by Matt Braun
On reflection, it was the way he preferred to kill Jesse James. No stealth or potshots from hotel windows. He would do it openly, face to face—on the street.
Shortly after the noon hour, Starbuck left the hotel and crossed the square. Opposite the bank, he rounded the comrner and walked towards the marshal’s office, which was one door down. Northfield appeared to be a peaceful town, with nothing more serious than an occasional fistfight or a rowdy drunk. Other than the marshal, he thought it unlikely the town would employ any full-time officers. When he entered the office, his judgement was confirmed. All the cell doors stood open, and except for the marshal, the place was deserted. Seated behind a battered desk, the lawman was idly cleaning his fingernails with a penknife.
“Afternoon.”
“Yessir.” The marshal gave his gold tooth and snappy outfit a quick once-over. “Do something for you?”
“Are you Marshal Wallace Murphy?”
“I am.” Murphy closed the penknife and stuck it in his pocket. “What’s the problem?”
“No problem, Marshal. I was instructed to call on you when I got into town.”
“Don’t say?” Murphy looked flattered. “Who by?”
“Mr. Otis Tilford,” Starbuck lied. “President of the International Bankers Association.”
“Oh, yeah! Now that you mention it, the name rings a bell. Formed not too long ago, wasn’t it?”
“Last summer,” Starbuck said with a note of pride. “We’re headquartered in St. Louis.”
“I take it you work for the association?”
“In a manner of speaking. I’m a private detective, Marshal.” Starbuck grinned and tipped his derby. “This drummer’s getup is strictly window dressing. I was hired as an undercover operative by Mr. Tilford.”
“I don’t believe I caught your name?”
“Luke Starbuck. Course, that’s just between you and me. I’m registered at the hotel under the name of Homer Croydon.”
Murphy was heavily built, with a square, thick-jowled face and a ruddy complexion. The chair squeaked under his weight as he leaned forward, elbows on the desk. He suddenly appeared attentive.
“Why all the secrecy?”
“Like I told you, I’m working undercover.”
“So you did.” Murphy eyed him with a puzzled frown. “What brings you to Northfield?”
“Well …” Starbuck let him hang a moment. “I need your word everything will be kept in the strictest confidence, Marshal. Otherwise I’m not at liberty to divulge the details of my assignment.”
“I dunno.” Murphy sounded uncertain. “If it’s got to do with Northfield, that could put me in an awkward position.”
Starbuck flashed his gold tooth. “I’d say it’s more likely to make you the town hero. Hear me out and I think you’ll agree I’m right.”
Murphy nodded, digesting the thought. “Okay, fire away. Only I warn you—I won’t be a party to anything that’s not in the best interests of Northfield.”
“Fair enough.” Starbuck’s expression turned solemn. “Sometime within the next week, the First National Bank will be robbed.”
“Robbed!” Murphy stared at him, dumbstruck. “How the hell would you know a thing like that?”
“How I know isn’t important—”
“Says you!” Murphy cut him short. “You walk in off the street and tell me the bank’s about to be robbed? I’ll have an explanation, mister. And I’ll have it damned quick.”
“Suit yourself.” Starbuck read a certain disbelief in his face, and decided to embellish the truth. “I was hired to infiltrate a gang of bank robbers. I located their hangout—a whorehouse—and I managed to get on chummy terms with them. Three nights ago, one of them got drunk and spilled the beans. So I checked with Mr. Tilford and he ordered me to contact you on the double. Here I am.”
Murphy looked at him with narrow suspicion. “How do I know you’re on the level?”
“If you don’t believe me,” Starbuck said lightly, “then just hide and watch. They’re on their way to Northfield right now.”
“Who’s they?”
“Jesse James and the Youngers.”
Murphy’s mouth popped open. “Did you say Jesse James—the Jesse James?”
“The one and only.”
“That’s impossible!” Murphy shook his head wildly. “Why would Jesse James come all the way to Minnesota to rob a bank? It doesn’t make sense!”
“Pay close attention, Marshal.” Starbuck’s eyes went cold and impersonal. “I don’t have time to waste arguing with you. They’re headed in your direction and that’s a rock-solid fact. Now, I can show you how to stop them from robbing the bank, not to mention covering yourself with glory.” He paused, jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Or I can walk out that door and leave you with egg on your face. I reckon it all depends on how much you like wearing a marshal’s badge.”
“What the hell do you mean by that?”
“Why, it’s pretty simple,” Starbuck said without expression. “The town fathers wouldn’t look too kindly on a man who let Jesse James ride in here and empty out the bank. All the more so once they heard Mr. Otis Tilford sent a special representative to warn you in advance.”
There was a stark silence. Wallace Murphy stared down at his hands, tight-lipped. He seemed to be struggling within himself, and several moments passed before he looked up. Then he dipped his head in affirmation.
“Go ahead, say your piece. I’m listening.”
On impulse, Starbuck pressed the advantage. “One more thing. I call the shots from here on out. You can take all the credit, but I won’t let you monkey with my plan. Understood?”
“Understood,” Murphy agreed gingerly. “Only you better come up with something damn good.”
“I already have,” Starbuck said with an odd smile. “You see, Marshal—I know how they intend to pull the job.”
“Big deal!” Murphy laughed uneasily. “What’s to robbing a bank? You just walk in and pull a gun.”
“Not Jesse James,” Starbuck countered. “Him and his boys are old guerrilla fighters. So we’re in for a military operation from start to finish.”
“Would you care to spell that out?”
“For openers, a couple of the gang will post themselves somewhere near the bank door. They’re the outside men, and their job is to keep the street clear. That way, there’s less chance of trouble when it comes time for the getaway.”
“In other words, they’re the ones that’ll show first?” Starbuck nodded. “Once they’re in position then Jesse and a couple more of the gang will enter the bank. We can depend on that. Jesse always handles the inside work himself.”
“What’s so unusual about that? Sounds fairly routine to me.”
“There’s an added touch,” Starbuck said soberly. “At least two men, maybe more, will take control of the bridge. If trouble develops during the holdup, they’ll keep everyone on the square pinned down with gunfire. Afterwards, they’ll cover the withdrawal when the bunch at the bank starts back across the square. Their last job is to act as a rear guard; fight a holding action at the bridge. Once the others are across the river and in the clear, then they’ll take off like scalded ducks.”
“Damn!” Murphy suddenly grasped it. “That means anybody who tangles with them would be caught in a crossfire. It’d be suicide to set foot on the square!”
“We’ll let Jesse and his boys go right on thinking that. Meantime, we’ll arrange a little surprise of our own.”
“An ambush!” Murphy’s eyes brightened. “By God, I like your style, Starbuck! How long you figure we’ve got?”
“Well, let’s see.” Starbuck pulled at his ear. “Tomorrow’s Saturday, and they wouldn’t risk it with the farm crowd in town. So I’d say the early part of the week, probably Monday.”
“With seven or eight of them, we’ll need some help with this ambush of yours.”
“Not too many,” Starbuck cautioned him. “The fewer involved, the less chance
of word leaking out. Do you know three or four men who can be trusted to keep their mouths shut?”
“Oh, hell, yes!” Murphy chortled. “Half the men in Northfield would give their left nut for a crack at Jesse James.”
“Hold it to three,” Starbuck said firmly. “That’s plenty for what I have in mind. And don’t let the cat out of the bag! Arrange to get them together sometime tomorrow, and I’ll explain the setup myself. I already know where I want them spotted.”
“I guess that only leaves Fred Wilcox. He’s the president of the bank. When do we give him the good news?”
“We don’t.”
“What?” Murphy went slack-jawed with amazement. “Fred’s got to be warned! You can’t let that gang of murderers walk in there cold!”
“I don’t aim to.” Starbuck regarded him with a level gaze. “But we can’t risk a bunch of nervous Nellies tipping our hand. We’ll hit the minute Jesse steps down out of the saddle. So don’t work yourself into a sweat. He’ll never make it inside the bank—I guarantee it.”
“Kill him dead!” Murphy cackled. “Shoot him down like a mad dog! That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?”
Starbuck smiled. “If a man’s worth shooting, then I reckon he’s worth killing.”
“Like I said, Starbuck.” Murphy chuckled heartily. “I admire your style.”
“One last thing,” Starbuck advised him. “I fire the first shot. That’ll be the signal for you and your men to cut loose; but I don’t want anybody to get overeager. Agreed?”
“Agreed! You’ve got my word on it.”
Wallace Murphy was tempted, but he let the question go unasked. He already knew the answer, and counted it no great surprise. Starbuck’s presence in Northfield was explanation enough.
The first shot would be for Jesse James.
CHAPTER 14
On Monday morning, the First National Bank opened at the usual time. Fred Wilcox, the president and chief stockholder, arrived a minute or so before eight. Waiting for him were the bank tellers, Joseph Heywood and Alan Bunker. He unlocked the front door and the men filed inside. A moment later the shade snapped up on the wide plateglass window fronting the square.
Starbuck was seated on the veranda of the hotel. He pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. The marshal had told him Wilcox was a punctual man, and he noted the window shade went up almost precisely on the stroke of eight. Around the square, following the banker’s example, tradesmen began opening their doors. Northfield stirred and slowly came to life. To all appearances it was a typical Monday morning, unremarkable in any respect. The townspeople, suspecting nothing, went about the routine of another business day.
A cigar jutting from his mouth, Starbuck lazed back in the cane-bottomed rocker. His legs were outstretched, heels planted atop the veranda railing, and the derby was tipped low over his forehead. To passersby, he looked like a slothful drummer, sunning himself after a heavy breakfast. In truth, he was alert and observant, his eyes moving hawklike around the square. He set the rocker in motion, ticking off a mental checklist item by item.
The three men selected by Marshal Wallace Murphy were already in position. Their weapons were secreted, but close at hand, and there was nothing about them to draw undue attention. One, Arthur Manning, operated a dry-goods store, located two doors north of the bank. Another, Elias Stacey, was proprietor of the town pharmacy. His shop was on the southeast corner of the square, directly across Division Street from the bank. The third man, Dr. Henry Wheeler, was stationed in Starbuck’s second-floor hotel room. A crack shot, widely known for his marksmanship, Doc Wheeler was armed with a breech-loading target rifle. The marshal, whose office was kitty-corner from the bank, kept a lookout from his window. His instructions were to stay off the street and out of sight.
Early Saturday morning, the three men had been summoned to the marshal’s office. There, he had introduced them to Starbuck and briefed them on the forthcoming holdup attempt. The men had listened with dismay and shock, somewhat incredulous. Yet all three were veterans of the Civil War, and no strangers to bloodshed. Nor were they overawed that they were being asked to take arms against the James-Younger gang. They were, instead, filled with a sort of righteous indignation. Jesse James was vilified as a murderous blackguard, and each of them looked upon the defence of their town and their neighbours as a civic duty. To a man, they eagerly volunteered their services.
Starbuck had first sworn them to an oath of silence. He impressed on them the need for absolute secrecy, which included wives and friends and business acquaintances. Jesse James, he noted, would be on guard for anything out of the ordinary; it was entirely likely a member of the gang would reconnoitre the town one last time before the robbery. With the point made, Starbuck then went on to the ambush itself. Their primary objective was the group of robbers—four or five in number—who would assemble outside the bank. These men were to be killed on the spot, before they had time to react and turn the square into a battleground. The men at the bridge, so long as they made no attempt to cross the square, were secondary. By concentrating on the bank, a dual goal would be served. The majority of the gang would be wiped out and the robbery would be aborted on the instant.
From there, Starbuck had proceeded to the matter of individual assignments. Manning and Stacey, whose stores were in direct proximity to the bank, were to arm themselves with shotguns. Caught between them, the robbers would be neatly sandwiched in a crossfire; their shotguns would sweep the sidewalk immediately outside the bank with a barrage of lead. The marshal, armed with a repeating rifle, would fire from the doorway of his office. His principal concern would be the outside team of robbers; once the firing became general, however, he would be free to select targets of opportunity. Doc Wheeler, whose target rifle was equipped with peep sights, would be responsible for the bridge. The gang members there were to be killed or pinned down, and thus neutralised. In that manner, they would be effectively eliminated from the larger fight.
Starbuck next outlined his own role in the ambush. Several of the gang members—notably Frank James and the three Younger brothers—were known to him on sight. The odds dictated that one or more of these men would be part of the outside team, the first contingent to approach the bank. Upon spotting them, he would leave the hotel veranda and cross to the south side of the square. His movement would alert Manning, Stacey, and Doc Wheeler that the holdup attempt was under way. Once. across the square, he would then turn east and stroll towards the corner. By timing it properly, he would arrive at the corner as the second contingent rode up to the bank. One of these men was certain to be Jesse James, and along with the inside team he would dismount at the hitch rack. The moment they were on the sidewalk, and moving towards the door of the bank, Starbuck would open fire. His shot would be the signal for Marshal Murphy and the others to cut loose. With luck, the whole affair would be concluded in a matter of seconds.
Summing up, Starbuck had stressed the importance of a dispassionate attitude. He reminded the men that the James-Younger gang was a band of cold-blooded murderers, prone to acts of savagery. He urged them to shoot to kill, and to continue firing until the last outlaw had been taken out of action. Any hesitation, any show of mercy, would only endanger innocent bystanders. To save the lives of friends and neighbours required that they kill quickly and efficiently. And with no regard for the aftermath.
Arthur Manning, perhaps having second thoughts, had then raised the issue of bystanders. In the event passersby happened along at the last moment or innocent parties got in the line of fire, he wondered if it might not be prudent to hold off, and let the gang rob the bank. At that point, he observed, when they were once again mounted and moving across the square, they could be ambushed in a relatively open area. Starbuck assured him that such a plan would result in random gunfire, and imperil the lives of everyone on the square. By containing the shooting to a limited zone—the front of the bank—there was less chance of someone catching a stray bullet. Doc Wheeler, whose usu
al business was saving lives, forcefully agreed. He advised Manning to leave tactics to Starbuck. The ambush, as laid out, was in his opinion their best hope. The others voiced assent, and the meeting had concluded on that note. Starbuck’s plan would be followed to the letter.
To bolster their confidence, Starbuck had arranged a dry run later that afternoon. He waited until the farmers and their families began the trek homeward; with their departure, the Saturday crowds thinned out and the sidewalks became passable. Walking to the southwest corner of the square, he stopped and turned to face the bank. From there, he was in plain view of Doc Wheeler and the two tradesmen. He gave them the high sign, indicating he was satisfied with the arrangement. Then, cutting across the intersection on an oblique angle, he stepped off the distance to the bank entrance. By his stride, it was fourteen paces, roughly fifteen yards. He considered it an easy shot. One Jesse James would never hear.
Yet now, seated in the rocker, he wondered if today would be the day. Where Jesse James was concerned, there were few certainties, and a good deal of guesswork. Still, if a bank was to be robbed, then Monday was the ideal time. All morning, a steady stream of merchants and shopkeepers had trooped into the bank. Their receipts from Saturday’s trade were heavy, and they were clearly anxious to get the money out of the stores and on deposit. Which made the bank a tempting target indeed. The vault would be stuffed with cash—and standing wide open.
As the noon hour approached, Starbuck experienced a moment of concern. If today was not the day, he knew he could expect problems with his squad of volunteers. Wallace was a peace officer, and therefore somewhat accustomed to the vagaries of manhunting. The others, despite their wartime service, were newcomers to the game. A professional soon learned that patience and determination were essential in any match of wits with outlaws. Amateurs, on the other hand, were quick to lose their taste for killing. The excitement—that initial surge of blood lust—was short-lived. The longer the wait, the more time they had to think. And given enough time, most men would talk themselves out of the notion. Unless the gang struck today, that might easily happen in Northfield. For the three townsmen, the act of cold and premeditated killing would begin to weigh heavily. Tomorrow or the next day—
