by Matt Braun
Starbuck opened his hands in a pious gesture. “The lot of strangers in a strange city can oftentimes be lonesome. And I ask you, Brother Williams—what better solace for a troubled heart than the words of the Good Book?”
“In plain English,” Williams said cynically, “you’re drumming up a list of prospects to call on. Isn’t that the idea?”
“‘Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap!’”
“‘Cast thy bread upon the waters, and wait for the fish to nibble.’ Wouldn’t that be more like it, Mr. Thayer?”
“You are a man of rare perception, Brother Williams.”
“Save it for the sinners.” Williams leaned forward. “I take it you’d like to look over our back issues and copy down the names?”
“Precisely.” Starbuck gave him a disarming smile. “The last couple of weeks should do very nicely. And needless to say, I shan’t reveal how I came by the names.”
“You do and I’ll have your larcenous butt run out of town!”
“Never fear!” Starbuck struck a pose. “‘Wisdom excelleth folly!’ So sayeth the travelling man’s almanac.”
Williams grunted. “The lady at the counter will dig out the files for you. Good day … Brother Thayer.”
A short while later Starbuck walked from the Herald. In his pocket was a list of names and addresses, and a map of the city. One address—1318 Lafayette Street—was circled with a bold scrawl. The occupant was Thomas Howard.
Walking across town, Starbuck quickly formulated a plan. He would knock on the door, posing as a Bible salesman, and attempt to gain entry. From there, assuming he positively identified the outlaw, he would play it by ear. So early in the morning, there was every likelihood Zee James would be present. Even worse, it was possible the Ford brothers were being quartered at the house. In that event, he would simply make his sales pitch and depart without incident. Sooner or later, Jesse James would go out for a stroll, perhaps wander downtown on an errand. Time enough then to brace him on the street. Shout his name, let him make his move—and end it.
On the other hand, it was entirely conceivable he would find the outlaw home alone. All things considered, that would present the simplest, and the quickest, solution. By identifying himself, with the edge of surprise, he would force the gang leader into blind reaction. The outcome was foreordained. He would kill Jesse James on the spot.
The general neighbourhood was situated on a hill east of the business district. As Starbuck had suspected, it was quiet and respectable, modestly affluent. From downtown, he walked uphill, checking house numbers block by block. Some three-quarters of the way up the grade, he spotted the house on the opposite side of the street. A one-storey affair, with a picket fence out front, it stood on the corner of 13th and Lafayette. Halting at the corner, he pulled out his list and made a show of checking off names. Then he angled across the street with a jaunty stride.
A gunshot suddenly sounded from within the house. Starbuck stopped in his tracks, stock-still and watchful. An instant later he heard a woman’s shrill, piercing scream. Then the door burst open and two men rushed outside. Jamming on their hats, they pushed through the fence gate, and turned downhill. The one in the lead darted a glance at Starbuck, but quickly looked away. The gate slammed shut and they hurried off in the direction of the business district.
Starbuck swore under his breath. He immediately pegged the men as the Ford brothers, and he had a sinking feeling about the gunshot. His nerves stretched tight, he walked to the fence and eased through the gate. Then he dropped the satchel and warily approached the house. His gun hand slipped beneath the front of his jacket.
The door was open, and from inside he heard a low, keening moan. A step at a time, he edged slowly through the door. The children, a young boy and a little girl, were the first thing he saw. Across the parlour, standing frozen in the kitchen doorway, they stared with shocked round eyes. Their faces, like marble statuary, were drained of colour.
Starbuck’s gaze shuttled from them to the woman. She was on her knees, caught in a shaft of sunlight from the front window. Her dress was splashed red with blood and her head arched back in a strangled sob. She cradled a man in her arms, rocking back and forth, holding him tightly to her breast. His feet were tangled in an overturned chair, and on a nearby sofa lay a double shoulder rig, pistol butts protruding from the holsters. His left eye was an oozing dot and the back of his skull was blown apart directly behind the right ear. A stench of death filled the parlour.
Starbuck saw then he was too late. The woman crouched on the floor was Zee James. Her blood-soaked dress and her wailing cry were stark testament to a grisly truth.
The dead man in her arms was Jesse James.
CHAPTER 18
The coroner’s inquest began the next morning.
News of Jesse James’ death had created a national sensation. Accounts of the killing rated banner headlines from New York to Los Angeles. The stories, based on hearsay and preliminary reports, were sparse on details. Yet the overall theme of the stories reflected a universal sentiment. The Robin Hood of American outlaws had been laid low by a hired assassin.
The hearing room was packed with an overflow crowd. Newspaper reporters from as far away as Kansas City and St. Louis were seated down front. Behind them, wedged together in a solid mass, was a throng of spectators. The majority, citizens of St. Joseph, were drawn by morbid curiosity. Farmers and people from outlying towns were drawn by grief, and a compelling sense of outrage. They were there to look upon the man who was already being labelled “the dirty little coward.”
Starbuck was seated in the front row. Outwardly composed, he was still in the guise of the Bible salesman, Joshua Thayer. Underneath, however, he was filled with a strange ambivalence. Jesse James was dead, and whether by his hand or that of Bob Ford, the result was the same. Yet he felt oddly cheated, almost bitter. Once again, as though some capricious power were at work, he had been thwarted at the very last moment. After months of investigation, added to the strain of operating undercover, the letdown was overwhelming By his reasoning, he’d been robbed of a hard-won victory.
Still, for all that, his assignment was not yet completed. There was widespread speculation that Frank James would appear—at the risk of his own life—and take vengeance on his brother’s killer. Starbuck considered it an improbable notion. Frank James, in his view, was too smart for such a dumb play. On the outside chance he was wrong, however, he waited. One day more hardly seemed to matter.
The inquest, thus far, had produced no startling revelations. Zee James, who was eight months pregnant, and reportedly still in a state of shock, had not been called to testify. Sheriff John Timberlake, summoned from Clay County, had earlier viewed the body in the town mortuary. Based on long personal acquaintance, he positively identified the dead man as Jesse James. Dick Liddil, collared at the last moment by Sheriff Timberlake, had been hauled along to St. Joseph. In corroborating the identification, he noted the deceased was missing a finger on the left hand. The outlaw leader was known to have suffered a similar loss during the Civil War.
Horace Heddens, the coroner, conducted. the inquest like a ringmaster working a three-ring circus. He was on the sundown side of fifty, with thin hair and watery brown eyes. Yet his reedy voice was clipped with authority, and he brooked no nonsense from the spectators. When he called Bob Ford to the witness chair, the hearing room erupted in a gruff buzz of conversation. Heddens took up a gavel and quickly hammered the crowd into silence.
Starbuck, with clinical interest, studied the witness while he was being sworn. He thought he’d never seen a more unlikely looking killer. Under different circumstances, Bob Ford might have been a stage idol. He was painfully handsome, in his early twenties, with chiselled features and dark wavy hair. Only his eyes gave him away. He looked unsufferably taken with himself, somehow haughty. His demeanour was that of a celebrity.
The witness chair was centred between Heddens’ desk and the jury box. As the coroner went
through the preliminary questions, the jurors watched Ford with rapt attention. The effect was somewhat like people mesmerised by the snake rather than the snake charmer.
“Now, Mr. Ford.” Heddens held up a long-barrelled revolver. “I direct your attention to this Smith & Wesson forty-four-calibre pistol. Do you recognise it?”
“I do,” Ford said without hesitation. “It’s the gun I used to kill Jesse James.”
“For the record,” Heddens said, placing the revolver on the desk. “You shot the deceased yesterday—April 3, 1882—at approximately nine o’clock in the morning. Is that correct?”
“Yessir,” Ford smirked. “Shot him deader’n a doornail.”
Heddens laced his fingers together. “For the benefit of the jurors, would you elaborate as to your motive?”
“The reward,” Ford said simply. “I did it for the money—ten thousand dollars.”
“Were you acting on your own, or at the behest of someone else?”
“Oh, it was official,” Ford assured him. “I went to Sheriff Timberlake a couple of weeks ago. Told him I had a once-in-a-lifetime chance to get Jesse.”
“Exactly how did this ‘chance’ come about?”
“Well, like I said, it started a couple of weeks ago. Jesse’s gang was all broke up, and he come to Clay County lookin’ for new men. I’d known him off and on, and he’d always treated me decent. So I told him me and Charley—that’s my brother—wanted to join up and be outlaws. He took to the idea right off, and said I’d get instructions where to meet him. Course, he never had no idea we’d play him false.”
“What happened next?”
“That’s when I contacted Sheriff Timberlake.” Ford’s mouth lifted in a sly smile. “Told him I’d deliver Jesse for the reward and a promise of immunity. He went to see the governor, and by the end of the week we had ourselves a deal.”
“Thomas Crittenden?” Heddens prompted. “The governor of Missouri?”
“The one and only,” Ford said smugly. “He authorised me to go ahead and do it the best way I saw fit.”
“There was never any question of taking Jesse James alive? The plan, as sanctioned by Governor Crittenden, was to kill him in the most expedient manner. Is that essentially correct?”
“Naturally.” Ford grinned, and wagged his head. “Only a fool would try to take him prisoner. It was either kill him or chuck the whole idea.”
“Proceed,” Heddens said sternly. “What next transpired?”
“Jesse brought me and Charley here to St. Joe. He had a bank job lined up, and we was to stay with him till the time come. So we moved in with him.”
“You refer to the deceased’s place of residence, on Lafayette Street?”
“That’s right.”
“Continue.”
“Well, it was touch and go for a while. Jesse was always on guard, real leery. Never once saw him go out of the house during the day. After dark he’d go downtown and get the newspapers, ’specially the Kansas City Times. But mostly that just put him in a bad frame of mind, and spoiled our chances all the more.”
“Are you saying the newspapers affected his mood?”
“Yeah.” Ford gestured with his hands. “A few days ago there was a piece in the Times. It went on about how he was all washed up, called him a has-been outlaw. He got awful mad, and said he’d show ’em Jesse James wasn’t done yet. Things like that kept him edgy, and just made it harder for us.”
“Harder in what way?”
“He always went armed, even in the house. Carried two guns, a Colt and a Smith & Wesson, both forty-fives. Wore ’em in shoulder holsters he’d had made special. So we just never had a chance to get the drop on him. Not till yesterday anyway.”
Heddens addressed him directly. “Why was yesterday any different than normal?”
“Jesse was all fired up,” Ford replied. “He’d decided to pull the bank job next Monday, and that put him in high spirits. After breakfast, me and Charley followed him into the parlour. He spotted some dust on a picture hanging by the front window, and darned if he didn’t go get himself a feather duster.”
“He was still armed at that point?”
“Yeah, he was.” Ford’s expression turned to mild wonder. “Then he says something about how the neighbours might spot him through the window, wearing them guns. So I’m blessed if he don’t slip out of the shoulder rig and lay it across a divan. I like to swallowed my tongue.”
“So he was then completely disarmed?”
“That’s the size of it.” Ford nervously licked his lips. “Next thing I know, he stepped up on a straight-backed chair and commenced to dust the picture. Charley and me looked at each other, and we figured it was now or never.”
“For the record,” Heddens asked with a note of asperity, “Jesse James was standing on a chair—with his back to you—and he was unarmed. Is that your testimony?”
“Yessir, it is.”
“Proceed.”
A vein pulsed in Ford’s forehead. “Well, it all happened pretty quick. Charley and me pulled our guns, and I cocked mine. Jesse must’ve heard it, because he turned his head like lightning. I fired and the ball struck him square in the left eye. Not one of us ever spoke a word. I just fired and he dropped dead at Charley’s feet.”
The hearing room went deathly still. The jurors were immobile, staring at Ford with open revulsion. A woman’s sob, muffled by a handkerchief, was the only sound from the spectators. At length, with a look of utter contempt, Heddens spoke to the witness.
“What were your actions immediately following the shooting?”
“We cleared out,” Ford muttered, lowering his eyes. “We went down to the telegraph office, and I wired Governor Crittenden and Sheriff Timberlake what we’d done. Then we turned ourselves over to the St. Joe police. That was it.”
“Indeed?” Heddens’ nostrils flared. “And what was the gist of your message to the governor and Sheriff Timberlake?”
“Five words.” Ford looked oddly crestfallen. “I have got my man. Wasn’t no question what I meant.”
“I daresay.” Heddens was glaring at him now, face masked by anger. “Allow me to summarise, Mr. Ford. You capitalised on a man’s trust in order to profit by his death. He took you into his home—under the same roof with his wife and family—and by your own admission, he treated you fairly. In return, you waited until he was defenceless, and then—with premeditation and in cold blood—you shot him down. In short, you are nothing more than a common assassin.” He paused, drew a deep, unsteady breath. “Have you anything further to add to the record, Mr. Ford?”
“No, nothing,” Ford said in a shaky voice. “Except I ain’t ashamed of what I done. Somebody had to kill—”
Heddens banged his gavel. “Witness is dismissed!”
Bob Ford rose from the witness chair and darted a hangdog look at the jurors. Then two city policemen stepped forward and led him out by a rear door. There was a protracted interval of silence in the hearing room, and all eyes seemed fixed on Heddens. Finally, with a measure of composure, he consulted a list of names at his elbow. He looked up, searching the front row.
“Joshua Thayer?”
Starbuck jumped. “Here!”
“Please take the witness chair.”
Somewhat astounded, Starbuck stood and walked forward. Following the shooting, he had stayed with Zee James and the children until the police arrived. Later, after he’d made a statement at police headquarters, he learned the Ford brothers had voluntarily surrendered. With the killer in custody and the unsavoury details already leaked to the press, it never occurred to Starbuck that he would be called to testify. Now, while the oath was being administered, he prepared himself to continue the charade. Any disclosure of his true identity would merely serve to alert Frank James. And vastly complicate his own life.
“Mr. Thayer.” Heddens began, reading from an official document, “I have here your statement to the police. In it, you identify yourself as a Bible salesman. Is that correct?”
“Commissioned agent.” Starbuck amended with an engaging smile. “The Holy Writ Foundation doesn’t employ salesmen. The Good Book sells itself.”
“I stand corrected,” Heddens said with strained patience. “Nevertheless, while going about your duties, you were in the vicinity of the deceased’s residence early yesterday morning. Would you please tell the jurors what you witnessed at that time?”
“A truly dreadful thing,” Starbuck said with soft wonder. “I heard a gunshot, and then two men ran from the house and hurried off towards town. A woman was sobbing—most pitifully, I might add—so I took it upon myself to enter the house. I found a lady crouched over the man who had been shot. He was quite dead.”
“At that time, you were unaware that the deceased was in fact Jesse James?”
“Oh, my, yes!” Starbuck’s eyes widened in feigned astonishment. “I merely attempted to play the Good Samaritan.”
“Very commendable,” Heddens said dryly. “For the record, however, I wish to establish eyewitness identification. Do you now state that the men who ran from the house were in fact Charles and Robert Ford?”
“I do indeed,” Starbuck affirmed. “Not one iota of doubt. I saw their faces quite clearly.”
Heddens eyed him, considering. “One last question, Mr. Thayer. Did you attempt to stop these men from fleeing the scene?”
“Good heavens, no!”
“Did you order them to halt—call out for help from the neighbours—anything?”
“I would hardly have done that.”
“Why not?”
“‘A living dog is better than a dead lion.’”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Ecclesiastes.” Starbuck smiled in mock piety. “Chapter nine, Verse four.”
“I see.” Heddens frowned. “So you failed to act out of fear for your life. Is that it, Mr. Thayer?”
Starbuck gave him a sheepish look. “I am not a man of violence. ‘Blessed are the meek; for they shall inherit—’”
“Very well, Mr. Thayer.” Heddens rapped his gavel. “You’re dismissed.”
