Shot in the Back

J. Frank Alexander limped into the living room, turned on the cathedral radio, and tuned it to a program of music. Sitting in a nearby rocking chair, he began eating the bowl of chocolate pudding he had brought with him while tapping his foot to the music. To the casual observer he might look like a very old man sitting in a rocking chair, but in his mind he was twenty-five years old and dancing with “the prettiest girl in Clay County, Missouri.”

Suddenly the music stopped and Alexander glanced toward the radio, aggravated that the melody had been interrupted. From time to time the radio did that, and he could generally bring it back by giving it a hard slap on the arched top. He was about to do that when the sound returned. It wasn't music, though; it was an announcer's voice.

“Where the hell is Pearl Harbor?” Alexander asked.

As if responding to Alexander's question, the announcer continued.

The music returned, but Alexander was no longer listening. He had never been to Hawaii, but he knew where it was and had seen pictures of it. He knew that it was a very beautiful place, and for a while he had even contemplated going there after his first “retirement.”

“You Japanese sons of bitches have stepped in it now.”

Alexander parked his 1937 Ford convertible on Crockett Street, two blocks north of the post office, which was the closest parking space he could find. He put a nickel into the parking meter.

“Good morning, Mr. Alexander.”

“Mornin', Clem,” Alexander replied.

Clem had called out to him from inside a sidewalk newsstand, on which were spread newspapers and magazines. Alexander stepped up to glance at the headlines.

 

 

M
AC
A
RTHUR'S
M
EN
T
AKE
H
EAVY
T
OLL
O
N
J
AP
A
TTACKERS IN THE
P
HILIPPINES

 

“Looks to me like we're already givin' those Jap bastards a good lickin',” Clem said.

“Yeah, but we're a long way from whippin' 'em yet, I'd say.”

“People from all over are joinin' up to go fight 'em,” Clem said. “I'm fifty-eight years old, but if I was younger, I'd be one of the first in line. I was too old for the first world war, and too young to go off 'n fight agin' the Spanish. I was only sixteen then, but I tried.”

Alexander bought a newspaper, then with a wave good-bye continued on.

The recruiting office was just inside the post office, and there were two recruiting posters on the wall, one on either side of the door.

One had a picture of a muscular, shirtless sailor, wearing a sailor's cap and shoving an artillery shell into a big gun.

 

Join the Navy

 

On the other side of the door was an army recruiting poster, featuring a uniformed soldier who was blowing a bugle as he stood in front of a furled American flag.

 

Join the Army
For Home and Country

 

Inside the office there were two soldiers and two sailors. All four were sitting around a table playing cards.

“Gibson, you better watch Martell, he's goin' to try and shoot the moon,” one of the sailors said.

“Ha! You, don't have to worry none about that, Calvin. You wait until somebody drops the ole bitch on 'im. Then we'll see how he does,” Gibson said.

An army sergeant glanced up from the game and saw Alexander standing just inside the door.

“Yes, sir, something we can do for you?” the sergeant asked.

“Is this where you join the army?” Alexander asked.

“It sure is. If your grandson is looking to join, why you just bring him right on down here, old-timer, and we'll sign him right up.”

“Come on, Sergeant Kilbride, you know that boy isn't going to want anything to do with the army. Tell you what, mister, you bring him here, the navy will treat him right,” Calvin, who was a navy chief petty officer, said.

“No, sir, it's the army I'm interested in.”

Corporal Martell, who put his cards on the table facedown when Alexander walked in, laughed. “Ha! What do you think about that? He knows what's good for his grandson.”

“No, sir, I'm not askin' about my grandson. I'm askin' about me.”

Sergeant Kilbride got a confused look on his face. “I don't understand. What do you mean, asking about you?”

“Joinin' up,” Alexander said. “I want to join the army.”

The sergeant laughed. “You want to fight for Uncle Sam, do you?”

“You're damn right I do. And I'll fight as hard for the Yankee government this time as I once fought against it.”

“As you once fought against it?” Seaman Gibson asked. “What do you mean, you fought against the government?”

“When I rode with Quantrill.”

“Holy crap! Are you telling us you were with Quantrill?”

“Damn straight I am.”

“How old are you?”

“I'm ninety-five.”

“You are ninety-five and you want to enlist in the army?” Martell asked.

“Yes.”

Sergeant Kilbride laughed. “So, you rode with Quantrill, did you? Next you'll be telling us you're Jesse James.”

“How did you know?”

The four men looked at him with eyes opened wide in shock.

“Wait a minute. Are you going to stand there, flat-footed, and tell us that you are Jesse James?”

“Well, if I'm going to enlist, I will need to use my real name, won't I?”

The four recruiters laughed.

“I tell you what. The army can have him,” Calvin said, laughing out loud.

“You men don't believe me, do you?”

“What about you, Sergeant Kilbride? Do you believe this is Jesse James?” Calvin asked.

“Mister, why don't you leave now? You're wasting our time,” Sergeant Kilbride said.

“But I want to join the army.”

“If you don't leave now, I'll call Sheriff Baker,” Kilbride said, reaching for the phone.

“Yes, sir, you do that. Call Oran; I'll just have a seat over here and wait for him,” Alexander said.

“Tell me, old-timer, do any of your friends want to join? Billy the Kid? Doc Holliday? Bill Doolin?” Martell asked, laughing as he spoke.

“Bill Doolin?” Alexander said. He made a hacking sound of disgust deep in his throat. “Hell, Doolin wasn't nothin' but a joke.”

Kilbride asked the operator to get him the sheriff's office. A moment later he said, “Sheriff Baker? This is Sergeant Kilbride down at the recruiting office.” He looked at the others and smiled. “We've captured a notorious outlaw, and we'd like to turn him over to you for the reward.”

The others laughed.

“Oh, yeah, we'll hold him here for you,” Kilbride said before he hung up.

“While we're waitin', old-timer, would you like a cup of coffee?” Corporal Martell asked.

“Make it black,” Alexander said.

Martell poured a cup of coffee and handed it to him. “Today was the navy's turn to make the coffee,” he said. “So I can't guarantee this. It probably tastes like bilge water.”

“I've had coffee, chicory, even ground-up parched corn. I reckon I can handle your coffee,” Alexander said. He took a sip, then smiled. “This is good.”

“Well, I'll say this for him,” Gibson said, “he likes navy coffee, and that means that he does have taste.”

A few minutes later the sheriff arrived.

“Hello, Sergeant Kilbride. You said you had someone I should meet?”

“Yes,” Kilbride replied. “I've got someone here who says . . .” He laughed. “Are you ready for this? He says he is Jesse James.”

“Hello, Oran,” Alexander said.

“Hello, Jesse. I thought you weren't ever going to tell,” Sheriff Baker replied.

The gasps of the four recruiters were audible.

“Why not? What are they going to do to me now?” Alexander replied. “It's been more'n sixty years since the last paper was out on me. And if I get one last chance to serve my country, I want to do it.”

“Wait a minute, Sheriff! Just hold on there! Are you saying this fella really is Jesse James?” Gibson asked.

“That's exactly what I'm saying.”

“You're putting us on, aren't you?” Martell asked.

“My pa saw Jesse James once, and he told me about it. Ever since then I've been interested in Jesse James, and I reckon I've readjust about ever'thing that has ever been written about him, which, in a court of law, would qualify me as an expert witness.”

“But what makes you think this old man is Jesse James?” Calvin asked.

“There are seven bullet wounds on this man,” Sheriff Baker said. “That is the same number of times Jesse James is known to have been shot, and the bullet wounds are in precisely the same places. There is a scar on his neck, consistent with the same type scar that would have been left by the rope that a sixteen-year-old Jesse James had from an aborted attempt to hang him. There are also several burn marks on his feet, from where Union soldiers tortured him, trying to get him to tell them where Frank was hiding. If you notice, his left ring finger is missing below the knuckle. I don't think someone would chop off a finger just to promote a lie. And last, but not least, I have questioned this man extensively. He knows things that only Jesse James could possibly know.”

“All right, let's say you are Jesse James. I'm not buying that, but let's say that you are. You're ninety-five years old. Just what is it that you think you could do for the army?” Sergeant Kilbride asked.

“I can teach 'em how to fight behind the lines.”

“Behind the lines?”

Jesse laughed. “Sonny, I spent most of my career behind the lines, be it Yankee lines or the law. There's a lot I could teach your soldier boys.”

“Yes, well, even if you are who you say you are, I don't think we can actually enlist you,” the sergeant said. “But let me talk to Captain Kirby. Maybe we can find some way to use you as a civilian consultant. We'll be in touch with you soon.”

“You'd better make it very soon. At my age, I don't even buy milk. I might expire before the milk does,” he added, laughing at his own joke.

“Sheriff, uh, let's say this is Jesse James. Is there still a reward out for him?” Sergeant Kilbride asked.

Baker laughed. “I don't think so.” He turned to Jesse. “Jesse, I was going to look you up today anyway. It just so happens that there is someone in town I would like for you to meet. Would you mind coming with me?”

“Don't mind at all.”

 

 

“Would you ring Mr. Faust's room for me?” Sheriff Baker asked the hotel clerk.

“Yes,” the clerk replied. He made a connection on the switchboard, then pointed to a white telephone on the counter. “Pick up the courtesy phone please, Sheriff.”

“Mr. Faust? This is Sheriff Baker. You know the gentleman I told you about? I have him with me. All right, we'll be right up.”

“Who is this man we're meeting?” Jesse asked as they waited for the elevator.

“His name is Frederick Faust. But he writes books as Max Brand.”

“Max Brand. Yeah, I've heard of him.”

 

 

“I've read your book
The Outlaw
,” Jesse said a few moments later after Sheriff Baker introduced them in Faust's room.

“Oh? What did you think of it?” Faust asked.

“Don't know as I can say, seein' as I never met Billy the Kid. Have you ever done one on me?”

“By ‘me,' do you mean J. Frank Alexander? Or Jesse James?”

“Have you?”

“I've borrowed from the Jesse James story of course, but no, I've never done a book specifically about Jesse James.”

“But now you're wantin' to. That's why you're talkin' to me.”

“It might be, Mr. Alexander, or Mr. James, whichever is your real name.”

“Actually, I've gone by the name Alexander a lot longer now than I went by the name of Jesse James, or Tom Howard. But I reckon you know about such things, seeing as you have two names, Frederick Faust and Max Brand. I mean, they are both your real names, wouldn't you say?”

“I suppose you could say that.”

“Well, you may as well call me Jesse. I mean, the cat's out of the bag. And it's like I told Oran, there's been no paper out on me for more'n sixty years now. Why, I'd be willin' to bet there isn't a dodger out on me in any sheriff's office anywhere in the whole country.”

Faust laughed. “I'd say that's a safe bet. But, before I start calling you Jesse, you're going to have to convince me that you are who you say you are.”

“Ask Oran. He knows who I am.”

“I know that you have convinced him. But I'm asking you to convince me.”

“How am I supposed to convince you who I am? All I can do is tell you who I am and I reckon you're just going to have to believe me.”

“Maybe it would help if you told me a few things that I can verify, things that have been recorded in the history books. I want to hear your version of it.”

“There's only one problem with that,” Jesse said.

“What would that be?”

“My version and what's written in the history books might be somewhat different. My version is always right. The history books aren't always right.”

“I'll take that into consideration.”

“All right, what do you want to hear about first?”

“The Northfield Raid.”

Jesse sighed and shook his head. “You would choose that.”

“I'll admit, it wasn't your finest hour,” Faust said.

“At least, it wasn't the finest hour for Jesse and Frank James. But let me hear your side of the story.”

“It was the worst day of my life.”