bank, the vault. I snuck a few swallows from my flask, hating the prospects. Like I said, folks had packed into the city, and the bank looked no better than the three in Red Wing. It was a frame building, and about a half dozen carpenters were already at work.

“Banking business is good,” said Stiles, who had walked up to me. “They’re adding on. Need more room for all that money we’re about to withdraw.”

And he was sober, the damned fool.

Ask me, the First National Bank of Mankato was a deathtrap. But nobody asked me.

“I think the teller suspicioned me,” Frank said later that day when we met in a patch of woods by the Minnesota River to talk things over. “He kept staring at me while counting out the change he made me. I think he saw me looking at the vault and the windows.”

“Most of those windows are boarded up,” Clell Miller said. “That could be a problem.”

“You two have become cautious old women,” Jesse said. “Boarded up windows.” He snorted. “Nobody could see in.”

“We couldn’t see out, either,” Frank fired back.

I had another drink.

“Town was crowded,” Cole said.

“Shouldn’t be so bad tomorrow,” said Stiles.

Our debate carried an edge, more so than usual. Even Frank sounded a tad raw, and I’d never ridden with a man as cool in the heat of battle as Frank James. Frank and Cole, only Cole just frowned.

Tense, things were. Yet maybe, I thought, Jesse was right. Get the damned thing over with. Get out of this damyankee state.

Jesse and Bob checked into the Clifton House on Front Street, while Clell and Stiles got a room at the Gates House. Cole and Charlie bunked at this place on Washington Street, and Frank and me rode over to Kasota and paid some farmer for a night’s lodging. Didn’t want everyone in town, you see. That was another way we operated.

“Might I ask your name?” the farmer asked.

“No questions asked,” Frank said, his words somewhat slurred. “No lies told.”

Next morning, we decided to make our play

Things went to hell in a hurry.

“By god, Jesse James!”

Jesse and Bob were mounting their horses, when this gent shouted at them, or rather, Jesse, from across the street.

“You’ve sprouted some chin whiskers since I last saw you, old hoss. How the hell are…?”

Jesse made no reply, didn’t even look at the man, just rode toward the river, followed quickly by Bob to the river bottoms, where they stopped to fix coffee, awaiting the rest of us.

I emptied my flask as Jesse told us the story. Wasn’t much rye left in it, anyway.

“Fellow in town recognized me,” Jesse announced after we had finished our coffee.

Frank chuckled, and I suspicion that he had been drinking more than was his custom, too. His tone didn’t have the sharpness of last night, and his eyes shone like a drunkard’s, like mine.

“You are ubiquitous, Dingus,” he said.

I don’t think Frank believed Jesse. I know damned well Cole didn’t, could tell by the scowl on his face, but I’m not sure. Bob wouldn’t lie to me, and Jesse had no reason to tell some stretcher, though his vanity often got the better of him. ’Course, Bob used to listen to his brothers.

“Price of fame,” Jesse said, far too casual for my liking, but he turned serious. “I didn’t reply, just rode out with Jim. But this puts us at a crossroads, boys. If we ride into Mankato, it could be a trap.”

“I’m betting we’ll be safe,” Stiles said. “Man in southern Minnesota cries out…‘I’ve seen Jesse James!’…nobody believes him. Nobody at all. Hell, who would?”

“You recognize this fellow, Dingus?” Clell Miller asked.

“Didn’t study his face. Just rode out, pretending I hadn’t heard him.”

“Let’s just get this damned thing over with,” Bob shot out, and, for once, I agreed with my kid brother.

“Damn’ right.” I walked to my horse.

The plan we had laid out worked this way. Three of us would ride into town, straight to the bank, followed by two more to watch things in front of the bank. If they liked the look of things, they’d start the ball. The rest of us would follow, keep a watch on the streets, and, if shooting commenced, we’d keep the townsfolk scared, keep their heads down by firing shots and cutting loose with Rebel yells.

We rode in at noon, finding way too many folks outside to our liking, so we circled back to the river, passing the time, then, an hour later, returned to the bank.

Land’s sake, the crowd seemed even bigger.

“The game’s afoot,” Jesse said. “Let’s get out of here.”

We left Mankato at a healthy lope.

“This ain’t worth a tinker’s damn, Stiles!” Jesse shot out. “I’m half broke, spent most of the money we got from Rocky Cut trying to plan this damned robbery”

’Course, Jesse had spent his money tossing coins to kids, flaunting his wealth on whores and whiskey and the finest hotels and finest duds. He liked spending money. Well, so did Bob, even Cole.

“You said it would be easy pickings,” Jesse went on, his face flushed with irritation. “But we don’t have a thing to show for it. Might as well go back to Missouri.”

I was all for that.

It fell silent for a moment, broken when Stiles suggested: “Northfield.”

“Jim?” Frank asked. I thought he was inquiring about my thoughts of Northfield. There were two hardware stores—least, that’s what Frank and Jesse had reported to me, for I’d never even set foot in Northfield. But I didn’t find cause for concern, in my cups like I was. The nearest hardware shop to the bank—Manning’s was the name, I remembered—didn’t have the stock of the Red Wing gun shop, and the other store was even smaller. Plus, Yankee mill workers and college professors didn’t impress me as warriors.

“Piece of pie,” I said and, hearing the sniggers, looked up to see Frank shaking his head, holding out his hand, waiting for me to pass the jug of wine we had bought in New Ulm. Frank didn’t care a whit what I thought about Northfield, just needed a snort. I passed him the Bordeaux.

“Northfield.” Jesse’s head bobbed.

“Rich town,” Stiles said. “Like I said before, it’s where that bastard Ames lives. We could put a hurt on him, and make ourselves rich.”

“You boys better sober up,” Cole snapped, “before we try anything.”

“We will,” I said, smiling a drunken smile. I had no intention of listening to my big brother. Reckon I had forgotten all about family, too.

We’re not soothsayers, not Merlin, not God, can’t see the future. Well, we talked things over, and were all agreed. We’d try Northfield, but we took our time getting there, scouting the roads, the farms, the forests. I still had a map I had bought at some bookstore in Minneapolis, and Stiles had a compass.

The next night we rode into this little burg called Cordova, and the following night found us in Millersburg, even a smaller dot in the road than Cordova. I spent most of that night sick with worry, alone in my room at the old Cushman House. Worrying. Well, maybe the whiskey and wine had me off my feet, not just the worries.

It was September 7
^th
, a Thursday, when we rode to Northfield, making a little camp in the woods outside of town.

“Bank’s busy,” Stiles said after a little scout of things. “Like I said, this one should be easy.”

“Two hardware stores,” Cole said. “Not what I’d call an arsenal.”

To get a feel for the town, a few of us crossed the railroad track on Third Street, turned on Water, and trotted our mounts over the iron bridge into Mill Square. They were changing shifts at the Ames mill, and we turned right onto Division Street. The First National Bank stood on the river side of the street, between a general store and an undertaker’s.

Undertaker. Bad sign. More forewarning when we picked up a copy of the newspaper, and the first thing I noticed was a front-page advertisement.

THEODORE MILLER
UNDERTAKER
Have the Largest and Finest Stock of
COFFINS
On Hand to be Had in This Town

More bad sign. I was too in my cups to take note.

Rob the bank, ride out, cut the telegraph wires, get back to Missouri. It would be as easy as the train at Rocky Cut.

Shortly after noon, Bob, Jesse, Charlie, Frank, and me had dinner at this place called lefts’ Rail Road Restaurant.