The Jessie James Archives

by Craig Gallant

  Jesse knew that Billy’s whole story seemed absurd, and he was trying to convince himself there was nothing to it, and the best he could hope for was a good laugh next time he ran into the Kid, after leaving him with his britches around his ankles out in the bad lands above Diablo Canyon. But something about the whole thing would not let Jesse go. He had friends in the swamps far to the south, and although he had played it cool with Billy, he would like nothing better than to see them emerge and confront Grant and his galoots, now that the Union was fighting on a couple different fronts.

  He thought back to what Lucy had said, about killing random Yanks not leading to a fulfilling life. What if he could somehow bring the Rebellion something it could use to bring Grant down? And not only Grant, but maybe the whole damned Union?

  His eyes were dark and his brow furrowed as he took the steps to the second story rooms two at a time. He was far too preoccupied to notice Lucy and Courtright watching him as he disappeared onto the second floor.

  *****

  Wyatt stood amidst the wreckage in the center of Missouri City with a blank face, his eyes flicking from detail to detail, absorbing the entire scene. This was worse than anything he had imagined when they followed the column of smoke seen from the road to Kansas City.

  In the middle of the street was a double row of bodies covered in sheets and blankets taken from nearby houses. Most of the shapes beneath their coverings were shrunken and contorted; the sign of an excruciating death by fire. These were the casualties of the bank job, as well as two women and a man who had been killed when a building down the street had collapsed. Quite a death toll for a single visit to this poor, sleepy town.

  The bank itself was completely gutted. The corner posts and a few charred remnants of support beams were all that remained standing. A thick cloud of greasy smoke continued to rise into the clear warm air, and an oppressive heat still radiated from the wreckage as if, somewhere in the ruins of the once-grand building, there was some sort of portal straight to hell. Wyatt’s mustache twitched at the thought, or maybe at the sickly-sweet smell in the air.

  There were three poorly-maintained old Iron Horses in front of the shattered bank. Each had been riddled with RJ-1027 shots rendering them inoperable. The blasts had been carefully placed and, as far as Wyatt could tell, the machines probably would not be moving again anytime soon. Wyatt’s eyes flicked to the row of bodies again, particularly the shriveled bodies from within the bank. He was willing to bet that careful inspection would reveal at least circumstantial evidence indicating that three of those bodies were perpetrators, not victims, in the previous day’s events.

  Behind Wyatt stood his brother Virgil, silent as the grave, and Doc Holliday, standing unmoving except for the constant whisper and hum of his re-breather. Further behind them, across the street and keeping folks at bay by their mere presence, was a line of figures menacing in their utter stillness. All four of Tombstone’s UR-30 Enforcer units, activated for the hunt, stood in a line like statues from some ancient temple. Their armored forms were visible beneath their standard riding leathers; both clothing and metal skin scorched and soot stained from recovering the bodies from the seething hell of the bank.

  There were five figures in the line, Wyatt knew without looking, and the fifth figure, the hulking form of his brother Morgan, was what truly kept most of the townsfolk of Missouri City back. Wyatt shook his head slightly and continued his methodical examination of the scene. He hated brooding over Morgan’s condition, and often hid behind the needs of the moment to avoid doing so.

  A little further away from the robots and the massive, armored form of Morgan, sat the brooding hulk of a Judgment support wagon. The enormous vehicles were usually assigned to circuit judges moving through the territories, and made perfect mobile courthouses and jails, as well as fortresses in times of serious trouble. For this foray, Wyatt had grabbed one as a mobile headquarters and a way to transport his brother and the Enforcer units. He also knew bringing the judge along with him might grease some wheels, the deeper into trouble he got. A squadron of marshals and deputies on Interceptors, the small personal transports his men called Hogs, rode along as outriders and scouts, and added gun hands if things got ugly. The Hogs and their riders were now scattered around the town collecting statements and looking for other witnesses.

  “So, there were eight of ‘em.” Wyatt’s drawl was low, and the town officials had to lean forward to hear.

  “Yessir,” the old sheriff, Casey Stillman, said. The old man had been mortified by the devastation visited upon his town in his absence. He was a broken man, something inside him had died with the folks lined up in the dust behind them.

  “Eight, including Jesse James?” Wyatt turned his head to look down at the slope-shouldered sheriff.

  “We think so, sir.” He shrugged. “They hit the town from over the river, their ‘Horses throwing up a terrible fog. Most folks ran. Those that didn’t… “ he gestured weakly behind them, and Wyatt nodded.

  “And you were in the big city whoopin’ it up.” Virgil’s voice was low but filled with contempt. The old man could only nod, and the big marshal snorted and looked away.

  “Any of the bodies identifiable as the outlaws?” Doc spoke over the hissing of his breathing apparatus, and another man, the town manager, shook his head. “By the time most of us come back, the bank was completely goin’ up. There weren’t no way we could stop it at that point. It was lost, an’… all those folks that hadn’t gotten out.”

  Doc leaned towards Wyatt and murmured, “Taking another gander into the bank might prove useful. Morgan’d be game.”

  Wyatt grunted over his shoulder at his friend, one hand smoothing his mustache in a habitual gesture. He hated asking anything of Morgan because of his younger brother’s special status. With a quick shake of his head, however, he bowed to necessity. No one else was going to be able to go into that hell except a UR-30 unit or Morgan. And the UR-30s were not known for their delicacy.

  “Morgan,” Wyatt pitched his voice to be heard over the muttering crowd behind the marshal’s line.

  The Over-marshal felt, more than heard, the impacts of his brother’s footsteps as Morgan approached. There were always moments when Wyatt allowed himself to forget what had happened to his younger brother, but those footsteps always brought it all rushing back.

  “Wyatt.” The voice was toneless, buzzing with the inhuman resonances of the UR-30 vocal interface.

  Wyatt schooled his face to stillness and turned to regard the hulking form of his brother. Morgan had nearly died over a year ago, the victim of an assassination attempt, gunned down while playing pool at Campbell and Hatch’s. The bastards had fired right through the back door, catching Morgan in the side and throwing him across the table.

  Wyatt’s eyes were firm and still as the scenes played again in his mind. The desperate rush for doctors, the bleak diagnosis from all that came, and Virgil’s refusal to abandon their little brother. The sharpest memory he had, however, was the bitter disappointment in Morgan’s voice as he grabbed Wyatt’s collar with failing strength and spat, “I don’t see anything”. Morgan had always shared Wyatt’s fascination with life after death, and had often speculated on what he would see as life ebbed away.

  They were the last words Morgan ever spoke with his own voice.

  Virgil, refusing to stand idly by while Morgan passed, had bundled their brother in a cloak and rushed out the door. No one knew where he had gone, although many had strong suspicions. He returned late the next day, exhausted and travel-stained, but had never spoken of where he had gone or what he had done. Morgan was not with him, but he reported that he believed they would see their brother again. And he had been right. Nearly a month later, Morgan had returned, after a fashion.

  Wyatt nodded to Morgan, forcing himself to look into his brother’s blood-shot eyes. Morgan’s pale face was completely framed by the iron support structure that held his head erect. The supports were affixed to the bulky suit that
sustained the young marshal’s life and held him upright, bypassing his severed spine and allowing him to walk. The supports and braces incorporated a comprehensive array of armored plates, as well, offering him a great deal of protection from further harm. Wyatt did not know how much of his brother’s own body still existed within the armored suit, as Morgan was unable to remove even parts of it and survive. The armor moved with the natural grace and flexibility he had possessed before the attack, however, rather than the more rigid, jerky movements of a UR-30 Enforcer, but its bulk and weight forever set him apart from normal men.

  “Morgan,” Wyatt’s voice betrayed nothing of the guilt that rose in him each time he thought of his brother. “Do you think you might take a look inside there, see if there’s anything worth seein’, before we continue on to Kansas City?”

  “Sure, Wyatt.” The pale lips quirked in a slight smile that was not even the ghost of his former jovial self, and he turned towards the smoking pile of rubble. As he walked towards the ruined building Morgan lifted his helmet to his head and settled it in place, armored fingers deftly securing the latches on either side of his throat. He looked back at Wyatt through the distorting lenses of thick glass and nodded once.

  “This really necessary, Wyatt?” Virgil’s tone was neutral, but it was obvious by the way his heavy brows lowered that he thought the answer was clear.

  “Virg, if there’s anything in there that can help us, either link this more firmly to James or, God help us, give us an idea that he might o’ gone elsewhere, can we afford not to look?” Wyatt was watching Morgan’s heavy bulk push past the wreckage of the bank’s front doors and into the terrible heat within.

  “What the hell you think would still be in there that might help at all?” Virgil always got protective where Morgan was concerned. “The animal’s been stayin’ in Kansas City for months. He’s in Kansas City. Anything we do that costs us so much as a minute, will be somethin’ we regret for the rest of our days, if he gets away.”

  “Damnit, Virg,” Wyatt snapped. “How the hell do I know what we might find in there?”

  “If we don’t look, and we miss somethin’ that would lead us in a different direction, we’ll have even longer to regret it.” Doc’s calm voice, muffled as always by his leather breathing mask, eased through the brothers’ frustration.

  The three of them watched as Morgan’s armored form, obscured by smoke and the intense shimmer of the brutal heat, moved through the wreckage. He walked in an awkward, hunched position as he scanned the floor for any signs or clues. The young marshal was slow and methodical, and for his colleagues, time seemed to crawl as they waited in the street for what seemed like hours.

  When Morgan emerged he was covered in soot but otherwise none the worse for wear. He held something clenched in his armored fist, and as he approached his brothers he held up his arm, servos whirring, and opened the fingers.

  In his palm was a metal pin of some kind, deformed and partially melted by the intense heat. Wyatt took it carefully, shifting it quickly from one hand to the other. After a moment he held it up to the light, grasping it carefully between thumb and forefinger. He could just make out a familiar silhouette mostly hidden within the smudged metal.

  “A mourning pin.” Wyatt muttered.

  Doc, looking over his friend’s shoulder, sniffed. “A Lincoln mourning pin. Damn, you Yankees never get tuckered out from worshipping that man.”

  Wyatt gave the former Georgian a sour look a then went back to the pin. Sure enough, the familiar nose, the top hat, and the beard were clearly visible despite the damage. He looked back to Morgan.

  “Where was it?”

  Morgan’s emotionless face looked out from its metal cage and spoke with his soft, buzzing voice. “The floor, near the tellers’ windows.”

  “If anything would set that bloody-minded bastard off, Wyatt, it’d be findin’ one o’ these on somebody.” Virgil soft voice was intense.

  Wyatt nodded, then looked again at his younger brother. “Nothin’ else in there?”

  Morgan’s head shifted slightly from side to side, all the movement his restrictive supports would allow. “No.”

  Wyatt looked at the pin for a moment longer and then shrugged. “Okay, gents. Then it’s on to Kansas City.” He looked up into the sky, noting the position of the sun. “We should be able to pull in not long after nightfall, if we push on through.”

  “Or it might be better we stay here for the night.” Doc Holliday offered. “Leave with the crack of dawn, hit KC early enough in the morning, we got a whole day’s worth of light to root ‘em outta wherever they’re hidin’.”

  Wyatt looked from Virgil to Doc, then to Morgan. Each man’s face was impassive, allowing the Over-marshal to make the call.

  Wyatt shook his head after a moment. “Doc’s right. We been riding hard already, and now this.” He gestured disgustingly at the ruins of the Missouri City Savings and Loan. “We’ll bunk down here, get up before dawn, and hit them as soon as we can. Take the Judgment just outside of town, have the deputies and the outriders sleep there. The rest of us will find beds in Missouri City.”

  Virgil nodded and turned to say something Morgan, then shouted to one of the deputies standing near the Enforcer units. “Provencher, take first watch, through midnight.”

  The dark-haired young lawman looked sourly at the robots, then flicked a bitter salute from the brim of his hat.

  The Over-marshal turned to sheriff Stillman and leaned in close. “If any word beats us to Kansas City, I’m comin’ back here first thing, and I’ll be lookin’ fer you.”

  The diminished man could only nod in numb fear. The townsfolk watched silently as the senior Lawmen gathered their equipment and moved towards a tall hotel on the waterfront, speaking quietly among themselves as they moved away.

  Chapter 7

  The Occidental was the fanciest establishment in Kansas City. Every aspect of the place screamed class at the top of its frontier lungs. The floor was carpeted with an intricate, and ironic, oriental pattern. The tables and chairs were dark, polished wood, and the lights overhead were draped in dark red shades and hoods, giving the entire dancehall a shadowy, exotic atmosphere.

  Jesse sat at a card table towards the back of the room that still afforded him a decent view of the stage. Ty’s story about Misty and William Bonney had continued to haunt him, and he had no interest in sitting near the front as he usually did. His men sat around the table, most not trying to hide their resentment at being forced to come to the Occidental. They stared down at their cards or took sips from glittering glasses. Even springing for a bottle of genuine bourbon had not softened anyone’s mood, and that just tossed grease onto the cooking fire for Jesse.

  “She sure is purty, Jesse.” Ty was the only man at the table paying any attention to the show, and he was enjoying it with an openness that underscored the sullen set of the other men. “Any man’d feel like a king, standin’ next to her!”

  Jesse grunted and tossed two coins into the pot. The cards were not being kind, which had added to his dark mood. He wished Ty would shut up about Misty.

  Play moved around the table, with coins arcing into the pot or cards flopping down onto the felt-topped table, but Jesse was not paying particular attention. He looked at the men still holding cards, glanced down at his own sad hand, and shrugged, tossing in another coin to follow the raise. As he moved to lower his cards, however, his thumb gave a slight jerk, and the cards shifted in his grip. He clutched at them, but they slid out and flipped onto the table, revealing his pathetic hand.

  The men all stopped playing, staring down at the revealed cards; all low numbers and off-suit, and then up at Jesse’s dangerously still face. An awkward silence stretched out as everyone around the table waited to see how the outlaw boss would react.

  Jesse looked down at the hand that had betrayed him, turning it over to stare at the palm, each finger curling and relaxing in turn. Everything seemed fine, and Jesse shrugged slightly, his shoulde
rs lifting with a heavy sigh.

  “You know, boys, some days it just doesn’t pay to get outta bed.” He gathered up the money that was still in front of him and jerked his head at the pot. “You boys keep that, it wasn’t doin’ me any good anyway.”

  Jesse stood up and grabbed the bourbon by the neck of the bottle. “Sorry to’ve dragged you boys away from your fun. I do think I’ll be takin’ this with me, however, to keep me company on the long walk back to the Arcadia.” He looked up at the stage where Misty was moving sinuously with the other girls, large feathered fans waving to the swirling piano music. He shook his head and looked down at Gage.

  “When she’s done, tell her I’ve gone back to my room, will you?” His voice echoed his flat, empty eyes.

  “Sure thing, Jesse. You want me to walk her back over when she’s done?” Gage’s young face was worried, and Jesse knew he did not look good. His men were already concerned that he was losing his edge, and all this talk of Billy the Kid had them thinking about their own situations, riding with Jesse and the Youngers. The older outlaw summoned up a smile and shook his head, pushing as much bravado into his voice as he could muster.

  “No. Anyone who thinks they can mess with Jesse James’ girl, any time o’ the day ‘r night, is gonna have another think comin’ at ‘em faster than they can know.” He pulled one of his hyper-velocity pistols and sent it spinning and whirling around his hand before it leapt back into the holster, forcing a grin for moral. “Am I right, boys?”

  The men around the table agreed with energy that seemed just a little forced. It struck Jesse that they were putting perhaps a little too much effort into being agreeable, but he decided to let it slide. He tipped his hat to the table, gave one quick glance at the stage where Misty was watching him out of the corner of her eye, and turned towards the door.