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Authors: Johnny D. Boggs

Tags: #History, #Westerns - General, #Historical, #Biographical Fiction, #Westerns, #Minnesota, #Western Stories, #Jesse, #19th Century, #Historical - General, #Fiction - Western, #General, #James, #American Western Fiction, #Bank Robberies, #Fiction, #Northfield

Northfield (8 page)

BOOK: Northfield
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“Eat hearty, boys,” Jesse said, and he did. So did the rest of us. Most of us, least ways. Not me. I didn’t have much of an appetite until Jefts himself brought us a bottle of whiskey. Frank had ordered it. I hadn’t heard him.

“This used to be a Temperance town,” Jefts said. “But we’ve reformed.”

“That’s good,” I said, helping myself to three fingers of the worst forty-rod to blister a man’s throat.

For some reason, Jesse, contrary as he liked to be, tried to bet Jefts $1,000 that Minnesota would vote Democratic that fall. Damned fool. Talk like that would arouse suspicion. I knew that, even drunk and worried as I was.

Jefts didn’t take the bet, said it was a damned stupid wager. It was, too. This is Yankee country.

After lunch, we rode back to the woods, waiting on Cole, Stiles, and Clell to join us. Hell, neither of those had been drinking, and I bet if Cole had known that we were all pretty drunk and intent on getting drunker, he would have called the damned thing off.

“Town’s getting crowded,” Cole said.

“The hell,” Jesse shot back. “Let’s get her done.”

“Yeah,” Clell agreed. “I’m down to my last dime.”

“Only if it looks good,” Cole said.

“Right.” That came from Stiles. He pulled out a piece of paper he had torn out of some newspaper. The bank had some new Yale chronometer vault and safe. “You boys might want to read this, those of you who’ll be inside the bank.”

He passed it to Frank, who didn’t even bother reading it.

“Bob,” Jesse said, “you’ll be inside. You and Charlie and my brother.” He turned to Cole. “Bud, you and Clell, you follow them into town.” Back to face his brother. “If it looks good, you go inside the bank, do the business. If not, ride out.” Back to Cole. “If things get ticklish, fire a shot in the air. That’ll bring Jim, me, and Stiles into town. Otherwise, we’ll wait here, make sure nobody blocks our retreat. Then, when we’re done, Bill will lead us out of here. We’ll cut the telegraph wires. Sound good?”

Nods all around.

“Nothing to worry about,” Stiles said. “I told you boys this would be easy, and you’ll soon find out just how easy it is.”

Clell Miller let out a little laugh, but I think he was all bluster. “I’m a-gonna smoke my pipe through the whole shebang,” he said. “That’s how easy this’ll be.”

“All right,” I said, gathering the reins to my horse, watching Frank, Charlie, and Bob mount up and ride down the street.

Cole called out to them, and to us, maybe to himself, and to his conscience. I guess Brother Cole worried, too. “Nobody gets hurt. Whatever happens, we don’t shoot anybody if we can help it. I won’t have any innocent blood on my hands.”

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT
A
LONZO
E. B
UNKER

What kind of joke is this?

Those first thoughts flashing through my brain seem childish at best, idiotic at worst, looking back on that horrible day, but you must take into consideration that Northfield, Minnesota is not St. Al-ban’s, site of that dramatic secessionist robbery in Vermont during the war to free the slaves and preserve the union. When three men announced their intentions of robbing the bank that Thursday afternoon, I thought it had to be in jest, an almighty poor joke.

I am not a man who will allow whiskey to pilfer me of my faculties, but although I abstain from intoxicating liquors, not all of my friends have proselytized the heritage and teachings of John North, our town founder. For the most part, the men who honor me with their friendship prefer beautifying their gardens, working on their homes, understanding the gospels, bettering their minds and souls, but Northfield is not without its “bum” element. One needs to merely happen by that wretched Jeff’s bucket of blood by the depot or wander down the boardwalk in front of the Exchange Saloon on pay day. And, yes, some of my acquaintances have been known to decorate their noses with the suds of a beer. Inventing a diversion like this would not be beneath them.

Pen in hand, I left my ciphers and turned at the sound of the door opening shortly after two o’clock that afternoon, not even looking up until I reached my position at the teller’s counter facing the front lobby Then I saw them. Blinking, trying to comprehend the sight of three men brandishing horse pistols of an immense caliber I had never imagined, I registered my first thought: What a foolish joke! But which fool is playing it on me?

Suspicions immediately targeted J.S. Allen, who, minutes earlier, had left the bank after bringing in a deposit slip but having forgotten the money Only I would only rarely associate jocundity with Mr. Allen, especially raw, foul humor.

The three men wore no masks, but long linen dusters covered their clothes as if part of some uniform. One man was dark, a brooding, vicious specimen. All were tall. All sprouted facial whiskers in one form or another. I did not recognize them. They had left the front door open, but, through a glimpse, I spied another man, also clad in a duster, slam it shut. When the three gunmen jumped over the counter, I still thought this to be some ill-thought attempt at comedy. Even when one of the inside men cried out—“We’re robbing the bank! We’ve got forty men outside!”—even moments later when I heard J.S. Allen’s shouts from the front door, even then, I could not accept the reality of the situation.

Robbery? In Northfield? No. Never. I am twenty-seven years old, in my first year of marriage to a wonderful schoolteacher, employed at the First National Bank for the past three years. I am a graduate of the St. Paul Business College, a former student at Carleton College here in Northfield, the second son of fine New England parents. This could not be happening.

This wasn’t even the permanent home of the bank. We were operating in the Scriver Building. Our cashier, Mr. George M. Phillips, was not even in Minnesota on this day. Maybe it was Phillips who was behind this joke. Joseph Lee Heywood, my friend and fellow worker, the First National Bank’s bookkeeper, had revealed to me a conversation he had had with Mr. Phillips about what actions he might take if our bank were to be assaulted.

Certainly, Joe and I never dreamed a robbery would ever happen. Could this be Mr. Phillips’s hand? No, he would do nothing so preposterous. Yet it couldn’t be a real robbery.

A long-barreled revolver pressed hard against my face.

“Which one of you sons-of-bitches is the cashier? Is it you?”

I found myself that afternoon working as the teller. The lobby was empty, had been since J.S. Allen left to find his deposit. Working with me that day were Joe Heywood, acting cashier during Mr. Phillips’s absence, and assistant bookkeeper, Frank Wilcox, all fine colleagues, industrious men of high principles and solemn living.

“Hands up, damn you. Now open that safe, or I’ll blow your damned brains out.” Only then, their curses finally registering as the cold barrel pressed harder against my cheek bone, did it strike me then that Joe Heywood, Frank Wilcox, and I faced desperate men. In addition to the dusters, all three donned hats (two black, one gray) and spurred boots, with more pistols shoved into shell belts that I would think possible. They stank of whiskey, but their pupils did not hold the dull ignorance of a drunkard’s. The eyes looked cold, deadly, merciless.

Fear numbed me. This was no dream, no joke.

“I asked you a question, you son-of-a-bitch. Which one of you two is the damned cashier?”

Two? They had not noticed Joe Heywood, couldn’t see him from his position in the corner, partially hidden by the cashier’s desk, and, when the smallest of the trio bounded for the vault and stepped inside, Joe, bless his brave heart, bolted out of his chair and tried to slam the heavy door shut, trapping one of the three inside.

He failed, for the outlaws screamed, and one leaped forward, slapped Joe with brutality and curses, and flung him against the partition.

“You bastard! Try that again, and we’ll kill you!”

Outside came more cries. “Robbery! Robbery! Get your guns, boys, they’re robbing the bank!”

Too real. Too real. Too real.

“Are you the damned cashier?” the third man asked me.

I tried to answer, but couldn’t. My head shook. They asked Frank Wilcox. They asked Joe Heywood. Both heads shook, but they singled out Joe as the most likely cashier, as, indeed, he had been stationed at the cashier’s desk.

“You’re the damned cashier! Open the safe…quick, or I’ll blow your head off!”

“Murder!” Joe cried. “Murder! Murder!”

Outside, shots rang out.

“Shit!” one of the bandits inside yelled. “I’ll show you murder, you lousy bastard.”

The other two dragged Heywood toward the vault.

All during this time, I had not moved since raising my hands at their vile instruction upon understanding the seriousness, the essence of the situation. Now realizing that I still held a pen in my hand, I tried to place it on the counter, but the youngest of these fiends swung his revolver in my direction. “I said keep your damned hands up! Get down on your knees.”

The pen slipped from my fingers, dropping at my feet, while my right hand shot up again.

These brutal men continued to torment Joe, and, when the young man guarding Frank and myself turned his attention on that torture, my eyes spied the .32 Smith & Wesson near my ledger.

Could I reach it in time?

I never got the chance, because one of the wicked souls torturing Joe had looked up to see me, perhaps read my mind. He was the most savage-looking of the three, with a face darker, eyes cruel, thick mustache, and small under-lip beard.

“Hey, you bastard!” He shoved Joe’s face onto the floor and, leaping from a crouch, raced toward me, brandishing his big Colt revolver. Spotting the .32, he shoved it into his waistband, laughing drunkenly as he told me, and his companions: “You couldn’t hit anything with that little Derringer anyway.”

The savage man, who resembled a half-breed, returned to the tall, gentlemanly figure, and drew a big Bowie knife against Joe’s throat. “Open the safe now, damn you, or you haven’t but a moment to live. I’ll cut your throat. Cut your damned head off!”

Never have I seen a man as brave as Joe Heywood, as cool as he was that afternoon. Since his cries of murder moments earlier, he had regained his composure, had resolved to do his duty. The blade cut him slightly, and blood trickled onto his paper collar, but he replied in an even voice: “There is a time lock on, and the safe cannot be opened at this time.”

“That’s a damned lie!” the tall man, proving he was no gentleman, shouted.

Well, yes and no. The safe did have a time lock, but all those fools had to do was pull the door open. The door was shut, but we had not turned the combination dial to secure the locking mechanism. Nothing should have kept those three rogues from some $15,000.

Nothing but their ignorance, their drunkenness, and Joseph Lee Heywood’s bravery.

“Hell,” the tall man said, nodding at the dark one. “Go inside and try the safe.”

“All right, but don’t let that son-of-a-bitch lock me inside, Buck!”

“He won’t do a thing,” said his tall colleague.

More shots outside. And more. Screams of men, women, horses.

Suddenly, with a wicked oath and no warning, the tallest man slammed the butt of his Remington revolver against Joe’s head, a sickening, heartbreaking sound, and the poor man, my good friend, crumpled in a heap. The two brutes dragged him into the vault, ordering him once more to open the safe, but I didn’t think Joe could answer. I truly thought that such a blow would not only render him senseless, but kill him.

A shout from outside: “For God’s sake, boys, hurry up! They’re shooting us all to pieces!”

The Indian-looking one fired a pistol shot at Heywood’s head, and, when I flinched, fearing they had killed my friend, the youngest one decided to brutalize me.

“Where’s the money outside the safe?” he asked. “Where’s the cashier’s till?”

I summoned my courage, inspired by Joe Heywood, and pointed to the box of loose change atop the counter.

“There,” I said.

“Horseshit!”

Yet he withdrew a grain sack, and dumped the nickels, pennies, and silver inside, never noticing the drawer underneath the box, the cashier’s drawer that, by my guess, contained perhaps $3,000.

“You get anything, Bob?” the tall man asked.

“My claim ain’t panning out much, Buck!” he said with a mirthless laugh, but, when he turned toward me again, anger flashed in his blue eyes, and I thought I would die.

“There’s more money than that here, and you damn’ well better tell me where it is, you son-of-a-bitch! Where the hell’s that cashier’s till? And what in hell are you standing up for? I told you to keep down.”

He shoved me to the floor, and jammed the cold, hard barrel of his revolver at my temple.

“Better show me where that money is you son-of-a-bitch, or I’ll kill you.”

It’s a cliché, I know, but I closed my eyes and thought about my life. I saw my mother. I saw dear Nettie, and wondered how long my wonderful bride would wear black, to grieve for me after these vile, wicked men killed me. I thought of God, and the Streets of Gold. I thought I was dead, and as I mouthed the Lord’s Prayer, I realized the young brigand had returned to the counter, rummaging for paper money and coin.

I looked up. If I could make it through the director’s room, I could hurl myself out the back door—pretty much nothing more than blinds— dart down the alley, maybe warn Mr. Manning in the hardware store. If I wasn’t killed inside the bank, or shot down from all those gunshots I kept hearing outside.

Something else flashed through my mind. The savage Indian-looking man kept growling, and the tall man, scattering papers from Joe’s desk, whirled at him and yelled, screaming at him to try the damned safe. If he pulled on the handle, the door would open, and Joe’s bravery would be for nothing. I had to act. Now.

Frank Wilcox remained on his knees, staring in my direction although I doubt if his brain registered anything—his face ashen. Still, I motioned for him to move a little closer to the counter, to give me room to make my break. They had killed Joe Heywood; at least, that is what I feared, and, had I known Joe still breathed life’s air, had I known what would happen once I fled, I would gladly have traded my life for his, would resolutely have stayed inside the bank, but, as God is my witness, I thought Joe was already dead and feared that, if I did not make my play now, both Frank Wilcox and I would join him as victims, unless I acted immediately.

I shot to my feet, and ran, pushing past poor Frank Wilcox, ran hard through the back door.

“Shit!” The dark man’s voice rang out, followed with sacrilegious curses from the youngest of the trio, and the tall man’s orders: “Stop that bastard, Charlie!”

Then…a gunshot!

My ears rang as I hurried, seeing the bullet splinter the blinds right before I pushed through them, crashing outside, hearing the cannonade of the attack from all around Mill Square and Division Street.

From inside the bank: “Kill that son-of-a-bitch!”

Outside—shrieks, hoofs, gunfire that surrounded, it seemed, the entire town.

Feet churning, flailing stupidly, I ran as hard as I could, heard the dark man’s vile cursing, heard the click of his revolver, or at least imagined I did.

An instant later, a bullet slammed into my back.

BOOK: Northfield
6.27Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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