The big man was J.C. King. The dark-faced one, Jack Ladd, which seemed to amuse him, but, at the time, I thought he was merely reliving one of his plays on words.
In seriousness, the man I would know as J.C. King said they had come to Madelia in search of farms to purchase.
“You don’t look like farmers,” I said, and they didn’t, not with those big black hats, black coats, linen dusters, and the heavy golden watches, big chains, large fobs. Farmers are frugal, with rough, calloused hands.
Mr. King removed his hat, revealing thinning hair—auburn, a few shades brighter than his facial hair. “Ten years ago, I didn’t look like I’d be bald, but take a gander at me now.”
At ease again, I informed Mr. King and Mr. Ladd that I would find much delight in showing them around Madelia, telling them of the farms that I knew might be for sale. After handshakes, I offered both a long nine cigar, which they took with relish.
Thus, we exited the hotel, turned down Buck Street, and walked along, enjoying the sunny day.
“First things first,” Mr. King said. “I ain’t willing to pay more’n one dollar an acre.”
“No need to haggle with me, sir,” I answered, “for I am not selling.”
Presently I introduced them to Doc Cooley and the good physician joined our troupe, selling Madelia and the surrounding farms as if he were a land agent.
“Lot of sloughs, lot of water, lot of woods,” Mr. King said, addressing Doc Cooley. “What concerns me most is getting my crops to market. Tell me about the land around here…to the north, and to the west.”
They had asked me the same question moments earlier, and I could not help but notice how their interest seemed much more intense when hearing descriptions of Watowan County. Naturally Mr. King’s reasoning made sense, and were I buying a farm in a strange area, I would not take one man’s word on paradise. I would seek opinions from everyone.
We told them about the Army Road, which ran southwest across the ford of the Watowan River. They asked about the river, the ford, and Doc told them we might have a bridge put up sometime; at least, that notion kept resurrecting itself in town meetings. We told them about the two other fords, the ferry, the hard-working nature of every resident for miles. We told them about Lake Hanska, and they asked more about bridges, so I told them about the bridge over in Linden Township, up in Brown County. We told them about Linden Lake, and again Mr. King expressed his concern about getting crops and cattle to market, about not wanting to get bogged down or flooded out. We told them a lot about Madelia, although naturally we never once mentioned St. James, the town southwest of Madelia, hell-bent on stealing our county seat.
They asked about a bank, and Doc told them that the Yates brothers gave credit at their store. They asked about a hardware store or gunsmith, and again Doc referred them to the Yates’ mercantile, although saying he rarely carried anything other than a shotgun and, as far as we knew, had never been asked to repair a firearm. “Shotgun’s fine,” Mr. Ladd said, winding his big gold watch. “Just saw some prairie hens riding into town.”
“That’s about all we ever hunt,” I informed them.
They asked about the law, and we said that James Glispin was a good Irishman, though we never had much trouble. They asked about the woods, again, and the sloughs, and the roads and terrain, and which farmers might be most interested in selling.
Then Mr. King asked: “Is that croquet?”
Which stopped me. I stood there blinking, confused, then Mr. King pointed to the vacant lot, and sure enough, the ladies—including Hester, my lovely wife—did have a game of croquet going, girlishly laughing as they’d try to send those balls through the wickets. Their efforts were as lamentable as mine on a baseball field.
We introduced our visitors to Hester, Mrs. Corley Miss Ivers, Inez Murphy, and Horace Thompson’s niece. Hester asked Mr. King if he would care to join them in the game. Mrs. Corley asked Mr. Ladd to join in as well, but the Indian-looking man shook his head and said he’d watch, but Mr. King said he would be delighted to join the contest. Now that, I tell you, was a sight, watching this towering man handle the curved stick, enjoying himself or maybe enjoying the admiration or adulation of those ladies. By jacks, he asked the ladies a bit about the country around Madelia, too.
“Landlord,” Mr. King told me, “this has been a most enjoyable day.”
We were sitting on the porch after supper, enjoying cigars and my pipe once more, listening to the ash trees rustling in the evening wind.
Mr. Ladd spoke. “Got a nice town here.”
“That’s why I settled here.”
Withdrawing his cigar, Mr. King exhaled and pointed the burning end of his long nine in my direction. “We’ve practically talked ourselves out about Watowan County and the farms for sale. Never learned a thing about you.” With a wink, he added: “And I reckon a tenant should know something about his landlord.”
What could I tell him? I was forty-three years old, a New Yorker by birth. I had left the East before I had seen twenty years, tried farming and raising stock in Wisconsin, at Bryce Prairie, which is where I had met, courted, and married Hester. She was a Bryce Prairie Green. Then came the rebellion, and I had marched off with the 14th Wisconsin. After the war, restlessness gained control of my heart, so in ’66 Hester and I moved to Madelia. I tried farming, tried raising cattle, even tried a stagecoach business, but nothing took root until the railroad reached Madelia, and I bought the hotel from Joe Flanders.
“You said end of the hostilities…you really think the war has ended?” Mr. King asked.
I had paid scant attention to my words. So, with a shrug, I said: “Lee and the other secessionists surrendered. Ten years have passed. I’d say the war is over.”
“Secessionists.” Mr. Ladd spat. “War was about a lot more than that.”
“I take it you both fought on the side of the Confederacy,” I said with no malice to my voice, mere curiosity.
“We’re from Kentucky.” Mr. King said this too quickly, though I did not really detect anything suspicious about our conversation, indeed the entire day, until a few weeks later. “Border state. Saw men in blue and gray, and, as you said, Lee surrendered. A man’s past and his past allegiances are his own private matters.”
Which could have ended the discussion, but Mr. Ladd asked: “See the elephant?”
My head bobbed ever slightly, and I wished I were describing Lake Hanska or that German farm down the Army Road or the country west of town. We had mustered in at Fond du Lac on a bitterly cold day in ’62, reporting to Savannah, Tennessee, with Grant’s army. See the elephant? Our first blood came at Pittsburg Landing. But twenty-nine, never had I imagined such slaughter, heard such savagery, taken part in such barbarity. Mayhap, I’ve often thought, I would have forgotten the carnage of battle, except after the Rebels retreated, the 14th had remained behind as provost guard. Other regiments moved on, in pursuit of the enemy or to lick its own wounds, leaving the unspeakable horrors behind, but we, or at least I, saw reminders of the terrible battle every damned day.
See the elephant? Corinth followed, in many ways as ghastly as Pittsburg Landing. Afterward, the misery, monotony, brutality of Vicksburg and the capture of Natchez. The bungling disaster of the Red River Expedition in ’64. Tupelo, then Nashville. Down to Mobile and Spanish Fort. Finally Atlanta, now with Leggett’s Division, Savannah and into the Carolinas. I rode in the Grand Review as a colonel, but found little glory in our triumph.
See the elephant? I had seen too much. I thought of my experiences in the war that I have described above, but, in my answer to the strangers, I merely said I had seen several battles with the 14th Wisconsin.
“I figured you as some peace lover,” Mr. Ladd said. “I mean, man who won’t kill a tree ain’t likely got the gumption to send another fellow to hell.”
“If I believed in hell, I would answer that I sent many men there. Men I killed wearing butternut and gray. Men wearing blue whom I ordered to their deaths.”
“A colonel.”
He whistled. “They stuck the rank of captain on me, though it didn’t mean much to me, or the boys.” He still did not name his allegiance, but I knew he had fought for the South.
“War is terrible,” Mr. King added. “I wonder why God tolerates us foolish men.”
When I said nothing, Mr. King leaned forward, using the cigar as a pointer once again. “You say you don’t believe in hell. You’re not a religious man, sir?”
“I find fallacies throughout the Bible.”
“How so?” Eyes full of interest, he leaned back to study my answer.
“Jesus preaches peace, but the Old Testament is filled with more slaughter than I even saw at Pitts-burg Landing or Corinth, or even the misery marching with Sherman. There is no consistency to this book.”
“Sure there is,” Mr. King said. “When Jesus preaches, he is using the teachings from the Old Testament.”
“‘He teacheth my hands to war,’ it says in Samuel,” I retorted. “The Old Testament is full of war.…”
“That’s why folks love reading it!” Mr. Ladd interjected.
Ignoring his colleague, Mr. King continued. “Full of war, but also full of God’s message, Colonel Vought. Remember Psalms, Chapter Forty-Six. ‘He maketh wars to cease unto the end of the earth; he breaketh the bow, and cutteth the spear in sunder; he burneth the chariot in the fire.’ And in Samuel, the same chapter from which you quote, there is a message of love. ‘God is my strength and power; and he maketh my way perfect.’”
I was not about to surrender. “‘And I have pursued mine enemies, and destroyed them; and turned not again until I had consumed them.’ That’s not exactly Jesus Christ’s message. Is it?”
He nodded, somewhat sadly, eyes vacant, as if my Scripture had reminded him of something. For the longest while he did not speak, finally bringing the cigar to his mouth and sucking hard, then spitting, and fishing out a match from his coat pocket to re-fire it.
“Many men pursue their enemies with the wrath of the Old Testament. It’s a damned shame, isn’t it, landlord? Society remains intolerant. That’s why Christ was put to death on the cross. That’s why Lee may have surrendered, but the war is not over. Intolerance. Power. Religion. Wait a few years, and we shall be fighting again, probably for the same reasons, but maybe using some other words, Abolition or states’ rights, the Indian question or the Texas border. You’re a freethinker?”
“I merely have doubts to the veracity of the Bible.” I tapped my rosewood pipe against the arm of my rocker.
“Fascinating.” He leaned back and stretched out his boots. “I have a friend of mine, my best friend, name of…well, we call him Buck…and he and I get into these debates all the time. Now, his mama and his brother are about as hard shell as they come, and his daddy was a Baptist preacher, though he died years ago. But Buck? He’s neither agnostic nor atheist nor Bible-back. What about you? Come from a religious family? You must, the way you can recite Scripture.”
“My parents were Catholic. Mass every week, and I served as an altar boy. My doubts began at Pittsburg Landing. They have not been erased.”
“No offense, sir. My curiosity can get me in trouble, and if I have dredged up horrible memories or intruded on your privacy, my apologies, landlord. Religion is a favorite subject of mine, but I shall drop it.”
Actually I enjoyed the debate. Not many men had the courage to argue religion, at least, not in Madelia. Even I lacked the courage to tell Hester of my doubts. I found myself glad these two men had decided to stay in town, at the Flanders Hotel. My reading of their strong faces had not been in error.
“What about the war?” Mr. Ladd asked, his voice a hard drawl. “You got any notion how the South lost? They had the best generals, best soldiers.”
“Overconfidence,” I said perhaps too quickly. “Lee came to Gettysburg thinking he could not lose. I think history may tell us this is also what happened to General Custer in that battle this past summer against the Sioux. It happened to Napoleon. And to many of your kings in your Bible, Mister King.”
“You weren’t at Gettysburg,” Mr. Ladd snapped, “and you damn’ sure wasn’t with Custer.”
“And you were?” My own voice had turned angry
Mr. Ladd’s face flushed, but Mr. King slapped his thigh and pushed himself back in his rocker. “Over-confidence, eh? That’s an interesting theory.”
“Custer,” I said, “won his laurels at this place in the Indian Territory…I disremember the name…but from reports I have read, he never faced real Indian warriors, not until June of this year. Remember, Minnesota had its run-in against hostile Sioux during the late war. Many were hanged just over in Mankato. I have neighbors who fought against the Indians. Many more of my friends and neighbors served in the late war. We have all seen the elephant. Certainly Lee had been tested against valiant soldiers, but he never should have ordered that charge. The war was lost then and there, if not before. Overconfidence. Seeking glory. That has killed more good men than anything.”
The next morning, to my sadness, the newcomers checked out, paying their bill and shaking my hand. I handed Mr. King a list of farmers who might entertain purchase offers and wished them luck. The stable boy brought their horses, and they mounted up.
“I wish you success,” I told them.
Mr. King nodded. “May the God of peace be with you,” he said, and trotted his fine horse out of town.
Peace. Well, that I would not find, not for a while, my mind suddenly stoked with images from Tennessee, Mississippi, and Alabama, with nightmares brought about from childhood memories of Bible stories, of vengeful nuns and stern priests. Later, I would smell the brimstone, taste the sulphur, feel the heat of battle, my last campaign. I would come to think that a merciful God saved me in that battle, a matter I would eventually discuss with Mr. J.C. King.
Only then, approximately three weeks after our first meeting, I would address him as Cole Younger.
CHAPTER SEVEN
JIM YOUNGER
Never turn your back on family. That’s the most important thing. At least, it’s the way we Youngers have always been raised. Only, Bob, my kid brother, he forgot, just wouldn’t listen. Not to Cole. Not to me. Not to anyone. Nobody but Jesse, and Jesse wasn’t family. Land’s sake, Charlie Pitts was closer to blood than Dingus. Only the way Bob, who ordinarily didn’t act so damned mule-headed, talked, Jesse James had the most brilliant mind since Mephistopheles, and we’d make a big haul in Minnesota, where nobody would be expecting the Jameses and Youngers to raid, and we’d avenge our father’s murder. We’d make the Yankees pay for all the torment they caused our family. We’d come away wealthy men.
I didn’t buy a word of it, but I came to Minnesota. Had to, since Bob wouldn’t turn back, wouldn’t listen to reason.
Family.
After a little respite in St. Paul and Minneapolis, we parted company. Cole and Charlie Pitts rode one way, Bob and Bill Stiles went another, and I stuck with Frank and Jesse and Clell Miller. Stiles had suggested we rob the bank in Mankato, so Cole and Charlie agreed to scout the land out west of there, but Frank had the notion that maybe Red Wing would be easier, so we eased our way in that direction.
From the beginning, I knew Red Wing wouldn’t work. Oh, the banks were mighty enticing. The city supported three of them, including the First National at Plumb and Main with, word went, $100,000 in the till. Plus, upstairs sat the Goodhue Savings Bank, and Jesse—Mephistopheles that he is—said we could rob both banks at the same time. Wouldn’t work, though. I’ll give the James brothers credit. They had a peculiar talent, and, most times, Jesse or Frank planned everything real careful. That’s why we had been in business for the ten years since the war’s end.
You have to take a lot of things into consideration robbing a bank, especially since we found ourselves in a foreign country.
The way things worked, we always plotted our escape route,
and that didn’t look good in Red Wing. With only two roads in and out of town, robbing a bank or banks in Red Wing would get us all shot to pieces or hanged.
My job in these forays typically involved the hardware stores, to see what kind of guns they might supply. Red Wing had more than a few hardware stores selling double-wheel hoes, Acme cultivators, and Granger seeders. The city had Whitney’s Gunshop, where I bought a few boxes of .44 cartridges. Weasel of a clerk made the comment that he didn’t sell many shells that large, but he stocked them, along with a few Winchesters, too, even a Remington Rolling Block and one traded-in percussion Sharps, not to mention the little popgun pocket pistols and shotguns. Jesse didn’t like that, either. Too much firepower. If the alarm spread that the bank was being stuck up, we might find ourselves leaking like sieves, shot to pieces.
So Frank and Jesse rode to Northfield, and Clell and I headed to St. Peter.
Sometimes I thought we’d never rob anything in Minnesota, that this grand adventure would turn out to be nothing more than a sabbatical, that we’d have our fun tossing coins to wide-eyed children, playing poker, and poking whores, race some horses, buy some sound stock, run out of money, and light a shuck back to Missouri. Then, I’d bid good bye to Cole and Bob and ride the rails back to La Panza, where no one knew me as an outlaw. Start over. Start a family.
Family.
I’m the worrier of the Youngers. Cole, he’s the kind-hearted one, though most people, those who don’t know him, would likely figure him as the hardest of the hard rocks. Bob? I don’t know. If you’d asked me before the summer of ’76, I’d call him the kid, the follower, but he sure made a stand, against Cole and me, against all reason. Against the family, damn it all to hell. Impetuous. Guess that’s how I’d label him now. And me? Like I said, I’m the worrier.
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