by Matt Braun
“Think not? Then how come we’re the first ones here when it’s him that called the meetin’? Go on, answer me that!”
“I ’spect he’s got his reasons.”
“Lamar, there’s none your equal when it comes to stickin’ by kinfolk. I’ll hand you that.”
“Speakin’ of kin,” Hudspeth said, easing into another subject, “I made the rounds today. Stopped by Miz Samuel’s place, just to make sure there wasn’t no outsiders nosin’ about.”
“We done the same,” Cole remarked, motioning to his brothers. “All of us snuck in to see our women last night. Things appear to be pretty quiet.”
“So Miz Samuel said,” Hudspeth acknowledged. “She ain’t seen hide nor hair of anybody that looks like a Pinkerton.”
“Jesse’s wife still stayin’ with his ma?”
“Well, her being in a family way and all, I ’spect she’ll stay there till her time comes.”
“Leastways Jesse don’t need no bird dog there. One way or another, he manages to sire his own pups.”
“Iffen it was me, I wouldn’t let Jesse hear you say a thing like that.”
“Before the night’s over, he’s gonna hear lots worse. I got a bellyful, and I aim to speak my piece.”
“I reckon you’re full-growed.” Hudspeth gestured to his son. “The boy’ll put your horses in the barn. There’s coffee on the stove and angel cake for them that wants it.”
“Your woman’s braver’n most, Lamar.”
“How’s that?”
“Bakin’ an angel cake for this crew? Damnation, she’s liable to get your house struck by lightning!”
Cole laughed and walked off with his brothers. The Hudspeth boy, flushed with shame for his father, led their horses into the barn. For his part, Lamar Hudspeth took no offence at the crude humour. His one concern was that there would be no spillover of animosity tonight. Yet, from all indications, he sensed that it wasn’t to be. Cole Younger was plainly looking for an excuse to start trouble.
The Hudspeth farm was located some miles outside the town of Kearney. Hudspeth himself was a law-abiding family man, a deacon in the Baptist church, and modestly active in Clay County politics. He was also a second cousin of Jesse and Frank James. Though he abhorred their methods—for he was a fundamentalist who took the Scriptures literally—he nonetheless believed they were being persecuted by shylock bankers and unscrupulous railroad barons. Like many people, he assisted the James boys and the Youngers at every turn. Since their own homes were unsafe, the gang members found shelter with friends and relatives; constantly on the move, they seldom spent more than a couple of nights in any one spot. The system baffled the law and allowed the robbers to visit their wives and children on a sporadic basis.
After nearly seventeen years, the people of Clay County had grown accustomed to a climate of conspiracy and distrust. Their efforts on behalf of the gang were now commonplace, an everyday part of life. Not unlike measles or whooping cough, it was accepted as the natural order of things.
Lamar Hudspeth, no different from his neighbours, would have scoffed at the notion that he was aiding and abetting outlaws. The James boys were kinsmen, and the Youngers, with the possible exception of Cole, were old and valued friends. Honour dictated that he shield them from harm and forever take their part in the struggle against the Pinkertons. Tonight, as he had on past occasions, he had consented to let them meet in his home. He recognised the danger and gave it no more than passing consideration. They were, after all, family.
A short while after dark Jesse and Frank emerged from the woods north of the house. Hudspeth wasn’t surprised, and while he’d denied it earlier, he knew Cole Younger was right all along. Jesse was a cautious man, forever leery of a trap; it was no accident he hadn’t arrived on time for the meeting. Instead, waiting in the trees, he had probably watched the house since well before dusk. Hudspeth thought it a sensible precaution, if not altogether admirable. Yet there was no condemnation in the thought. He never judged a kinsman.
Jesse reined to a halt and swung down out of the saddle. He was lean, with stark features and a cleft chin and cold slate-coloured eyes. His beard was neatly trimmed, and he carried himself with the austere, straight-backed posture that bordered on arrogance. He was a man of dour moods and he seldom smiled. His natural expression was rocklike, wholly devoid of sentiment.
By contrast, Frank was courteous and thoughtful, with a warm smile and an affable manner. Quietly studious, he was self-educated and an ardent reader, especially partial to the works of Shakespeare. To the dismay of the other gang members, he liberally quoted the Bard whenever the occasion permitted. Among friends and family, it was an open secret that he supplied the wording for Jesse’s articulate letters to the newspaper editors. Except for the dominance of his brother, he might have been a scholar, or a man of the cloth. He was, instead, an outlaw with a price on his head.
After a round of handshakes, Jesse cut his eyes towards the house. “Cole and the boys inside?”
Hudspeth nodded. “Cole’s some put out ’cause you wasn’t here first. Hope there won’t be any trouble.”
“Cole’s all wind and no whistle. He just likes to hear himself talk.”
“Maybe so,” Hudspeth said, without conviction. “He’s on a tear tonight, though. Told me he’d had a bellyful and meant to get it out in the open.”
“Bellyful of what?”
“Search me,” Hudspeth responded. “I just listen, Jesse. I don’t meddle.”
“One of these days,” Jesse said crossly, “I’m gonna fix his little red wagon for good.”
“C’mon now, Jess,” Frank gently admonished. “Cole doesn’t mean any harm. He just flies off the handle every now and then, that’s all. Besides, it wouldn’t do to forget … you need him and the boys.”
The men stood for a moment in a cone of silence. Then, to no one in particular, Hudspeth spoke. “Saw your ma today.”
“Figured you might.” Jesse’s expression mellowed slightly. “She all right?”
“Tolerable,” Hudspeth allowed. “Got herself a touch of rheumatism, and that’s slowed her up some. Course, she ain’t one to complain.”
“No, it’s not her way. How’s Zee?”
Hudspeth looked down and studied the ground. “She asked me to pass along a message.”
“Yeah?”
“She ain’t happy with your ma, Jesse. One woman under another woman’s roof puts a strain on everybody concerned. She asked me to tell you she wants a place of her own.”
Jesse acted as though he hadn’t heard. “Well,” he said, after a measurable pause, “I guess we’d best get the meeting started. What with one thing and another, it’s liable to take awhile.”
Hudspeth pursed his lips, on the verge of saying something more. Then, reluctant to meddle, his gaze shifted to Frank. “Sorry I didn’t get by to see Annie. Between chores and all, there just wasn’t time enough.”
“In our line of work,” Frank said with a rueful smile, “wives learn to take catch as catch can. All the same, I’m planning to slip into home tonight when we’re done here. I’ll tell her you asked after her.”
“Let’s get on with it.” Jesse started off, then turned back. “Lamar, you aim to keep a lookout while we’re inside?”
“No need to fret,” Hudspeth assured him. “Anybody comes along, I’ll send the boy to fetch you lickety-split.”
“What about Sarah?”
“She knows to stay in the kitchen. If you’ll recollect, she never wanted to hear nothin’ about your business anyhow.”
With a querulous grunt, Jesse trudged off in the direction of the house. Frank traded glances with Hudspeth, then tagged along on his brother’s heels. Upon entering the house, they found the Youngers seated around the parlour. Bob and Jim greeted them civilly enough, but Cole opted for brooding silence. An air of tension seemed to permeate the room.
No one spoke as Jesse hung his coat and hat on a wall peg beside the entrance. Without a word, he cross
ed the parlour and closed a door leading to the kitchen. Frank, fearing the worst, lowered himself into a rocker and began stuffing his pipe. Then, once more crossing the room, Jesse took a chair directly across from Cole. His eyes were metallic.
“I understand you’ve got your bowels in an uproar?”
“You understand right.”
“Then spit it out, and be damn quick about it!” Cole reddened, stung by his tone. An oak of a man, with brutish features and a square jaw, the eldest of the Younger brothers was ruled by a volatile temper. Yet, where Jesse was concerned, his outbursts were generally of short duration. For years he had allowed himself to be intimidated by the gang leader’s autocratic manner. His deference, though he had never admitted it to anyone, was due in no small part to fear. He knew Jesse would kill without pretext or provocation, the way a fox mindlessly slaughters a coop full of chickens. Tonight, however, he was determined to stand his ground. His jaw set in a bulldog scowl, and his gaze was steady.
“Me and the boys”—he motioned to his brothers—“are fed up! We want a bigger say in how this outfit’s run. All the more so since you likely called us together to plan a job.”
Jesse nailed him with a corrosive stare. “Suppose we leave Bob and Jim out of it. You’re the one that’s got a hair across his ass! So let’s just keep it between ourselves.”
“That ain’t so,” Cole corrected him. “We talked it out and we’re of a mind. We’ve got to have more say so in how things are done.”
“Don’t make me laugh,” Jesse’s voice was alive with contempt. “The three of you together don’t have brains enough to pour piss out of a boot. Without me to do your thinking for you, you’d starve to death in nothing flat.”
“Bullfeathers!” Cole said defiantly. “We ain’t been doing so hot with you! Our last couple of jobs was nickel-and-dime stuff. Keep on that way and we’ll have to take up honest work to make a livin’.”
“Quit bellyaching! You and the boys have done all right for yourselves.”
“No, we ain’t neither! You bollixed our last bank job and that train holdup last summer was a regular gawddamn disaster. All we done was kill a lot of people! And in case it slipped your mind, that ain’t exactly the purpose in pullin’ a robbery.”
An evil light began to dance in Jesse’s eyes. He glanced at Bob and Jim, and they seemed to cower before the menace in his gaze. Neither of them spoke, and their hangdog expressions evidenced little support for their brother. At length, Jesse swung back to Cole.
“Sounds like you’ve got some idea of moving me aside and stepping into my boots.”
“Never said that,” Cole protested. “All I’m sayin’ is that we want a vote in the way things are handled.”
“A vote!” Jesse fixed him with a baleful look. “We don’t operate by ballot. Only one man around here calls the shots—and that’s me!”
“Confound it, Jesse!” Cole said explosively. “That won’t cut the ice no more. We’re done takin’ orders like we was a bunch of ninnies! Either you treat us square or else—”
“Don’t threaten me.” Jesse’s tone was icy. “You do, and I’m liable to forget your name’s Younger.”
“Whoa back now!” Frank struck into the argument with a gentle rebuke. “You two keep on that way and we’ll all wind up losers. Jesse, it wouldn’t hurt anything to listen. Why not let Cole have his say?”
“Are you taking sides against me?”
Frank appraised his brother with a shrewd glance. “You ought to know better than to even ask such a thing. I’m just trying to get you to listen, that’s all. We have to divvy up the same bone—so where’s the harm?”
“Well …” Jesse said doubtfully. “I don’t mind listening. I just don’t want anybody telling me I don’t know my business.”
“Never said that either,” Cole insisted. “But Frank hit the nail on the head. We ain’t had a decent payday in a long gawddamn time, and it wouldn’t hurt to take a new slant on things.”
“A new slant?” Jesse repeated stiffly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“For one thing,” Cole explained, “we’ve got to give a little more thought to the Pinkertons. The way I see it, they pretty well got us euchred.”
“Awww, for God’s sake,” Jesse said with heavy sarcasm. “You’re crazy as a hoot owl! How long’s it been since a Pinkerton set foot in Clay County?”
“Fat lotta good that does us! They’ve figured out we only operate in certain states and they’ve got everybody nervy as a cat in a roomful of rockers. We haven’t hit one bank or one train in the last year that wasn’t halfway expectin’ to be robbed.”
“So what’s your idea? Should we start robbing poor boxes, candy stores—what?”
“No,” Cole said with an unpleasant grunt. “I think we ought to consider explorin’ new territory.”
“Don’t tell me,” Jesse taunted him. “Let me guess. You’ve got just the place picked out—am I right?”
“Now that you mention it,” Cole noted with vinegary satisfaction, “I stumbled across a real humdinger. A friend had some kinfolk move up there, and the way their letters read, the streets are paved with gold.”
“Up where?”
“Minnesota,” Cole informed him. “Northfield, Minnesota.”
“You are nuts!” Jesse snorted. “What the hell’s in Minnesota worth robbing?”
“A bank,” Cole replied in a sandy voice. “I had my friend write his relatives—all nice and casual—and it turns out Northfield’s smack-dab in the centre of things up that way. And there’s only one bank. A big bank!”
“There’s lots of big banks, and lots closer, too. Hell’s fire, Minnesota must be three hundred miles away, maybe more.”
“I checked,” Cole said without expression. “North-field’s right at four hundred miles from where we’re sittin’.”
“That corks it!” Jesse said, almost shouting. “Why in Christ’s name would we ride four hundred miles to rob a bank?”
“Because it’s the last place on earth the Pinkertons would expect us to hit. So far as I’m concerned, that’s about the best reason there is. You stop and think on it, and you’ll see I’m right.”
A thick silence settled over the room. Jesse caught Frank’s eye, and they exchanged a long, searching stare. Then, with a sombre look, Frank slowly bobbed his head.
“It makes sense, Jess. I never heard of Northfield, and I doubt that the Pinkertons have either. Matter of fact, it’s so far out of our usual territory, they’d probably blame the job on someone else.”
Jesse heaved himself to his feet. He began to pace around the parlour, hands stuffed in his pockets. No one spoke, and the tread of his footsteps seemed somehow oppressive in the stillness. After a time, he stopped, his head bowed, studying the floor. At last, as though to underline the question, he raised his head and looked Frank squarely in the eye.
“Are you voting with Cole?”
“Jesse—” Frank paused, weighing his words. “I couldn’t vote one way or the other, not till we’ve got more details. I’m only saying the idea itself sounds good.”
“All right,” Jesse said in a resigned voice. “Here’s the way we’ll work it. Since Bob’s the best scout we’ve got, he goes to Northfield to check the layout. I want to know everything there is to know about the bank and the town. And most especially, I want you to map out a step-by-step escape route to Belle Starr’s place. You got that straight, Bob?”
“Sure do, Jesse.” Bob grinned, sitting erect in his chair. “I’ll leave first thing in the mornin’.”
Jesse considered a moment. “I figure two weeks ought to do it. That’ll push you a little, but not too bad. So unless I send word to the contrary, we’ll all meet back here two weeks from tonight. Any questions?”
There were no questions. Jesse looked around the room, and his eyes were suddenly stern, commanding. “One last thing. Lay low and stay out of trouble. We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves just before we pull a job.” He
paused, and added a blunt afterthought. “Cole, that goes for you more than the others. None of your monkeyshines down at Ma Ferguson’s.”
Cole darted a glance at Frank, then shrugged. “No nookie for two weeks? That’s a pretty tall order.”
“Tie a string on it and keep it in your pants.”
“We ain’t all got your willpower, Jesse.”
“You’ve argued with me enough for one night. Just do like I say.”
“Well, I’ll give ’er a try. Yessir, I shore will!”
Jesse stared at him a moment. Then, nodding to Frank, he turned towards the door. With no word of parting, he shrugged into his coat and stepped into the night. Frank, trading one last look with Cole, dutifully tagged along.
The parlour suddenly seemed ominously quiet.
CHAPTER 9
Starbuck rode into Clay County on a bleak February evening. The sky was heavy with clouds and beneath it the frozen trees swayed in a polar wind. His destination was Ma Ferguson’s roadhouse.
Upon returning from Indian Territory, he had laid over several days in Kansas City. The delay, though it had grated on him, was.unavoidable. He’d needed time to perfect a disguise, and assume yet another identity. There was every reason to believe that the Police Gazette—which frequently carried articles about the James-Younger gang—was widely read in Clay County. His photo, which had appeared in the same publication, would have proved a dead giveaway. The upshot, were he to be recognised, was none too pleasant to contemplate. He wisely undertook a transformation in his appearance.
A theatrical supplier was his first stop. Kansas City was a crossroads for show companies, and the supplier stocked all manner of props and costumes. There, Starbuck obtained a bottle of professional hair dye, choosing dark nut-brown as a suitable contrast to his light chestnut mane. The proprietor assured him a dye job would last several weeks, barring a hard rain or any great penchant for hot baths. As an added touch, Starbuck also bought a spit-curled moustache of the same colour. Though fake, the moustache was quality work; even on close examination it looked to be the genuine article. A liberal application of spirit gum guaranteed it would remain glued to his upper lip.
