Which is why I started drinking.
Cole, he’d seldom pull a cork, certainly never when we were hitting a bank or a train. Liquor robbed a man of reason, and Cole demanded we be alert and ready when on a case. That’s another reason we had been in business so long, despite turncoats and Pinkertons and other laws. My older brother could preach temperance like some circuit-riding Methodist. Nor would Cole ever take a hand of poker if Bob and I were sitting at the table. Figured it would lead to repercussions.
Neither St. Peter nor Northfield held much interest to us, not at first, not after hearing all that flapdoodle Bill Stiles, or Chadwell as he sometimes was called, spouted off about money for the taking in Mankato. Those stories reminded me of all that talk about buckets full of gold just waiting to be picked in California and Colorado.
I knew better. I started drinking after we rode up to St. Peter. Some of the boys were supposed to join us there, but, when they didn’t show, my nerves began tormenting me. I’d buy every newspaper I could find, and spend breakfast or supper reading every item, slurping coffee, trying to learn of any arrests.
Nothing.
So I’d sweeten my coffee with John Barleycorn. After a day, I quit with the coffee. Finally Bob and Stiles showed up, but we still hadn’t heard anything from Cole and Charlie Pitts, scouting, we believed, somewhere around Watowan County.
“The hell with this,” Jesse said. “Let’s do Mankato and be done with this damyankee state.”
So we rode to Mankato, meeting up at last with Cole and Charlie.
It was September 2nd.
City was a-bustle when we came riding in from the South Bend Road. After breakfast, I inspected the hardware stores, then watched as Frank entered the First National Bank to change a $20 bill and get the lay of the bank, the vault. I snuck a few swallows from my flask, hating the prospects. Like I said, folks had packed into the city, and the bank looked no better than the three in Red Wing. It was a frame building, and about a half dozen carpenters were already at work.
“Banking business is good,” said Stiles, who had walked up to me. “They’re adding on. Need more room for all that money we’re about to withdraw.”
And he was sober, the damned fool.
Ask me, the First National Bank of Mankato was a deathtrap. But nobody asked me.
“I think the teller suspicioned me,” Frank said later that day when we met in a patch of woods by the Minnesota River to talk things over. “He kept staring at me while counting out the change he made me. I think he saw me looking at the vault and the windows.”
“Most of those windows are boarded up,” Clell Miller said. “That could be a problem.”
“You two have become cautious old women,” Jesse said. “Boarded up windows.” He snorted. “Nobody could see in.”
“We couldn’t see out, either,” Frank fired back.
I had another drink.
“Town was crowded,” Cole said.
“Shouldn’t be so bad tomorrow,” said Stiles.
Our debate carried an edge, more so than usual. Even Frank sounded a tad raw, and I’d never ridden with a man as cool in the heat of battle as Frank James. Frank and Cole, only Cole just frowned.
Tense, things were. Yet maybe, I thought, Jesse was right. Get the damned thing over with. Get out of this damyankee state.
Jesse and Bob checked into the Clifton House on Front Street, while Clell and Stiles got a room at the Gates House. Cole and Charlie bunked at this place on Washington Street, and Frank and me rode over to Kasota and paid some farmer for a night’s lodging. Didn’t want everyone in town, you see. That was another way we operated.
“Might I ask your name?” the farmer asked.
“No questions asked,” Frank said, his words somewhat slurred. “No lies told.”
Next morning, we decided to make our play
Things went to hell in a hurry.
“By god, Jesse James!”
Jesse and Bob were mounting their horses, when this gent shouted at them, or rather, Jesse, from across the street.
“You’ve sprouted some chin whiskers since I last saw you, old hoss. How the hell are…?”
Jesse made no reply, didn’t even look at the man, just rode toward the river, followed quickly by Bob to the river bottoms, where they stopped to fix coffee, awaiting the rest of us.
I emptied my flask as Jesse told us the story. Wasn’t much rye left in it, anyway.
“Fellow in town recognized me,” Jesse announced after we had finished our coffee.
Frank chuckled, and I suspicion that he had been drinking more than was his custom, too. His tone didn’t have the sharpness of last night, and his eyes shone like a drunkard’s, like mine.
“You are ubiquitous, Dingus,” he said.
I don’t think Frank believed Jesse. I know damned well Cole didn’t, could tell by the scowl on his face, but I’m not sure. Bob wouldn’t lie to me, and Jesse had no reason to tell some stretcher, though his vanity often got the better of him. ’Course, Bob used to listen to his brothers.
“Price of fame,” Jesse said, far too casual for my liking, but he turned serious. “I didn’t reply, just rode out with Jim. But this puts us at a crossroads, boys. If we ride into Mankato, it could be a trap.”
“I’m betting we’ll be safe,” Stiles said. “Man in southern Minnesota cries out…‘I’ve seen Jesse James!’…nobody believes him. Nobody at all. Hell, who would?”
“You recognize this fellow, Dingus?” Clell Miller asked.
“Didn’t study his face. Just rode out, pretending I hadn’t heard him.”
“Let’s just get this damned thing over with,” Bob shot out, and, for once, I agreed with my kid brother.
“Damn’ right.” I walked to my horse.
The plan we had laid out worked this way. Three of us would ride into town, straight to the bank, followed by two more to watch things in front of the bank. If they liked the look of things, they’d start the ball. The rest of us would follow, keep a watch on the streets, and, if shooting commenced, we’d keep the townsfolk scared, keep their heads down by firing shots and cutting loose with Rebel yells.
We rode in at noon, finding way too many folks outside to our liking, so we circled back to the river, passing the time, then, an hour later, returned to the bank.
Land’s sake, the crowd seemed even bigger.
“The game’s afoot,” Jesse said. “Let’s get out of here.”
We left Mankato at a healthy lope.
“This ain’t worth a tinker’s damn, Stiles!” Jesse shot out. “I’m half broke, spent most of the money we got from Rocky Cut trying to plan this damned robbery”
’Course, Jesse had spent his money tossing coins to kids, flaunting his wealth on whores and whiskey and the finest hotels and finest duds. He liked spending money. Well, so did Bob, even Cole.
“You said it would be easy pickings,” Jesse went on, his face flushed with irritation. “But we don’t have a thing to show for it. Might as well go back to Missouri.”
I was all for that.
It fell silent for a moment, broken when Stiles suggested: “Northfield.”
“Jim?” Frank asked. I thought he was inquiring about my thoughts of Northfield. There were two hardware stores—least, that’s what Frank and Jesse had reported to me, for I’d never even set foot in Northfield. But I didn’t find cause for concern, in my cups like I was. The nearest hardware shop to the bank—Manning’s was the name, I remembered—didn’t have the stock of the Red Wing gun shop, and the other store was even smaller. Plus, Yankee mill workers and college professors didn’t impress me as warriors.
“Piece of pie,” I said and, hearing the sniggers, looked up to see Frank shaking his head, holding out his hand, waiting for me to pass the jug of wine we had bought in New Ulm. Frank didn’t care a whit what I thought about Northfield, just needed a snort. I passed him the Bordeaux.
“Northfield.” Jesse’s head bobbed.
“Rich town,” Sti
les said. “Like I said before, it’s where that bastard Ames lives. We could put a hurt on him, and make ourselves rich.”
“You boys better sober up,” Cole snapped, “before we try anything.”
“We will,” I said, smiling a drunken smile. I had no intention of listening to my big brother. Reckon I had forgotten all about family, too.
We’re not soothsayers, not Merlin, not God, can’t see the future. Well, we talked things over, and were all agreed. We’d try Northfield, but we took our time getting there, scouting the roads, the farms, the forests. I still had a map I had bought at some bookstore in Minneapolis, and Stiles had a compass.
The next night we rode into this little burg called Cordova, and the following night found us in Millersburg, even a smaller dot in the road than Cordova. I spent most of that night sick with worry, alone in my room at the old Cushman House. Worrying. Well, maybe the whiskey and wine had me off my feet, not just the worries.
It was September 7th, a Thursday, when we rode to Northfield, making a little camp in the woods outside of town.
“Bank’s busy,” Stiles said after a little scout of things. “Like I said, this one should be easy.”
“Two hardware stores,” Cole said. “Not what I’d call an arsenal.”
To get a feel for the town, a few of us crossed the railroad track on Third Street, turned on Water, and trotted our mounts over the iron bridge into Mill Square. They were changing shifts at the Ames mill, and we turned right onto Division Street. The First National Bank stood on the river side of the street, between a general store and an undertaker’s.
Undertaker. Bad sign. More forewarning when we picked up a copy of the newspaper, and the first thing I noticed was a front-page advertisement.
THEODORE MILLER
UNDERTAKER
Have the Largest and Finest Stock of
COFFINS
On Hand to be Had in This Town
More bad sign. I was too in my cups to take note.
Rob the bank, ride out, cut the telegraph wires, get back to Missouri. It would be as easy as the train at Rocky Cut.
Shortly after noon, Bob, Jesse, Charlie, Frank, and me had dinner at this place called lefts’ Rail Road Restaurant.
“Eat hearty, boys,” Jesse said, and he did. So did the rest of us. Most of us, least ways. Not me. I didn’t have much of an appetite until Jefts himself brought us a bottle of whiskey. Frank had ordered it. I hadn’t heard him.
“This used to be a Temperance town,” Jefts said. “But we’ve reformed.”
“That’s good,” I said, helping myself to three fingers of the worst forty-rod to blister a man’s throat.
For some reason, Jesse, contrary as he liked to be, tried to bet Jefts $1,000 that Minnesota would vote Democratic that fall. Damned fool. Talk like that would arouse suspicion. I knew that, even drunk and worried as I was.
Jefts didn’t take the bet, said it was a damned stupid wager. It was, too. This is Yankee country.
After lunch, we rode back to the woods, waiting on Cole, Stiles, and Clell to join us. Hell, neither of those had been drinking, and I bet if Cole had known that we were all pretty drunk and intent on getting drunker, he would have called the damned thing off.
“Town’s getting crowded,” Cole said.
“The hell,” Jesse shot back. “Let’s get her done.”
“Yeah,” Clell agreed. “I’m down to my last dime.”
“Only if it looks good,” Cole said.
“Right.” That came from Stiles. He pulled out a piece of paper he had torn out of some newspaper. The bank had some new Yale chronometer vault and safe. “You boys might want to read this, those of you who’ll be inside the bank.”
He passed it to Frank, who didn’t even bother reading it.
“Bob,” Jesse said, “you’ll be inside. You and Charlie and my brother.” He turned to Cole. “Bud, you and Clell, you follow them into town.” Back to face his brother. “If it looks good, you go inside the bank, do the business. If not, ride out.” Back to Cole. “If things get ticklish, fire a shot in the air. That’ll bring Jim, me, and Stiles into town. Otherwise, we’ll wait here, make sure nobody blocks our retreat. Then, when we’re done, Bill will lead us out of here. We’ll cut the telegraph wires. Sound good?”
Nods all around.
“Nothing to worry about,” Stiles said. “I told you boys this would be easy, and you’ll soon find out just how easy it is.”
Clell Miller let out a little laugh, but I think he was all bluster. “I’m a-gonna smoke my pipe through the whole shebang,” he said. “That’s how easy this’ll be.”
“All right,” I said, gathering the reins to my horse, watching Frank, Charlie, and Bob mount up and ride down the street.
Cole called out to them, and to us, maybe to himself, and to his conscience. I guess Brother Cole worried, too. “Nobody gets hurt. Whatever happens, we don’t shoot anybody if we can help it. I won’t have any innocent blood on my hands.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
ALONZO E. BUNKER
What kind of joke is this?
Those first thoughts flashing through my brain seem childish at best, idiotic at worst, looking back on that horrible day, but you must take into consideration that Northfield, Minnesota is not St. Al-ban’s, site of that dramatic secessionist robbery in Vermont during the war to free the slaves and preserve the union. When three men announced their intentions of robbing the bank that Thursday afternoon, I thought it had to be in jest, an almighty poor joke.
I am not a man who will allow whiskey to pilfer me of my faculties, but although I abstain from intoxicating liquors, not all of my friends have proselytized the heritage and teachings of John North, our town founder. For the most part, the men who honor me with their friendship prefer beautifying their gardens, working on their homes, understanding the gospels, bettering their minds and souls, but Northfield is not without its “bum” element. One needs to merely happen by that wretched Jeff’s bucket of blood by the depot or wander down the boardwalk in front of the Exchange Saloon on pay day. And, yes, some of my acquaintances have been known to decorate their noses with the suds of a beer. Inventing a diversion like this would not be beneath them.
Pen in hand, I left my ciphers and turned at the sound of the door opening shortly after two o’clock that afternoon, not even looking up until I reached my position at the teller’s counter facing the front lobby Then I saw them. Blinking, trying to comprehend the sight of three men brandishing horse pistols of an immense caliber I had never imagined, I registered my first thought: What a foolish joke! But which fool is playing it on me?
Suspicions immediately targeted J.S. Allen, who, minutes earlier, had left the bank after bringing in a deposit slip but having forgotten the money Only I would only rarely associate jocundity with Mr. Allen, especially raw, foul humor.
The three men wore no masks, but long linen dusters covered their clothes as if part of some uniform. One man was dark, a brooding, vicious specimen. All were tall. All sprouted facial whiskers in one form or another. I did not recognize them. They had left the front door open, but, through a glimpse, I spied another man, also clad in a duster, slam it shut. When the three gunmen jumped over the counter, I still thought this to be some ill-thought attempt at comedy. Even when one of the inside men cried out—“We’re robbing the bank! We’ve got forty men outside!”—even moments later when I heard J.S. Allen’s shouts from the front door, even then, I could not accept the reality of the situation.
Robbery? In Northfield? No. Never. I am twenty-seven years old, in my first year of marriage to a wonderful schoolteacher, employed at the First National Bank for the past three years. I am a graduate of the St. Paul Business College, a former student at Carleton College here in Northfield, the second son of fine New England parents. This could not be happening.
This wasn’t even the permanent home of the bank. We were operating in the Scriver Building. Our cashier, Mr. George M. Phillips, was not even in Minnesota
on this day. Maybe it was Phillips who was behind this joke. Joseph Lee Heywood, my friend and fellow worker, the First National Bank’s bookkeeper, had revealed to me a conversation he had had with Mr. Phillips about what actions he might take if our bank were to be assaulted.
Certainly, Joe and I never dreamed a robbery would ever happen. Could this be Mr. Phillips’s hand? No, he would do nothing so preposterous. Yet it couldn’t be a real robbery.
A long-barreled revolver pressed hard against my face.
“Which one of you sons-of-bitches is the cashier? Is it you?”
I found myself that afternoon working as the teller. The lobby was empty, had been since J.S. Allen left to find his deposit. Working with me that day were Joe Heywood, acting cashier during Mr. Phillips’s absence, and assistant bookkeeper, Frank Wilcox, all fine colleagues, industrious men of high principles and solemn living.
“Hands up, damn you. Now open that safe, or I’ll blow your damned brains out.” Only then, their curses finally registering as the cold barrel pressed harder against my cheek bone, did it strike me then that Joe Heywood, Frank Wilcox, and I faced desperate men. In addition to the dusters, all three donned hats (two black, one gray) and spurred boots, with more pistols shoved into shell belts that I would think possible. They stank of whiskey, but their pupils did not hold the dull ignorance of a drunkard’s. The eyes looked cold, deadly, merciless.
Fear numbed me. This was no dream, no joke.
“I asked you a question, you son-of-a-bitch. Which one of you two is the damned cashier?”
Two? They had not noticed Joe Heywood, couldn’t see him from his position in the corner, partially hidden by the cashier’s desk, and, when the smallest of the trio bounded for the vault and stepped inside, Joe, bless his brave heart, bolted out of his chair and tried to slam the heavy door shut, trapping one of the three inside.
He failed, for the outlaws screamed, and one leaped forward, slapped Joe with brutality and curses, and flung him against the partition.
“You bastard! Try that again, and we’ll kill you!”
Outside came more cries. “Robbery! Robbery! Get your guns, boys, they’re robbing the bank!”
Northfield Page 7
