Head West (The Collected Western Stories of B.J. Holmes)

by BJ Holmes

  It was a sunny afternoon in April when he cleared flat, wooded countryside and found himself in a small Missouri township called St Joseph––a rundown little place––on his way to the railroad offices in Kansas City where he intended picking up some new names to add to his list of wanted men. The railroad was good business for him. As long as men transported their valuables via the iron horse across unprotected territory he wouldn’t be without a job.

  He looked at the falling sun, thought of the fifty mile trek south still to do, and decided to stay overnight. He checked in at a hotel and stabled his black horse in the livery.

  He was entering a store to purchase vittles when he passed a man coming out. It wasn’t the man’s appearance that caught his attention. He was of average height, well dressed in a town suit. It wasn’t even the man’s incessant flickering eyes. Glaucoma and other eye complaints were common around the frontier. No it was the combination of the continually blinking eyelids and the man’s features that triggered something in his brain. What, he couldn’t say. But his mind stayed on it, the way one’s subconscious beavers away instinctively without command. His brain was used to working through mental files; faces were his business.

  He ordered flour and coffee. The storekeeper bagged the goods and placed them on the counter. ‘Anything else, sir?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ The tall man handed him payment. ‘Say, that guy who was in the store before me––who is he?’

  The man handed him change. ‘Why, that’s our Mr. Howard. Couldn’t wish to meet a nicer feller. You know him?’

  Jonathan paused while the card index of his brain continued to roll. ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘Thought maybe I’d seen him some place is all.’

  The storekeeper knew everyone in town and could tell his present customer was a stranger. ‘Mmm. That’s a possibility. Like you, he ain’t what you’d call a local. Mind, he’s been here some time now.’

  ‘Where’s he live?’

  ‘In a cabin north of town; with his missus and two kids. The way he’s settled in, looks like he’s a-aiming to stay.’ He nodded to the window. ‘Quiet place we got here, you know. Not like it was when the Pony Express started from a-way up the street. But the expansion stopped when Kansas City was picked for the railroad. Kinda bypassed by everybody and everything as a result. Yeah, we got a quiet place. Lotta folks prefer it that way.’

  Grimm steered the conversation back to what interested him. ‘What’s this Mr. Howard do? You know, to earn a living.’

  ‘Now you come to mention it I ain’t seed him doing nothing. Not by way of employment. Quiet kinda guy.’ He shrugged. ‘Some kind of businessman I reckon.’

  Grimm returned the change, which he’d been clinking in his hand throughout their discourse, to the counter and added a silver dollar. ‘Nobody’s to know I been asking questions. Savvy?’

  The storekeeper studied his customer for a moment. There was nothing openly sinister about the man’s appearance. Admittedly not too healthy looking, maybe. And the powder suggesting the man was not a-feared of much. But the cold stare, the firm low voice, and the guns on the man’s hips were a laxative to any blockages in the storeman’s understanding. ‘On the button, sir.’ He touched his hairline with a rigid finger.

  The stranger picked up the bags. ‘Well, pilgrim, thanks and so long.’

  Outside, the fingers of his subconscious stopped flicking through the mental file. Businessman! Bells were beginning to ring. Yes! If Mr. Johnson was who he thought he was––he was helluva businessman!

  He scanned the street, both ways. No sign of his man. No mind, from what the storekeeper had said the fellow didn’t seem in a hurry to leave St Joseph.

  Up in his hotel room, Jonathan Grimm took his saddlebag from the bedrail and grabbed a fistful of reward posters. He sat on the bed and thumbed through them. He stopped at a tatty print. The glint of recognition was in the steel blue eyes. There was his man! Experience had taught him the degree of latitude with which to interpret the lithographed portrayals. The likeness was poor as usual––but to him it was the man who’d brushed past him at the store door. The constantly winking eyes, the characteristic often described in newspaper articles, clinched it. It was the big one. Jesse James, no less!

  The manhunter shook his head with a smile in admiration of the outlaw’s ploy. Trim your hair, dress neat, settle down respectably with wife and kids––not too far from home so your accent doesn’t stand out––under the noses of the pursuing authorities, the place they’d look with the least fervor. The gall!

  Then the smile disappeared as he thought of the deaths at the hands of the James’ gang over the years. Forget the chutzpah, forget the woman and children. Forget the Robin Hood image. The man had stolen, maimed, killed; there was a price on his head. The Reaper had a job to do.

  Having confirmed the man’s identity and reminded himself of the features of the remaining gang he returned to the store. He feigned interest in merchandise until the store was void of customers, then slipped another double eagle across the counter. ‘Our esteemed Mr. Howard––tell me how to get to his cabin, if you’d be so kind.’

  Dropping the coin into the pocket of his apron, the storekeeper obliged. Then added, ‘One other thing. There’s two guys in town that he’s having some dealings with.’

  ‘Dealings?’

  ‘Well, you know, seeing each other. Don’t know what about.’

  ‘Yeah? Who and where?’

  ‘Don’t know their names. But they rode into town––er––must be three days gone. Got a room in back of the Eats House down the street a-piece.’

  ‘Anything else you can tell me?’

  ‘S’all I can think of.’

  Jonathan Grimm nodded. Touching his lips with a finger in the universal gesture of silence as a reminder, he stepped out into the late afternoon sun. He took a bite of tobacco and leant against an awning support. He moved the wad slowly around his mouth, spreading the flavor while he pinpointed the Eats House. He strolled casually down the sidewalk, eyes on the building, a loose planking shack, that may not even have had the fortune to have seen better days; no activity save the wisp of smoke coming from the centered chimney stack.

  He walked down the alley at the side to check the rear of the building. Three horses––the owner’s and two others?

  He returned to the front and pushed open the door. A greasy almost evil smell hit him. It didn’t affect him. He’d smelt worse; and he was hungry. He ordered a steak and sat near the window so that he could cover the street as well as the middle door opening into the eating room. From the noises behind the partitioning he knew there were at least two men in the rented quarters.

  There were no developments until the end of the meal. The door from the living quarters opened and a man came out. He was well-scrubbed and neatly dressed. Short jacket, no guns. Grimm caught enough of the face as it passed, to link it to a name––Charley Ford, one of the old James’ gang. His mental eye roamed over the family tree ––guy was cousin to Jesse, had a brother. The brother was probably the one remaining in the room this very minute.

  The man returned minutes later, presumably only having been out to buy some small item from a store. There was the same lack, of urgency to his behavior as there had been to Jesse’s. It was manifest they were all confident in the belief as to their remaining undetected. Not unjustifiably. It had been years since they’d been seen or known to be involved in criminal activities.

  Jonathan Grimm pondered on his next move. He could take them now, Would be no problem. They weren’t expecting trouble. They weren’t carrying guns. No doubt they had weapons hidden away in their room but he could handle it. But that wasn’t the way. The big money was on Jesse. The ruckus that would be created by Grimm’s apprehending the Fords would easily get back to Jesse and warn him. Best to get the lie of the land before initiating any action.

  It was the next day. The third of April. He rode out to the location described by the storekeeper. The cabin was tu
cked away in the bottom of a dell. The kind of place that one would not normally stumble on, which was the point, he supposed. He circled the building at a distance before settling down on a knoll, an eyeglass on the window of the cabin on flatland below him, his horse well out sight to the rear. He lay prone for an hour. No point in rushing.

  During that time the man had come outside twice and Grimm had got a good view of his features. No mistake, it was the last remaining of the James brothers. Certainly, the fellow was playing the part of the respectable family man. Like he was born to it. Flower and vegetable gardens had all the signs of being attended daily.

  What was the point of all this? What was the great Jesses James doing? Waiting for something? For what? Biding his time? Why? Or was it a legitimate attempt to settle down, to lead an ordinary life in obscurity?

  The tallow-faced hunter compressed his spy-glass and pushed it into a saddlebag at his side. It was not his to reason the why’s and wherefore’s––the simpler his part in the judicial system the better. Anyways, principles were for those who could afford them. He slithered back and threw his saddlebag over the back of his the horse. He re-tethered the horse for fresh grazing.

  ‘You stay here, boy,’ he whispered. ‘Rest, nice and easy. While the old man goes off to earn the hay.’

  There was a pine-filled crevice descending to the flatland. He inched down under cover of the trees. Damn! Riders were coming. He lay back against bark and peered through foliage. Two men. Had to be the Ford brothers. They hitched their mounts outside the cabin, knocked the door, entering without waiting for permission. They had to be kin or someone close to behave like that.

  He waited, saw the woman come from the kitchen, then return. He loped across the clearing and proned himself against the outer wall in between the door and a window. The voices were quite distinct. He had been right as to the identity of the two men staying in town: Bob and Charley Ford.

  ‘Don’t give me all that,’ he heard someone say.

  Then, ‘You’re living in a fool’s paradise, Jesse. You think you’re gonna find peace. But this ain’t gonna last. It’ll all catch up with you. Next week, next year. Sometime for sure.’

  Sooner than that, brother, Jonathan Grimm thought.

  ‘And what do you offer as an alternative?’ This voice must be Jesse’s, he surmised. ‘Giving ourselves up? You believe all that crud the State Governor’s dishing out about leniency if any gang member surrenders? Bob, I’ll tell you what leniency means. Life imprisonment instead of hanging. What good’s that? Or ten years––off a hundred!’

  ‘He’ll keep his word, Jesse. He’s gotta. He’s made the offer public.’

  ‘He’ll keep his word all right. But to the letter. Look at it realistically. It’s more than his job’s worth to give us much. What do you think it’ll do to his re-election chances if he’s on record for being soft on us––the most wanted men in Kansas and Missouri?’ The syllable came out as a flat ‘a’ in the custom of the local-bred.

  There was the noise of children.

  ‘And get them damn kids into the kitchen, woman. I’ve told you they’re not to be around when me and the boys are talking business.’

  The noise of children being unwillingly ushered from the room, a door slamming, then quiet.

  ‘Anyways, you and Charley have been in contact with that Governor too much for my way of thinking.’

  ‘What’s that mean, Jesse?’

  ‘Smells like double-crossing on me, that’s what.’

  He had been right as to the identity of the two men staying in town.

  ‘That ain’t fair, Jesse, and you knows it. If you don’t cotton to the idea and we give ourselves in, you know we won’t say anything about you and your where-at. Landsakes, Jesse, we’re kin.’

  ‘You know what would happen if you did spill.’

  There was silence for a while. Then, ‘Well, if that’s your last word, Jesse––’

  Grimm had heard enough, not only was it likely the two men would be heading for the door, but if they came quiet, there’d be debate over the reward. He squared up to the door, Colts out. Arching his leg, he simultaneously kicked the door and thumbed his guns.

  There was a crash, splintering, his forty fours leveled, legs apart.

  ‘What the––shit!’ one of the occupants shouted.

  ‘Parley’s over, boys,’ Grimm stated firmly, his Colts well positioned to nip any untoward action in the bud. ‘I’m taking you in––’ He faltered. If he’d done so with three armed men before him he could have been in trouble. But his sudden irresolution was instinctive––the result of shock, One of the three men was already known to him––from several years ago––as Robert Johnson.

  ‘You’ re…Bob Ford?’ he spluttered.

  ‘Yeah. Small world, ain’t it?’

  Jonathan Grimm quickly regained his composure as his eyes met the fluttering ones of the world’s most famous outlaw.

  ‘It ain’t ending as easy as this,’ Jesse James said firmly.

  The hunter concentrated on James, capitulation being writ large over the faces of the other two.

  ‘You’ve had a good run,’ Grimm countered. ‘And you know, all good things come to an end.’

  Charley’s hands were up.

  ‘Okay. Take us in,’ Bob said quietly. ‘I’m glad it’s all eventually over,’

  Grimm sidestepped to give access to the outside door. As he moved Jesse turned and leapt back. ‘But it ain’t all over!’ he shouted. His hands went up to a picture on the wall. Grimm fired. A red blotch starred the shirt on Jesse’s back. His hands clawed at the picture and he collapsed.

  ‘Shit;’ Grimm mouthed.

  There was a scream from the side of the room as Mrs. James burst in,

  ‘Get her outta here,’ Grimm snapped leaping forward to the fallen man. There was no need for a doctor to certify death. He’d seen it too many times to need confirmation. It had been a central, killing shot. Jesse James was dead.

  The man known as the Reaper lifted the picture from the wall revealing a gun hanging from a hook in a specially made recess.

  ‘Thought there was something odd about the way that picture was a-hanging when I came in,’ he whispered.

  Only Bob was left in the room, his brother pacifying the widow the kitchen. ‘Can I trust him out there?’ the tall man queried, indicating the closed door with his re-cocked gun,

  Bob Ford nodded. ‘We ain’t got no more running left in us. Our nerves have been near to breaking point for some time. Neither of us could take much more. Always looking over our shoulders. That’s no life,’ He looked down at the still form of his cousin, ‘Jesse: was stronger than us in that respect. ‘ He sighed. ‘It ain’t surprising that it should end this way. He wouldn’t believe the Governor would be lenient,’

  The tall man sniffed. ‘These communications you had with the Governor. You didn’t tell Jesse, of course, but I’m sure the Governor offered you a reward if you brought him in,’

  ‘Sure. $10,000. Same as anyone else could have earned. But I couldn’t do it. That’s another thing Jesse wouldn’t believe,’

  Jonathan Grimm pondered, Then, ‘How’d you feel about gaining a reputation as a man who shoots in the back?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Well, in the last thirty seconds I’ve rapidly adjusted to the fact that I’ve ended up on a bum steer in this caper.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  Jonathan Grimm returned his guns to leather. ‘You saved my life a few years back. When you went under the name of Robert Johnson. Well, I can’t take you in. The way the talk was going afore I bust in, Charley was ready to give himself up with you. I couldn’t sling a rope around his neck and drag him in either, him being your brother an’ all. And last, I been many things in my life, but one thing I ain’t and that’s a back shooter, And I ain’t aiming to start now. A guy––even in my game––has to have some principles.’ He nodded at the blood on Jesse’s back, ‘That was an ac
cident. The circumstances...’

  ‘So?’

  ‘The way I see it - you and Charley hand yourselves in like you were a-gonna do. Strike the best bargain you can with the Governor. Take in Jesse at the same time, say it was you that did it. That should influence the Governor in deciding punishment- and you claim the reward on Jesse at the same time. I won’t say anything. I’m washing my hands of the whole thing. The caper’s soured up on me. You’re all family. I figure you’ll see to the looking after of Mrs. James and the kids. What’s more, if you don’t mind circuses, I think there’s a fortune to be made as “the man who shot Jesse James”.’

  Bob Ford shrugged. ‘After all I done over the years with the gang, I ain’t concerned about folks pegging me as a back-shooter.’ Lines creased his forehead. ‘But, hey. Seems like bounty hunting is your trade. And you’re losing a fee. Are you sure that’s the way you want it to be?’

  Jonathan Grimm patted Bob Ford’s shoulder and then put a hand on the door handle. ‘Like I said way back, I owe you one. Remember the time you stopped some bozo putting out my lights.’

  He moved slowly up the hill to his waiting horse. Principles sure come expensive, he mused.

  It was six months later, Saturday night in the cantina of a nondescript cow town. The air was thick with smoke, the bar jammed with men each staking a claim to his eighteen inches of polished wood and foot rail. There was little room at the tables where men were drinking and playing cards. Few were listening to the buckskin-clad troubadour on the small stage in a corner, strumming a guitar and wailing a mournful ballad.

  In another comer, a lean figure sat alone, He would have been about six five standing. On one side of the table, a tall black hat. Before him stood a half-bottle of rye, he was celebrating a good bounty on hides he’d just brung in. Couple of renegades he ‘d downed in the Mojave. The big ones were getting few and far between these days. The law was moving west fast, less need for dollar hunters to fill in the cracks. But it was still a living.