by Matt Braun
All at once Starbuck alerted. His pulse quickened as he spotted Cole Younger and the man named Clell Miller ride over the bridge. Unhurried, holding their horses to a walk, they proceeded on a direct line across the square. Their eyes moved constantly, searching the stores and the faces of people on the street. Anything out of the ordinary—empty stores or too few people abroad—would immediately put them on guard. For the job to go off as planned, the town had to appear normal, nothing unusual or out of kilter. Otherwise they would simply turn and ride back across the bridge.
Starbuck sat perfectly still. From beneath the brim of his derby, he watched them ride past and plod on in the direction of the bank. He casually stood, stretching himself, and yawned a wide, jaw-cracking yawn. Then he bit off the tip of a fresh cigar and lit it with the air of a man savouring a good smoke. Stuffing the cigar in his mouth, he went down the hotel steps and meandered across the square. On the sidewalk, he turned and strolled aimlessly towards the corner. Ahead, he saw the two outlaws rein to a halt before the bank and dismount. Cole stooped down and pretended to tighten the saddle girth on his horse. Miller circled the hitch rack and stepped onto the sidewalk. With a look of bored indifference, he stood gazing out at the square.
Approaching the corner, Starbuck slowed his pace. Directly ahead, he spotted Stacey watching him through the window of the pharmacy. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Manning leaning idly in the doorway of the dry-goods store. He stopped before a clothing emporium, playing for time, and made a show of peering at the window display. The hotel, now diagonally behind him, was mirrored in the reflection of the glass. He studied the window of his room, noting the lower pane was raised; through the gauzy curtains, the outline of Doc Wheeler was faintly visible. The men were in place and ready to act the instant he gave the signal. All that remained was for Jesse James to put in an appearance.
Starbuck puffed his cigar and bent closer to the window. He checked the bank in the reflection, troubled by what seemed an abnormal lapse of time. Cole and Clell Miller, still loafing outside the bank, were staring in the direction of the bridge. Starbuck turned his head slightly, and took a quick peek. His expression darkened, oddly bemused. Jim Younger, accompanied by two men unknown to him, cleared the east end of the bridge and reined their horses off to one side. They dismounted, reins gripped firmly, and stood as though waiting. Their eyes were fixed on the bank.
A sudden chill settled over Starbuck. Something about the setup was wrong, all turned around. The way he’d figured it, occupying the bridge was to have been the last step. Before then, both the outside team and the inside team should have been in position. Yet the rear guard had now taken control of the bridge and there were no more riders in sight. No sign of the inside team! .
Then, suddenly, a tight fist of apprehension gripped his stomach. He wheeled away from the store window and froze, turned to stone. Frank James and Bob Younger, led by a third man, rounded the corner of Division Street and entered the bank. The man in the lead, like Frank, wore a beard, and carried himself with austere assurance. His identity was all too apparent.
Starbuck spat a low. curse and flung his cigar into the gutter. He saw their horses tied to the hitch rack on Division Street, and too late he realised his mistake. While he was watching the bridge, he’d been outsmarted and outmanoeuvred. Jesse James, foxy to the end, had circled Northfield and entered town from the east. A clever ruse, wholly unexpected, and timed precisely when it was least expected. The trademark of an old guerrilla fighter—and brilliantly executed.
Before Starbuck could react, the situation went from bad to worse. The proprietor of a hardware store next to the bank boldly approached Cole Younger and Clell Miller. He looked them over, openly curious, then walked on towards the bank entrance. Miller drew a gun and brusquely ordered him to move along. The store owner obeyed, rounding the corner onto Division Street. Then he took off running, shouting at the top of his lungs.
“Bank robbers! The bank’s being robbed!”
With the element of surprise gone, the gang moved swiftly. Cole fired a shot to alert the men at the bridge. In turn, they began winging shots across the square, warning passersby off the street. A townsman, seemingly befuddled by the commotion, was too slow to move, and a bullet dropped him where he stood. Starbuck, with lead whizzing all around him, jerked his Colt and hurried to the corner. There he ducked behind a lamppost and waited. His pistol was trained on the bank entrance.
From the pharmacy, Stacey fired a shotgun blast across the street. Birdshot peppered Miller’s face just as he started to mount his horse. At the same instant, the marshal cut loose from his office window and drilled a slug through Cole’s thigh. Then, from the opposite direction, Manning stepped out the door of the dry-goods store and triggered both barrels on his shotgun. The impact of a double-load struck Miller in the chest, and knocked him raglike off his feet. He dropped dead in the street.
Doc Wheeler, firing from the hotel window, quickly routed the rear guard. His first shot, slightly low, killed a horse and sent the rider tumbling to the ground. His next shot went high and struck the bridge, exploding splinters directly over Jim Younger’s head. On the third shot, the physician found the range. The remaining outlaw took a bullet through the heart, and pitched headlong off his horse.
A shot sounded from within the bank and one of the tellers stumbled through the door. He lost his footing and fell face first on the sidewalk. On his heels, the three inside men burst out the door and ran for their horses. Frank was in the lead, followed by Jesse, and last in line was Bob Younger. Bunched together, they dodged and weaved, snapping off wild shots as they headed for the hitch rack. The marshal and Elias Stacey opened up on them in a rolling barrage. The bank window shattered and bullets pocked the wall of the building all around them. Younger’s horse reared backward and toppled dead as he grabbed for the reins. Beside him, still in the middle, Jesse bent low under the hitch rack.
Starbuck, tracking them in his sights, had not yet fired. From the moment they darted out of the bank, he’d waited for a clear shot. His concentration was on Jesse, but the other men were in the way, spoiling his aim. Then, as Younger’s horse fell dead, he saw an opening. He touched off the trigger as Jesse rose from beneath the hitch rack. Bob Younger, scrambling away from his plunging horse, stepped into the line of fire. The slug plowed through his arm from hand to elbow. Jesse vaulted into the saddle, and Starbuck fired a hurried shot. The slug, only inches off target, blew the saddlehorn apart.
Out of nowhere, Cole galloped into the mêlée and swung Bob aboard his own horse. Once again Starbuck was blocked, and he waited as they turned and thundered in a tight phalanx through the intersection. Standing, he moved from behind the lamppost and brought the Colt to shoulder level. He was vaguely aware of the marshal halting at the corner, and distantly he heard the boom of shotguns. Yet he closed his mind to all else, his attention zeroed on a lone figure within the pack of horsemen. He was determined to make the shot count.
The riders hurtled past him and his arm traversed in a smooth arc. From the rear, the horses were separated by wider gaps, and his sights locked on the bearded figure. The Colt roared and he saw Jesse’s hat float skyward. He quickly thumbed the hammer back and once more brought the sights into line. Then, on the verge of firing, the horsemen drifted together in a jumbled wedge and he lost his target. There was no time for a last shot.
The outlaws pounded across the bridge and turned south along the Dundas road. A moment slipped past, then they disappeared from view on the opposite side of the river. A pall of eerie silence descended on Northfield.
Starbuck cursed savagely and slowly lowered the hammer on the Colt. His eyes were rimmed with disgust.
CHAPTER 15
A crowd of townspeople stood clotted together outside the bank. Unmoving, they seemed paralysed in a kind of stilled tableau. Their faces were set in a curious attitude of horror and sullen disbelief. All ears, they listened intently as Fred Wilcox vented h
is outrage.
Only in the aftermath of the shootout had the full carnage become obvious. One outlaw lay sprawled in a welter of blood on the sidewalk. Another, his eyes staring sightlessly into the noonday sun, was spread-eagled on the ground near the bridge. A townsman, killed when he failed to take cover, was crumpled in a ball on the north side of the square. One of the tellers, wounded when he attempted to flee the bank, was now being attended by Doc Wheeler. The other teller, Joseph Heywood, was less fortunate. His throat slashed, he lay dead beside the bank vault. The vault door was closed and locked.
Fred Wilcox, the bank president, was unharmed. A short, fat man, his visage was somewhat like that of a bellicose pig. His lips were white and all the blood had leeched out of his face. He was shouting at Wallace Murphy in a loud, hectoring voice.
“You’re the marshal! You’re paid to protect the town—not to get people killed!”
“I know that.” Murphy looked wretched. “Things went haywire, Mr. Wilcox. We planned to get ’em before they got inside the bank—”
“Damn your plan!” Wilcox said furiously. “Your job is to prevent such things from happening!”
“We tried to,” Murphy answered with defensive gruffness. “That’s what I keep telling you. We had an ambush all laid out. Then Jack Allen walked out of his hardware store and spoiled the whole thing. If he hadn’t got so curious, we would’ve mowed ’em down right where they stood.”
“Don’t blame Allen! The fault is yours, and yours alone! Poor Heywood would still be alive if it weren’t for your bumbling.”
Wilcox made an agitated gesture with both hands. His glance shuttled across the room, where the teller’s body lay slumped beside the vault door. The stench of death was still strong, and a puddle of blood stained the floor dark brown. He suddenly looked queasy and his voice trembled.
“My God.” He passed a hand across his eyes and swallowed hard. “I’ll never forget Heywood’s face. When they put that knife to his throat …”
His voice trailed off, and Murphy nodded dumbly. “How’d the vault door come to be locked?”
“I—” Wilcox tried to speak, choked on his own terror, then started again. “It was almost noon. I always lock the vault before I go to lunch. Merely a precautionary measure, nothing more.”
“The robbers didn’t get anything, then?”
“No,” Wilcox said hollowly. “Not a dime.”
Standing nearby, Starbuck listened without expression. Outwardly stony, he was seething inside. Within him the full impact of his failure smouldered corrosively, shadowing his every thought. An innocent bystander dead and a bank teller brutally murdered. And Jesse James unscathed, still very much alive. All in all, he reflected, it was a sorry performance. He’d made a monstrous gaffe, underestimating the outlaw leader and attaching far too much weight to his own assessment of the robbers’ plans. In effect, he had second-guessed a tactical wizard, and he’d guessed wrong. The fault was his own, not Wallace Murphy’s. Here today, men had died needlessly, and it left a leaden feeling in his chest. A feeling of abject loathing for himself. And a sense of homicidal rage towards the man who had outwitted him.
“The money,” Wilcox went on bitterly, “has no bearing on what’s happened. Joe Heywood is dead”—his finger stabbed accusingly at the marshal—“and I hold you personally responsible!”
Murphy looked at him with dulled eyes. “Nobody feels any worse about it than me, Mr. Wilcox. I was only trying to do my duty.”
“Your duty!” Wilcox thundered righteously. “You chowderheaded ass! I’ll have your job! Before I’m through, the people of Northfield will ride you out of town on a rail. Do you hear me—a rail!”
There was a harried sharpness in the banker’s words. He was strung up an octave too high, and Starbuck brought him down. Stepping forward, he fixed Wilcox with an inquisitorial stare.
“Tell me something.” His voice was pitched to reach the onlookers crowding the doorway. “Why did they cut Heywood’s throat?”
“I—” Wilcox blinked several times. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me.” Starbuck’s eyes hooded. “There must’ve been a reason. It had to happen before all the shooting started; so it’s pretty clear they used a knife to avoid attracting attention. What’s the reason?”
“The vault.” Wilcox looked ill, suddenly averted his gaze. “They wanted the combination to the vault. When I …”
“When you refused,” Starbuck finished it for him, “that’s when Heywood got the knife. Then they started for the other teller—now that you knew they weren’t bluffing—and he bolted for the door. Have I got it straight?”
Wilcox blanched, mumbled an inaudible reply. Starbuck studied him a moment, then added a casual afterthought. “Who used the-knife? Which robber?”
“Ooo God!” Tears welled up in Wilcox’s eyes. “It … it was … one of the bearded men.”
“Which one?” Starbuck persisted. “The one about my height, or the taller one?”
“Your height.” Wilcox pulled out a handkerchief and loudly honked his nose. “The one who gave the orders.”
“It figures.” Starbuck turned away, motioning to the marshal. “C’mon, Wally. We’ll leave Mr. Wilcox to count his money. Let’s go catch ourselves some robbers.”
Wallace Murphy thrust out his jaw and gave the banker an ugly stare. Then he let out his breath between clenched teeth, and followed Starbuck towards the door. On the steps they halted and stood looking at the upturned faces of the crowd. Murphy’s chest swelled and he appeared to grow taller. His eyes blazed with authority.
“I’m forming a posse!” he rumbled in a gravelly voice. “That gang of murderers killed Joe Heywood and poor ol’ Nick Gustavson! I give you my solemn oath the bastards will be caught and brought to justice! Any man jack that wants a hand in running ’em down—step forward!”
Several men moved to the front of the crowd. Murphy began ticking off names and issuing orders. The posse members were to provide their own guns and their own horses, and report back to the marshal’s office on the double. They were advised to bring along blankets and enough rations to last at least two days. The chase would end when it ended, Murphy shouted. And not a moment before!
An hour later Starbuck and Murphy led six grim-faced men across the bridge. They rode south on the Dundas road.
A hunter’s. moon slipped out from behind the clouds. The posse was halted some ten miles southwest of Dundas. The men were dismounted at the side of the road, and no one spoke. Gathered around Murphy, they waited with an air of suppressed tension.
Starbuck was squatted down on his haunches. In the spectral moonlight, he slowly scrutinised a crazy quilt of hoofprints on the dirt road. After a time he stood and carefully followed a set of tracks that led west, into a stand of woods. There he knelt and once more studied the sign. He touched a spot of ground which glistened wetly in the light, and smelled his fingers. He allowed himself a satisfied grunt, and climbed to his feet. Then he walked back to where the men waited. He nodded to Murphy, gesturing along the road.
“Five horses, six riders,” he remarked. “That means we’re on the right trail. Bob Younger was riding double with Cole when they took off.”
“What was it you found at the side of the road?”
“Blood.” Starbuck rubbed his fingers together. “Still pretty fresh too. I know for a fact Bob Younger was wounded. So the way it figures—he passed out and fell off the horse not long after dark. I’d guess they had to let him rest a spell before they moved on.”
“Sounds reasonable.” Murphy pointed off into the woods. “We’re in big trouble if they headed that way. There’s nothing out there but swamps and heavy timber. Probably thirty miles of wilderness between here and the next farm road.”
Starbuck’s eyes narrowed. “Only three horses went that way, and one of them was carrying double. I’d say it was the Younger brothers and that fourth man. The one Doc Wheeler missed at the bridge.”
“You mean to
tell me they split up?”
“That’s the way I read it. Looks to me like the Youngers took to the brush and the James boys stuck to the road.”
“Hell of a note!” Murphy groaned. “They’re forcing us to choose. We sure as the devil can’t follow both trails!”
“Tell you what, Wally.” Starbuck’s expression was wooden. “Why don’t you and your men stick with the Youngers? I’ll tend to the James boys myself.”
Murphy returned his gaze steadily. “I never asked, but I suppose I knew all along. You want Jesse real bad, don’t you?”
“Yeah.” There was a hard edge to Starbuck’s tone. “I want him so bad it makes my teeth hurt.”
“Any special reason? Or am I overstepping my bounds by asking?”
“No.” Starbuck’s voice took on a peculiar abstracted quality. “Some men need killing, and his name heads the list. I reckon that’s reason enough.”
“I’d sure as hell second that motion!”
“Lots of people already beat you to it.”
Murphy took his arm and walked him off to one side. “Just in case we shouldn’t meet again, there’s something I want you to know.”
“Fire away.”
“I owe you for the way you stepped in with Wilcox back there at the bank. Except for you, I would’ve been finished in Northfield. You pulled my fat out of the fire, and I’m obliged.”
Starbuck smiled. “Catch the Youngers and we’ll call it even.” He offered his hand. “Good luck, Wally.”
Their handshake was strong, and for a moment they stood grinning at each other in the pale moonlight. Then Starbuck walked to his horse and mounted. He nodded to the other men, reined sharply about, and rode off down the road.