by Matt Braun
The banker was seated behind his desk. He smiled and beckoned Starbuck forward. His eyes were strangely alert and his handshake was cordial. He motioned to a chair.
“I must say I’m delighted to see you, Mr. Starbuck. There for a while I began to wonder if you had fallen victim to foul play.”
“Nothing like that,” Starbuck said, seating himself. “I’ve been on the go since I left here, and not a whole lot to report. Up till now anyway.”
“You have news, then?” Tilford leaned forward eagerly. “A break in the case?”
“Maybe,” Starbuck allowed. “Maybe not. All depends on the next turn of the cards.”
“I don’t believe I follow you.”
“Suppose I fill you in on what’s happened?”
“Yes, by all means! Please do, Mr. Starbuck.”
Starbuck began with the tenuous leads he’d unearthed from the Pinkerton file. From there, he briefly recounted his trip to Indian Territory and the night with Belle Starr. Then, touching only on salient details, he related how he had infiltrated Ma Ferguson’s bordello. Apart from the cover story, he made no mention of the disguise or the alias he’d assumed. As a matter of security, he never revealed professional secrets to anyone, not even a client. He went on to tell of Alvina and the Youngers, and his gradual acceptance as a regular at the brothel. Then, finally, he spoke of his strange conversation with Frank James.
“I got close,” he concluded. “But close don’t count except in horseshoes. One word from Cole Younger put a damper on the whole works.”
“Good Lord!” Tilford said, visibly impressed. “You were actually face to face with Frank James!”
“Closer than I am to you right now. With a little luck, I could’ve killed him and the Youngers there and then. Course, I never tried for the obvious reason. I figured you wanted Jesse or nobody.”
“Quite correct,” Tilford said briskly. “Nevertheless, you are to be commended, Mr. Starbuck. To my knowledge, no one—certainly no Pinkerton—has ever made personal contact with Frank James. Not to mention the Younger brothers—and all of them in the same room!”
“All of them except the one we’re after.”
“A masterful piece of work, nonetheless! How on earth were you able to gain their confidence?”
“The girl,” Starbuck told him. “She was the key. Once I got her on my side, the rest just fell into place.”
“I marvel that the Pinkertons never considered such an approach.”
Starbuck gave him a cynical smile. “I’d guess the Pinks wouldn’t talk the same language as whores.”
“Perhaps not.” Tilford appeared nonplussed, and quickly dropped the topic. “Well, now, Mr. Starbuck! Where do we proceed from here?”
“I need some information, and I need it today.”
“Exactly what sort of information?”
“Alvina—she’s the girl I mentioned—let slip that the gang has a holdup planned. She wasn’t certain, but she thought the name of the town was either Northfield or Northville. We’ve got to determine which it is—and where.”
“Where?”
“What state.”
“Are you telling me she gave no indication as to the state?”
“She couldn’t,” Starbuck replied. “She didn’t know.”
“And she wasn’t precise as to whether it’s Northfield or Northville?”
“She leaned towards Northfield. All the same, she wouldn’t have sworn to it.”
“So, then, we’re faced with a conundrum of sorts, aren’t we?”
“If that means a head scratcher, then I’ll grant you it’s a lulu.”
Tilford steepled his fingers, thoughtful. “A possible solution occurs to me. The American Bankers Association publishes a booklet listing all member banks. In addition, when we were organising the International Association, we compiled a list of virtually every bank in the Midwest. Between the two lists, we might very well find the answer.”
“Sounds good,” Starbuck observed. “How long will it take?”
“I have no idea.” Tilford rose from his chair. “However, I will attend to the search personally. I daresay that will speed things along.”
“Need some help?”
“Thank you, no.” Tilford moved around his desk. “I’ll put every available clerk on it immediately. Please make yourself comfortable, Mr. Starbuck.”
With that, Tilford hurried out of the office. Starbuck took out the makings and began building himself a smoke. He creased a rolling paper, holding it deftly between thumb and forefinger, and sprinkled tobacco into it. Then he licked, sealing the length of the paper, and twisted the ends. He struck a match on his boot sole and lit the cigarette. Exhaling smoke, he snuffed the match and tossed it into an ashtray. He settled down to wait.
Several times over the next hour Tilford’s receptionist popped in to check on him. She offered coffee, which he accepted, and refilled his cup on each trip. At last, with his kidneys afloat, he declined the fourth refill. A cup of coffee was nothing without a smoke, and he put a dent in his tobacco sack during the prolonged wait. He was lighting yet another cigarette as Tilford bustled through the door. In his hand, the banker held a single sheet of foolscap.
“I fear we’ve somewhat compounded the problem, Mr. Starbuck.”
“Oh, how so?”
“See for yourself.” Tilford seated himself, and placed the paper on the desk between them. I regret to say the prefix ‘North’ is not all that uncommon.”
Starbuck pulled his chair closer and scanned the paper. On it, printed in neat capital letters, was a list of five towns: NORTHFIELD, ILLINOIS. NORTHFIELD, MINNESOTA. NORTHVILLE, MICHIGAN. NORTH-RIDGE, OHIO. NORTHWOOD, IOWA. His eye was drawn to the top of the list, and he briefly considered the two Northfields. Then he took a long, thoughtful draw on his cigarette.
“Illinois and Minnesota.” The words came out in little spurts of smoke. “Guess we could toss a coin and hope for the best.”
“Let me pose a question.” Tilford studied his nails a moment. “Is it possible the girl was confused, somehow got the name of the town wrong?”
“Anything’s possible,” Starbuck remarked. “What makes you ask?”
“You will note”—Tilford tapped the paper—“there are five states listed there. Of those states, the James-Younger gang has been active in only one, that state being Iowa.”
“You’re saying there’s a connection?”
“Precisely!” Tilford intoned. “For all his robberies, Jesse James had limited himself to a very defined territory. If nothing else, the Pinkertons established that every robbery occurred either in Missouri or in a state contiguous to Missouri.”
“I’m not much on four-bit words.”
“Contiguous,” Tilford elaborated, “simply means a bordering state. In short, the James-Younger gang had never been known to operate in a state which did not directly border Missouri.”
Starbuck again scanned the list. “You’re telling me we ought to forget Minnesota, Michigan, and Ohio?”
“I am indeed,” Tilford affirmed. “I seriously question that Jesse James would cross Iowa to rob a bank in Minnesota. Nor would he cross Illinois and Indiana to rob a bank in Michigan. It flies in the face of a record established over a period of seventeen years.”
Starbuck was silent for a time. “I take it you’ve got a theory all worked out?”
“Facts speak for themselves,” Tilford said with exaggerated gravity. “I submit the robbery will take place in one of two towns. The logical choice—based on what the girl was told—is Northfield, Illinois. A distant second, at least in my opinion, would be Northwood, Iowa.”
“Northwood’s out,” Starbuck said in a low voice. “She wasn’t certain, but she only mentioned two names: Northfield and Northville.” He paused, slowly stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “Tell me about Northfield, Illinois. What size town is it?”
“Quite small. I believe the population is something less than five hundred.”
“Which mea
ns the bank wouldn’t be any great shakes. How about Northfield, Minnesota?”
“Considerably larger,” Tilford admitted. “I would judge it at roughly five thousand.”
“And the bank?”
“Old and very prosperous,” Tilford said, frowning heavily. “One of the largest in the Midwest.”
There was a moment of weighing and deliberation before Starbuck spoke. “Alvina told me it was a big job, bigger than anything the gang had ever pulled. So that pretty well eliminates the bank in Illinois. To my way of thinking, it narrows down to one candidate—North-field, Minnesota.”
“I strongly disagree,” Tilford said sharply. “Why would Jesse James travel that far to rob a bank? There’s no logic to it! Absolutely none!”
“Outlaws aren’t noted for logic. Even if they were, I’d have to follow my hunch on this one. Jesse and his boys are out to make a killing, and it was Jim Younger himself who said so. That speaks lots louder to me than all your facts.”
“Are you prepared to stake your reputation on a hunch, Mr. Starbuck?”
“Why not?” Starbuck said with sardonic amusement. “Except for hunches, I would’ve been dead a long time ago.”
“And in the event logic prevails … what then?”
“Tell you what.” Starbuck met his look squarely. “You alert the authorities at Northfield, Illinois. Meantime, I’ll get myself on up to Minnesota. That way everybody’s happy.”
“Compromise was hardly what I had in mind.”
“It’s all you’ll get,” Starbuck said quietly. “I told you when I signed on … I do it my way or I don’t do it at all.”
There was an awkward pause. Tilford’s features congested, and his mouth clamped in a bloodless line. “Very well,” he conceded at length. “When will you leave?”
“First train out,” Starbuck informed him. “I like to scout the terrain before I lay an ambush.”
“Ambush!” Tilford looked upset. “Won’t the authorities in Minnesota have something to say about that?”
“All depends.”
“On what, may I ask?”
“On whether or not I tell them.”
“Good God!” Tilford shook his head in stern disapproval. “Surely you don’t intend to take on the entire gang—without assistance!”
“We’ll see.” Starbuck gave him a devil-may-care grin. “Sometimes it’s easier to kill a man by operating alone. Northfield might be too civilised for our kind of justice.”
Tilford could scarcely mistake the nature of the grin, or the words. He had, after all, hired a man to dispense summary justice. Northfield’s wishes in the matter were wholly immaterial.
“Yes.” His tone was severe. “You may very well have a point, Mr. Starbuck.”
Starbuck unfolded slowly from his chair. He tugged his jacket smooth and walked to the door. Then, as he was about to step into the hall, he paused and looked back over his shoulder. A ghost of a smile touched his mouth.
“I’ll let you know how it comes out.”
CHAPTER 13
Starbuck stood on the veranda of the Dampier House Hotel. A cigar was wedged in the corner of his mouth and his hands were locked behind his back. Under a noonday sun, he puffed thick clouds of smoke and stared out across the square. His gaze was fixed on the First National Bank.
Only an hour before, upon arriving in town, Starbuck had checked into the hotel. He was posing as a sundries drummer, whose territory had recently been broadened to include Minnesota. Apart from the ubiquitous cigar, his attire was the uniform of virtually all travelling salesmen. He wore a derby hat and a snappy checkered suit with vest to match. A gold watch chain was draped across the vest, and a flashy diamond ring sparkled on his pinky. His physical appearance was unchanged, with the exception of an old standby.
A gold sleeve, crafted with uncanny workmanship, was fitted over his left front tooth. The overall effect, as with any subtle disguise, was principally one of misdirection. When he smiled, which was a drummer’s stock in trade, people seldom saw his face. Their recollection was of a gold tooth and a steamy cigar. The man who called himself Homer Croydon was otherwise lost to memory.
Today, eyes squinted in concentration, Starbuck was performing a feat of mental gymnastics. A manhunter who survived soon acquired the knack of looking at things from an outlaw’s perspective. Long ago, the trick had become second nature, and he was now able to step into the other fellow’s boots almost at will. Visualising himself to be Jesse James, he pondered on a foolproof way to rob the bank.
Based on all he’d learned, Starbuck knew it would be a mistake to think in conventional terms. Jesse James, unlike most bank robbers, approached each job as though it were a military operation. The Pinkerton file rather conclusively demonstrated that the James-Younger gang was organised along the lines of a guerrilla band. Without exception, their holdups had been executed with a certain flair for hit-and-run. Surprise, as in any guerrilla raid, was the key element. Every step was orchestrated—planned with an eye to detail—and the gang generally made good their escape before anyone realised a robbery had occurred. That, too, indicated the meticulous preparation characteristic of each job. The retreat, and subsequent escape, was engineered with no less forethought than the holdup itself. And therein lay the mark of Jesse James’ overall genius. In seventeen years, he had never been outfoxed. His trademark was a cold trail … leading nowhere.
Yet Northfield presented a unique tactical problem. Brooding on it, Starbuck slowly became aware that the situation was fraught with imponderables. The layout of the town did not lend itself to a hit-and-run raid. The square was open and broad, affording little in the way of concealment. On all sides, stores fronted the square; tradesmen and shopkeepers had a perfect view of the bank; any unusual activity would immediately draw their attention. The chances of discovery—before the job was completed—were therefore increased manyfold. In that event the odds also multiplied that the gang would be forced to fight its way out of Northfield. Because the river bisected the town, however, there were only two logical lines of retreat. One led eastward, along Division Street, which began on the corner where the bank was located. Yet, while Division Street was the quickest route of escape, any flight eastward would merely extend the line of retreat. Headed in the wrong direction, the gang would at some point be compelled to double back on a south-westernly course. For in the end, there was no question they would make a run for Indian Territory.
The other escape hole was- westward, across the bridge. There, too, the tactical problem was apparent. To reach the bridge, the gang would have to traverse the entire length of the square. Should trouble arise, and the townspeople take arms, the outlaws would be forced to run a gauntlet of gunfire. At first glance, the hazards entailed seemed to rule out the bridge. Still, apart from surprise, the chief attribute of an experienced guerrilla leader was to do the unexpected when it was least expected. A calculated risk at best, the bridge might nonetheless offer the lesser of two evils. It led westward, the ultimate direction of escape, and it shortened the line of retreat by perhaps thirty or forty miles. On balance, then, the advantages might very well outweigh the hazards. No one would expect a gang of bank robbers to take the hard way out of town. Nor would they anticipate that the gang leader might deliberately—
Starbuck was rocked by a sudden premonition. He stepped off the veranda and crossed the block-long expanse of the square. At the bridge, he halted and stared for a moment at the houses on the opposite side of the river. Then, on the verge of turning, his eyes were drawn to the line of telegraph poles running north. His gaze shifted south—no telegraph poles!—and any vestige of doubt disappeared. Facing about, he subjected the square to cold scrutiny. From a tactical outlook, the bridge instantly became a key vantage point. The entire square, from end to end, was commanded by an unobstructed field of fire. There was, moreover, the element of the unexpected from where it was least expected. In the event fighting broke out, the townspeople would be looking towards the bank, n
ot the bridge. And the outcome was easy to visualise.
Starbuck walked back to the hotel. Whether by deductive reasoning or swift-felt instinct, he knew he’d doped out the plan. Some inner certainty told him the holdup would proceed along the lines he’d envisioned. All that remained was to decide his own course of action. As he saw it, there were two options, both of which held merit. The critical factor was yet another of those imponderables.
To kill Jesse James all he had to do was bide his time. His room, which was on the second floor, fronted the hotel and directly overlooked the square. The range, from his window to the door of the bank, was roughly forty yards. No easy shot with a pistol, it was nonetheless one he had made many times before. By placing his gun hand on the windowsill—and holding high with the sights—he felt entirely confident of a kill shot. When the gang exited the bank, his shot was certain to go unnoticed in the ensuing gunfire.
Then, still posing as a drummer, he need only check out of the hotel and be on his way. Homer Croydon would be remembered by no one. Nor would anyone associate him with the death of Jesse James.
The alternative was to contact the town marshal. However, that route would require discretion and an oath of silence. Should the marshal prove the talkative sort—and word of an impending robbery spread through Northfield—then any hope of trapping the gang would be gravely jeopardised. The risk was compounded by the fact that others, by necessity, would be drawn into the scheme. Quite properly, the marshal would insist on alerting some of the townsmen. Extra guns, and men willing to use them, would be needed against a band of killers. Still, by stressing the need for secrecy, there was every reason to believe the plan would work. The welfare of Northfield and its citizens would be at stake. And trustworthy men, committed to the common good, could be persuaded to hold their silence.
In the end, Starbuck’s decision had little to do with Northfield. He was concerned for the lives of innocent bystanders, and he had no wish to see the square turned into a battleground. Yet, for all that, his decision was a matter of personal integrity. While he had killed many men, he was no assassin. To hide, and shoot down a man from his hotel window, somehow went against the grain. His code in such matters was simple and pragmatic. He always gave the other man a chance, but he tried never to give him the first shot.
