by Cindi Myers
Chapter Seven
Our time in Sherman was some of the happiest of our lives together. I was full of hope for the new life Jesse and I were beginning together. This would be a fresh start for both of us. I loved Susie like my own sister, and Allen was as pleasant a man as I had ever met. He and Jesse spent hours riding, exploring the local countryside while Susie and I visited. Occasionally, the men traveled out of town for a few days, scouting for farm land Jesse might purchase, or horses to add to Allen’s stables.
Upon their return from one of these trips, Jesse decided I should learn to shoot a gun. “Every woman should know how to defend herself,” he asserted when we gathered for breakfast one morning.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” I demurred. “Why would I ever need a gun when you’re around?”
“Sometimes I’ll have to be away, and I don’t want to leave you defenseless.”
“I’m a little afraid of guns,” I said. “It seems to me accidents are always happening with them.” Jesse himself was proof of that; the tip of the middle finger of his left hand had been shot off by a pistol that misfired during his bushwhacker days. He did his best to hide the deformity, and hated for anyone to mention it.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of if you’re careful.” He nodded across the table to his sister. “Susie has known how to shoot since she was a slip of a girl.”
Susan nodded. “Mother made us learn, in case we needed to defend ourselves against Yankees.”
I could well imagine Zerelda drilling her family with pistol and rifle—a general preparing her troops for attack against her hated enemy, exhorting them to fight for the glory of the South.
Feeling I had little choice in the matter, I relented. After breakfast the four of us—Susan, Allen, Jesse and I—trooped out to the prairie behind their house. Jesse produced a small nickel-plated gun with a dark wood grip. “We’ll start with this little .22 revolver,” he said. “It’s big enough to do real damage and more accurate than the pocket derringers ladies often use—but not so big you’ll hurt yourself firing it.”
The gun was heavier than I’d expected, the grip cool and smooth in my hand. Jesse showed me how to load and unload the weapon, and made me practice over and over, cautioning me to keep the barrel aimed firmly at the ground.
When he felt I was proficient at this task, he had Allen set up a bottle on a tree stump some distance away and invited me to aim at it.
I proved a miserable shot. In six tries I never even hit the stump. The acrid stench of burnt gunpowder stung my eyes and my arm and wrist hurt from the kick of the weapon.
“You have to accommodate for the recoil,” Jesse said. He moved behind me, wrapping his arms about me and steadying the pistol with his own hands around mine. I enjoyed the physical closeness, even if I wasn’t deriving much pleasure from the rest of the lesson.
“Now, fix your eye on your target,” he said. “And bring the pistol up, in line with your vision. Don’t move your eyes to the gun—bring the gun up to where your eyes are aiming. Then, when your target’s in sight, squeeze the trigger slowly but firmly, bracing your arm to hold the gun steady.” He demonstrated, his finger over mine on the trigger guard. Though he was left-handed and I favored my right hand, he was able to shoot well enough from the right side to shatter the bottle into sparkling bits.
“Now you try,” he said, releasing his hold on me and stepping back.
I waited while Allen walked out and set up a second bottle, then squinted toward it, trying to remember everything he had told me. I focused on the bottle, raised the gun slowly, then braced the gun with two hands and fired. I jumped and squealed as the bottle exploded.
“That’s it, sweetheart.” Jesse clapped me on the back and kissed my cheek. “Now you’re getting the hang of it.”
We spent the rest of the afternoon shooting, and I began to see the fun of it. My everyday accomplishments had been limited to neatly ironed shirts or a well-cooked dinner; there was something very satisfying and empowering about firing a weapon and seeing the object I’d been aiming at destroyed. I didn’t think of myself as a destructive person, but I appreciated the immediacy and permanency of the result.
The men took turns testing their marksmanship, shooting lines of bottles at various distances, or tossing them into the air and shattering them before they hit the ground. Susan proved adept at firing even Allen’s heavy Navy Colt, and I began to feel more comfortable with my little revolver.
By the time we retired to the house once more my arms and shoulders ached, and the smell of burnt cordite clung to my clothes and hair. “I feel better now,” Jesse said as we washed up in our bedroom. “I like knowing you could defend yourself if you had to.”
“I hope I never have to,” I said. I shook a generous dose of dusting powder into my hair and began to brush it through, hoping to remove or at least tame the gunpowder smell.
“Better to be prepared.” He sat on the end of the bed and watched me brush out my hair. “It’s no secret I’ve made enemies, Zee. You know that.”
“I know.” I did my best to put from my mind all the people who wanted Jesse locked behind bars, or worse. Pretending they didn’t exist was the only way to get through each day without going crazy with worry.
“I’ll do my best to see that they never bother you,” he said. “But if they should try, I want you to be able to defend yourself.”
I nodded. “I appreciate it, Jesse. I really do.”
“Besides,” He smiled. “I’ve been thinking we might go down to Veracruz. I hear they have big snakes down there in the cane fields. You might need to shoot one.”
“Veracruz?” I turned to face him. “Really?”
He shrugged. “Allen and I have been talking about it. He knows some people down there. The land is cheap and great for ranching. And the weather is temperate, being right on the ocean.”
“That might be nice,” I said. Though I hated the thought of leaving the rest of my family behind, I knew in Mexico Jesse would be beyond the reach of United States law, away from Pinkertons and the ever-more-vengeful Missouri government and banks and express companies. All those forces had pursued him for years, and kept us apart. Life without them would be a new beginning. And I liked the idea of shooting snakes better than shooting people.
A few days later, Susan and I were invited to a tea hosted by the Ladies’ Mission Society at the local Methodist church. Susan introduced me as her sister-in-law, Mrs. Howard, visiting from Tennessee. The hostess of the tea, a sweet-faced matron named Maddie Westfall, greeted me warmly. “We’re so glad to have you with us,” she said, leading us to one of several white-clothed tables set for six. “Allow me to introduce my sister, Corrine Gates, visiting from Austin with her little girl. Corrine, this is Mrs. Howard and Mrs. Parmer.”
“You must call us Susan and Zee,” Susan said as we took our seats. “I was in Austin last winter and thought it was a beautiful city.”
“It is, but I’m thinking of relocating here to Sherman,” Corinne said. “I’d like to be closer to my sister, and I think it would be a safer place to raise my daughter.”
“Corinne had quite a frightening experience on the trip to see me,” Maddie said, when we were all settled around the table and tea was poured.
“More exciting than frightening, to tell the truth,” Corinne said, her brown eyes sparkling. “Our stagecoach was way-laid by highwaymen!”
“Oh no!” The fifth woman at our table, a very young blonde whose last name was Addison, gasped. “You must have been terrified.”
“I was very frightened at first,” Corinne said. “But they were really most gentlemanly and polite.” She grinned. “And the taller of the two was quite handsome, with sandy hair and the most brilliant blue eyes.”
I carefully set my cup back in its saucer and folded my hands in my lap. “Do you know who it was?” I asked, my voice surprisingly calm, though my heart raced.
“No, but certain things he said and did make me wonder if i
t wasn’t Jesse James himself.”
This announcement caused considerable excitement at the table. I caught Susan’s eye and she gave a little shake of her head, as if to warn me to keep silent. But I needed no warning.
“He was definitely a Southerner,” Corinne continued. “He addressed me as ‘Ma’am’ and told my little girl she didn’t have anything to be afraid of. Then he held out a wheat sack and asked us all to please hand over our valuables. I was third in line, and I somehow found the boldness to speak to him. I told him he struck me as too much of a gentleman to rob a poor soldier’s widow of all she possessed.”
“I still can’t believe you had the nerve to speak up that way,” Maddie said. “He might have shot you dead.”
“He didn’t strike me as that kind of man,” Corinne said. “When I said I was a soldier’s widow, he looked downright sympathetic. He asked where my husband had served. I told him my Henry fought with Hood’s Texas Brigade. He was killed at Second Manassas.”
We all murmured our sympathies, which she accepted with a gracious nod. “The response of the handsome robber was remarkable,” she said. “I swear there were tears in his eyes as he returned my purse to me. Then he pressed a ten-dollar gold piece into my daughter’s hand.”
“What about the rest of the people on the stage?” Mrs. Addison asked.
“They were all men, and the two robbers relieved them of all their valuables. One of the men had a little silver revolver with mahogany grips that the handsome bandit seemed especially pleased with. The owner said he’d bought it as a gift for his wife and pleaded for its return, but the bandit refused. He tucked the pistol in his coat, then doffed his hat and bid us all good day, and mounted up and rode away. It was the most remarkable thing I’ve ever experienced.”
“What makes you think the robber was Jesse James?” Susan asked.
“Oh, because he was such a gentleman. And because he was so moved by the news of my husband’s service in the war, and because of the gold piece he gave my daughter. Everyone knows Jesse James has great sympathy for the South and its soldiers, and a generosity toward the common people.”
“Those men were probably common people and he didn’t have any compunction about robbing them,” Maddie said.
“Well, yes, but I’m sure they could afford the loss better than I could.” A wistful smile lingered on Corinne’s lips. “I shall never forget those blue eyes and that handsome face as long as I live.”
Susan and I exchanged glances again. I hoped I looked calmer than I felt. Fortunately, the conversation at our table ceased as the afternoon’s speaker rose to begin her address. We all bowed our heads for the invocation, but my mind wasn’t on the prayer or the talk that followed. I was thinking of Jesse, and how pleased he’d been when he’d presented me with the little revolver, as if he’d chosen it especially for me.
The robbery itself didn’t upset me as much as perhaps it should have; I had had years to grow accustomed to the stories of Jesse’s exploits. Yes, robbery was a sin, and against the law. But Jesse operated by his own code, one that I had come to accept as my own: his enemies were the Northern businessmen and politicians who oppressed the South. They had made the lives of our family and friends miserable for so long. Was it so wrong to demand justice from them now?
I was more distressed by the realization of how naïve I’d been to hope that marriage to me would make Jesse leave his life of crime. ‘Settling down’ obviously didn’t mean the same thing to Jesse as it did to me. I should have realized as much when he insisted I learn to shoot in order to protect myself ‘while he was away.’ I thought he meant away visiting his mother or attending a horse or cattle auction. He meant away robbing stage coaches or banks.
No more mention of Corinne’s handsome outlaw was made for the rest of the afternoon. Susan and I walked home in silence, where we found Allen and Jesse playing cards in the kitchen. “How was the tea?” Allen asked.
“Interesting.” Susan sat across from him. “Maddie Westfall’s sister is visiting from Austin. She’s thinking about moving here.”
“What do I care about Maddie Westfall or her sister?” Allen asked.
“You should care,” Susan said. “The sister—Corinne Gates—was on a stagecoach that was robbed on her way here. She was very much taken with one of the bandits—a handsome man with sandy hair and very blue eyes, and courtly Southern manners.”
We all looked at Jesse, who returned our stare, his expression grim. “What do you mean, ‘taken’ with him?”
“She said she would never forget him as long as she lived,” I said. “And she’s sure the man who robbed the stage was none other than Jesse James himself.”
Jesse relaxed his shoulders, though I sensed he did so with effort. “Imagine that—somebody going around impersonating me.”
“This robber stole a little silver pistol from one of the passengers,” Susan said. “A gift the man had bought for his wife.”
“I take it this Mrs. Gates is sharing this story with a lot of people?” Allen asked.
“With everyone she knows,” Susan said. “I’d say it was the high point of her summer.”
No one said anything else for many minutes. The only sound was a fly buzzing in the window. The heat pressed in on us like a heavy blanket, and I felt the first twinges of a headache.
Jesse’s chair scraped back from the table. “I’m going to check on the horses,” he said.
“I’ll go with you.” Allen rose also.
When the men were gone, Susan came and put her hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry, Zee,” she said. “Jesse knows what he’s doing. It’ll be all right.”
I nodded. Of course he did. And I thought I’d known what I was doing when I married him. I’d never truly considered the reality of pledging my life to a man to whom ordinary rules and expectations didn’t apply. I wasn’t disappointed, exactly—more surprised to find all the assumptions I’d so naïvely made about our future stripped away.
But I would adjust. I loved Jesse, as much for his uniqueness as for anything else. He was a man like no other—tough, yet caring, a criminal who was also an idealist, a man capable of great violence and great tenderness. I would prepare myself to live a life with him that resembled nothing I could have ever imagined.
The next morning, Jesse announced that we were returning to Missouri. That afternoon, we boarded the train, headed not for Veracruz or any other exotic location, but for the place we both knew best. We were going home.
Frank met us at the station upon our return. Dressed in a new suit of brown wool, he paced the platform while we waited for our trunks to be unloaded from the baggage car, jingling change in his pocket, tugging at his lapels, adjusting and re-adjusting his hat.
“Buck, what’s got into you?” Jesse finally demanded. “You’re jumpy as a cat.”
“There’s someone I want you to meet,” Frank said, addressing not his brother, but me.
“Oh?” I glanced at Jesse. He shrugged. “Who is that?” I asked.
“Her name’s Annie. Annie Ralston.” To my amazement, Frank blushed a deep red. “Well, Annie James now.”
Jesse gaped at his older brother. “Buck, you old son of a gun!” He slapped Frank on the back. “Do you mean to tell me you’ve gone and gotten hitched?”
Frank looked sheepish. “I’ve known her a while now. She’s a good woman—a real lady.”
Though Frank was normally gruff and reserved, he looked almost boyish as he talked about his new wife. The change delighted me. “I can’t wait to meet her,” I said. “We’ll have the two of you to dinner as soon as we’re settled.”
Frank drove us to a little house Jesse had rented before the wedding. “If you don’t like it, we can find someplace else,” Jesse said as we toured the rooms.
“No, it’s fine.” I turned to face him. “Wherever I am with you is perfect.”
He drew me into his arms and kissed me, the faded wallpaper and crooked floors of the house receding in the warmth of th
at embrace. When we finally parted, he smiled down at me. “Do you think Buck was jealous of our happiness, so he decided to find a wife of his own?”
“He said he’d known her a while.” I tried to imagine what sort of woman would be drawn to the stern, studious elder James brother. “We must have them to dinner soon, so we can meet her.”
“I’ll bet she’s not as pretty as you,” Jesse said.
I tried to hide my pleasure at this praise. “It’s not a competition,” I scolded. “She’s family now, so we must welcome her regardless of her looks or temperament. As long as she makes Frank happy, that’s all that matters.”
The following Friday evening, I prepared to greet my new sister-in-law. In the days since learning of Frank’s marriage, I had formed half a dozen different pictures in my mind of what Annie James would be like. I had settled on the image of an older woman, close to Frank’s age. She would be practical, sturdy and solemn, like Frank himself.
So I was not prepared when he escorted an elegant young beauty into my front parlor that evening. Easily ten years Frank’s junior—eight years younger than me—Annie Ralston James resembled a music-box figurine, with porcelain skin, spun-gold hair and violet eyes. She spoke in a low, refined voice and moved with the grace of a dancer. “How very nice to meet you,” she said formally, and took my hand in a fleeting, cool embrace.
Over a supper of ham and corn pudding and beaten biscuits, Frank gave her history, while Annie looked on, the hint of a smile on her petal-pink lips. It was not the worshipful smile of a naïve girl, but the self-congratulatory look of a woman who is sure she has won a valuable prize.
