Northfield

by Johnny D. Boggs

  Too real. Too real. Too real.

  “Are you the damned cashier?” the third man asked me.

  I tried to answer, but couldn’t. My head shook. They asked Frank Wilcox. They asked Joe Heywood. Both heads shook, but they singled out Joe as the most likely cashier, as, indeed, he had been stationed at the cashier’s desk.

  “You’re the damned cashier! Open the safe…quick, or I’ll blow your head off!”

  “Murder!” Joe cried. “Murder! Murder!”

  Outside, shots rang out.

  “Shit!” one of the bandits inside yelled. “I’ll show you murder, you lousy bastard.”

  The other two dragged Heywood toward the vault.

  All during this time, I had not moved since raising my hands at their vile instruction upon understanding the seriousness, the essence of the situation. Now realizing that I still held a pen in my hand, I tried to place it on the counter, but the youngest of these fiends swung his revolver in my direction. “I said keep your damned hands up! Get down on your knees.”

  The pen slipped from my fingers, dropping at my feet, while my right hand shot up again.

  These brutal men continued to torment Joe, and, when the young man guarding Frank and myself turned his attention on that torture, my eyes spied the .32 Smith & Wesson near my ledger.

  Could I reach it in time?

  I never got the chance, because one of the wicked souls torturing Joe had looked up to see me, perhaps read my mind. He was the most savage-looking of the three, with a face darker, eyes cruel, thick mustache, and small under-lip beard.

  “Hey, you bastard!” He shoved Joe’s face onto the floor and, leaping from a crouch, raced toward me, brandishing his big Colt revolver. Spotting the .32, he shoved it into his waistband, laughing drunkenly as he told me, and his companions: “You couldn’t hit anything with that little Derringer anyway.”

  The savage man, who resembled a half-breed, returned to the tall, gentlemanly figure, and drew a big Bowie knife against Joe’s throat. “Open the safe now, damn you, or you haven’t but a moment to live. I’ll cut your throat. Cut your damned head off!”

  Never have I seen a man as brave as Joe Heywood, as cool as he was that afternoon. Since his cries of murder moments earlier, he had regained his composure, had resolved to do his duty. The blade cut him slightly, and blood trickled onto his paper collar, but he replied in an even voice: “There is a time lock on, and the safe cannot be opened at this time.”

  “That’s a damned lie!” the tall man, proving he was no gentleman, shouted.

  Well, yes and no. The safe did have a time lock, but all those fools had to do was pull the door open. The door was shut, but we had not turned the combination dial to secure the locking mechanism. Nothing should have kept those three rogues from some $15,000.

  Nothing but their ignorance, their drunkenness, and Joseph Lee Heywood’s bravery.

  “Hell,” the tall man said, nodding at the dark one. “Go inside and try the safe.”

  “All right, but don’t let that son-of-a-bitch lock me inside, Buck!”

  “He won’t do a thing,” said his tall colleague.

  More shots outside. And more. Screams of men, women, horses.

  Suddenly, with a wicked oath and no warning, the tallest man slammed the butt of his Remington revolver against Joe’s head, a sickening, heartbreaking sound, and the poor man, my good friend, crumpled in a heap. The two brutes dragged him into the vault, ordering him once more to open the safe, but I didn’t think Joe could answer. I truly thought that such a blow would not only render him senseless, but kill him.

  A shout from outside: “For God’s sake, boys, hurry up! They’re shooting us all to pieces!”

  The Indian-looking one fired a pistol shot at Heywood’s head, and, when I flinched, fearing they had killed my friend, the youngest one decided to brutalize me.

  “Where’s the money outside the safe?” he asked. “Where’s the cashier’s till?”

  I summoned my courage, inspired by Joe Heywood, and pointed to the box of loose change atop the counter.

  “There,” I said.

  “Horseshit!”

  Yet he withdrew a grain sack, and dumped the nickels, pennies, and silver inside, never noticing the drawer underneath the box, the cashier’s drawer that, by my guess, contained perhaps $3,000.

  “You get anything, Bob?” the tall man asked.

  “My claim ain’t panning out much, Buck!” he said with a mirthless laugh, but, when he turned toward me again, anger flashed in his blue eyes, and I thought I would die.

  “There’s more money than that here, and you damn’ well better tell me where it is, you son-of-a-bitch! Where the hell’s that cashier’s till? And what in hell are you standing up for? I told you to keep down.”

  He shoved me to the floor, and jammed the cold, hard barrel of his revolver at my temple.

  “Better show me where that money is you son-of-a-bitch, or I’ll kill you.”

  It’s a cliché, I know, but I closed my eyes and thought about my life. I saw my mother. I saw dear Nettie, and wondered how long my wonderful bride would wear black, to grieve for me after these vile, wicked men killed me. I thought of God, and the Streets of Gold. I thought I was dead, and as I mouthed the Lord’s Prayer, I realized the young brigand had returned to the counter, rummaging for paper money and coin.

  I looked up. If I could make it through the director’s room, I could hurl myself out the back door—pretty much nothing more than blinds— dart down the alley, maybe warn Mr. Manning in the hardware store. If I wasn’t killed inside the bank, or shot down from all those gunshots I kept hearing outside.

  Something else flashed through my mind. The savage Indian-looking man kept growling, and the tall man, scattering papers from Joe’s desk, whirled at him and yelled, screaming at him to try the damned safe. If he pulled on the handle, the door would open, and Joe’s bravery would be for nothing. I had to act. Now.

  Frank Wilcox remained on his knees, staring in my direction although I doubt if his brain registered anything—his face ashen. Still, I motioned for him to move a little closer to the counter, to give me room to make my break. They had killed Joe Heywood; at least, that is what I feared, and, had I known Joe still breathed life’s air, had I known what would happen once I fled, I would gladly have traded my life for his, would resolutely have stayed inside the bank, but, as God is my witness, I thought Joe was already dead and feared that, if I did not make my play now, both Frank Wilcox and I would join him as victims, unless I acted immediately.

  I shot to my feet, and ran, pushing past poor Frank Wilcox, ran hard through the back door.

  “Shit!” The dark man’s voice rang out, followed with sacrilegious curses from the youngest of the trio, and the tall man’s orders: “Stop that bastard, Charlie!”

  Then…a gunshot!

  My ears rang as I hurried, seeing the bullet splinter the blinds right before I pushed through them, crashing outside, hearing the cannonade of the attack from all around Mill Square and Division Street.

  From inside the bank: “Kill that son-of-a-bitch!”

  Outside—shrieks, hoofs, gunfire that surrounded, it seemed, the entire town.

  Feet churning, flailing stupidly, I ran as hard as I could, heard the dark man’s vile cursing, heard the click of his revolver, or at least imagined I did.

  An instant later, a bullet slammed into my back.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ANSELM R. MANNING

  Try as I might, my hands would not quit trembling.

  I am not a soldier, not a young man. I am a forty-three-year-old Canadian-turned-Minnesotan, an Episcopalian and Freemason, a Northfield businessman with a lovely wife and three-month-old daughter. For all of those things I have mentioned above, albeit not in that order, I found myself fighting when bandits attempted to sack our town. My town. My home for the past twenty years. I would not be deterred, no matter how frightened I was, no matter the danger of the situation. My life mean
t nothing, not in the grand scheme of things.

  But…gee willikins! I acted as naive as most citizens on that Thursday afternoon. Even the first shot did not alarm me.

  “What was that?” R.C. Phillips asked.

  Phillips started walking toward the entrance of the hardware store, where I sat working on the books, but I waved him off. Earlier, I had read in the Rice County Journal that some Thespian group was performing at the Opera House that evening, and I warranted the actors in this combination had gotten permission through the local constabulary to ride up and down Division Street and raise a ruction, to draw up interest for the sordid melodrama that appealed to teen-age boys and ne’er-do-wells with too much time on their hands and an imagination whetted by the half-dime novels published by Beadle & Adams.

  Yet when I heard the panicked shouts, and J.S. Allen’s warning—“Get your guns, boys, they’re robbing the bank!”—followed by muffled curses and an explosion of musketry, I understood the gravity of the afternoon.

  At that moment, J.S. Allen, who owned the hardware store next to my own, ran inside my store, it being closest, out of breath, terrified but unfaltering. “Robbery!” he cried out. “Robbery! Robbery! We’ve got…to get the…guns.”

  He tried to explain what was happening to R.C. Phillips, but I caught only bits and pieces. Allen had walked to the First National, temporarily being housed in the Scriver Building. One or two men had stopped him, struck him, cursed him. He had fled. They had fired at him, maybe in warning, perhaps with the intention to maim or kill.

  I didn’t hear the rest. John Tosney and John Archer rushed inside as R.C. made his way to the door, pushing him away from the door and windows. “They’re robbing the bank!” one of them shouted. “Better stay off the streets!”

  Yet I had no intention of doing such. Gunshots popped outside as I grabbed a handful of ammunition, picked up the Remington breechloader with which I had been practicing for the fall hunts, and stepped out of the store over stunned protests and made my way to the corner of Mill Square and Division Street.

  “Get off the streets! Get back, you sons-of-bitches!”

  At first glance, I knew more than two men were taking part in this affair. I spotted two men in front of the bank, three others galloping on horses, firing six-shot revolvers, yipping a bloodcurdling yelp, cursing. Desperate men.

  “Better jump back now!” came a friendly if petrified voice near me. “Or they shall kill you.”

  With trembling hands, I took careful aim. I squeezed the trigger, and shot a horse tethered in front of the Scriver Building.

  This action aroused the wrath of one of the men in front of the bank. He wore a broad black hat and linen duster, as did all of these plunderers, and I could tell he sported long side whiskers, an auburn mustache and goatee. He snapped a shot over my head, screaming to one or all of his companions: “Kill that white-livered son-of-a-bitch!”

  I tried to extract the shell from the rifle, but it remained stuck, so I hurried back inside the store, drew a ramrod, and, with R.C. Phillips’s help, rammed it down the barrel, pushing the hot brass cartridge out. In my haste, I had grabbed the wrong ammunition, but now I rectified this situation, and, armed with the appropriate caliber, I returned to my position, sweating, shaking, pale, but determined.

  “Get in, you sons-of-bitches!” repeated the vile cry of one of the brigands.

  More gunfire, and I realized my defense of Northfield was not a lone act. A shotgun roared, and across the street I saw men and boys of our town hurling stones at the men on horseback as they thundered past, firing pistols, ducking behind the necks of their mounts like red Indians. Impressive warriors…I will say that much for them, and brave, I suspect, but not as courageous as the people of Northfield, who rose to meet the threat. Boys and men, young and old, throwing stones at highwaymen firing huge pistols. Comrades, that is what I define as grit.

  Another shotgun blast. And another. Rifle fire from across the street. Another shot from a nearby window upstairs. The popping of small pistols. Shattering glass and pounding hoofs.

  Grit!

  We were not prepared for a murderous invasion. We are peaceable city folk, but we would account well for ourselves on this day.

  The man with the goatee jumped up from behind the dead horse serving as breastworks, pounded on the bank door, and shouted: “For God’s sake, boys, hurry up! They’re shooting us all to pieces.”

  At that moment, his companion in front of the bank tried to mount his horse, but a lad—Elias Stacy, I would later learn, a fine boy of strong Canadian stock with two brave brothers—ran forward and shot him in the face with a fowling piece.

  “Cole!” the man cried, falling back into the dust. “Cole! I’m hit, Cole! I’m hit!”

  Elias Stacy whirled and ran back to find cover behind the crates stacked in front of Lee & Hitchcock’s store.

  Grit, indeed. What bravery he had shown, and he was not finished. “Help me load this piece or give me another gun!”

  “Keep your head down,” I told him, and took aim.

  In front of the Scriver Building, the man with the goatee squatted beside his friend, who was halfway sitting up, shaking his head, not seriously wounded for Stacy’s weapon had been loaded with only chicken shot. I took aim again. A bullet whistled over my head. “Get back inside,” bellowed a man on horseback, “you damned bastard!” I rushed my shot, did not have a proper target, anyway, and saw the wooden post splinter, then the man with the goatee crumpled, whirled, snapped a shot. My .45-70 bullet had gone through the post and struck him in the hip, a scratch shot, but one I’d gladly take.

  I leaped back as a bullet ripped past my ear.

  The shakes worsened.

  “Be careful,” another voice told me, calm but firm. “They have been shooting merely to warn us, frighten us. Now they are intent to kill.”

  I blinked. Governor Adelbert Ames, newly returned to Northfield from his stay down South, stood beside me. “Take a deep breath,” he said to me. “Don’t stay in plain view too long.” He smiled. “You are doing fine, Anselm.”

  “Would you…?” I offered him the breechloader.

  His head shook. “You are the better shot, Anselm. Continue the fight, my good man. Can you shoot the other horses in front of the bank?”

  I reloaded, drew back the hammer, and prepared to chance yet another shot as Elias Stacy darted across the street and dived through an open door, pleading again for someone to give him a weapon to use against these bushwhackers. I aimed at one of the other horses, but the rifle shook violently, and I ducked back, the breechloader un-fired. “I can’t,” I told Governor Ames. “Not the horses. I…just….”

  “It is all right, Anselm,” the governor said soothingly. “I fear I could not kill a horse, either. So kill the men who ride them.”

  That I felt I could do.

  “Take careful aim,” the governor coached.

  I stepped into the street again.

  Up the road about a block, perhaps 130 or 140 rods away, I spied one of the outlaws, popping shots at our townsmen, hiding behind the neck of his horse. He was one of the few clean-shaven ruffians raiding our town, and I drew a bead on where I thought he might lift his body and give me a clear shot. When he did appear, just for a second, I squeezed the trigger, thought I saw him flinch, and leaped back behind the wall to reload.

  Governor Ames smiled. “Great shooting, Anselm,” he said. “We could have used a man with your eye and pluck during the rebellion.”

  My mouth felt too dry to even attempt a response. My hands trembled with such force it’s a wonder I hit anything that day.

  “Chadwell! Stiles!” one of the outlaws yelled. “Stiles! Bill! Bill! Christ A’mighty!”

  I worked another shell into the Rolling Block’s chamber, returned to my position, and saw the clean-shaven man lying dead in the dust. His horse trotted along casually, turned down Fifth Street as if heading for the Northfield Livery. Only then did I know for certain that my bull
et had flown true.

  I felt no compunction, no need for penitence (except, much later, for the horse I had slain), not even fear, not any more. I fired again, ducked back, heard the man with the goatee pounding on the door with the butt of his revolver, screaming: “For God’s sake, boys, come out! It’s getting too hot for us!”

  The man with the goatee limped to his horse, swung into the saddle, firing, shouting at his rowdy friends inside the bank to finish their business. The man Elias Stacy had shot in the face with the shotgun had also remounted.

  Horses thundered past us again. Smoke burned my eyes. My ears pounded from the roar of the battle.

  Then a cry came from a voice I did not recognize, but it had to be from one of my neighbors.

  “They’ve shot Alonzo Bunker!”

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHARLIE PITTS

  I’d ride through hell for Capt’n Younger.

  Best friend I ever had, but then, when I think about it, I never met many men I’d label a pard, and damned fewer who’d call me his pal. Capt’n Cole, though, I reckon he’d ride through hell for me, too.

  So when that pip-squeak of a bank teller scrambled to his feet and dived through the flimsy back door, I let out with an oath and took after him, mad more at myself than that paper-collar man, mad for letting the capt’n down.

  ’Course, it was young Bob who was supposed to have been watching him at the time. I had just stepped out of the vault to holler something at Frank when I heard the teller’s shoes pounding the wood floor and caught him out of the corner of my eye. “Shit!” I yelled, and Bob whirled, yelling something stupid. I ran after the fool Yank, snapped a shot, jerking the trigger at the last moment because I recollected that Capt’n Cole didn’t want us to shoot anyone iffen we could help it. ’Course, with all those shots coming from out in the streets, I wasn’t so certain nobody was following the capt’n’s orders no more.

  “Stop that bastard, Charlie!” Frank James hollered at me, but I was already chasing the teller. He had pushed through the blinds, gone down the steps, and was raising dust through the back alley. Only twenty feet ahead of me.