Hard Way Out of Hell

by Johnny D. Boggs

  Bob found himself a girl, took a job clerking in some dry-goods business, and planned to get married—till word started circulating around Dallas County that the Youngers were not all that respectable, that they butchered men, women, children, even babies—a bald-faced lie if ever I heard one. The girl told Bob she never wanted to see his face again.

  Any time I rode into any town, cold stares bored through my back and the biddies started gossiping. It didn’t seem right for me to stay in Texas, despite the cattle I ran. Having Cole Younger around made things hard for Martha Anne and her husband.

  Fed up, Bob decided to return to Missouri. Jim wanted to visit Ma’s grave, so he rode off with Bob. They figured they would settle in St. Clair County. After all, the only peace they had ever known since the war had been when they stayed with uncles in Appleton City and the Osage River country.

  Then Brother John killed a lawman.

  Tom Porter had worn a bushwhackers’ shirt during the war, and had settled in Texas the way a number of us old Quantrill men had. I told John to stay clear of Porter, but he sounded like Bob. “You ain’t Dick.” Laughing, he added: “You ain’t Ma, either.”

  So John rode into Scyene one cold January night in 1871 and took to drinking with Porter. A simpleton named Russell lived in town, and most folks treated him with kindness. But Tom Porter and John, well in their cups, plied Russell with forty-rod whiskey, made fun of him, and then decided to act out William Tell. There were no apples at that time of year, but Porter lent his pipe to Russell, backed the poor fool to the saloon’s wall, and he and John began trying to shoot the pipe out of Russell’s mouth.

  Not as drunk as Porter, John finally holstered his gun, and when Porter started to reload his Colt, John stopped him. “Russell’s had enough. Keep this up, we’ll wear out our welcome. Let me buy you another drink.”

  That worked, but some drunken fool decided to improve the joke. After leading Russell outside, this man told him: “Those men mean to kill you. If I was you, I’d hurry down and fetch the law.”

  Which is what the simpleton did.

  He alerted a deputy sheriff, a decent man named Charles Nichols—he had ridden with Jo Shelby during the war, and we often drank coffee together by the cattle pens. So Nichols walked into the saloon, hand on the butt of his pistol, and said: “What is going on here? You … John Younger …”

  After reloading, Porter had left his Colt on the bar as he drank. He spun, saw the badge, saw the hand on the revolver, and dropped his tumbler as he reached for the .44.

  “No!” yelled Deputy Nichols as he pulled his pistol.

  John, senses and sensibility clouded by rotgut, turned, too, and caught a bullet in his right arm fired by the deputy. I guess Nichols had aimed for Porter, but his first shot hit my brother instead. Drunk, Porter missed his aim, as well, the bullet splintering the door above Nichols’ head.

  As John fell to the floor, Nichols put two shots into Tom Porter’s chest, and the old bushwhacker slammed against the bar, rolling away from John. Nichols sent another round into the back of the man, already dead. Now, he turned the .44’s barrel toward John, who had, in an act of self-defense, drawn the Navy .36 I had given him after the war.

  John knew his right hand wasn’t strong enough for a steady aim, but I had taught my brothers how to shoot all too well. He remembered the border shift I had shown Bob and him. The revolver flipped from right hand to left. Three bullets sent Nichols staggering out of the saloon and onto the street. Gutshot. It took the deputy four days to die.

  * * * * *

  “You’ve got to get ’em out of here, damn it!”

  “Shut up, Lycurgus,” I snapped at my brother-in-law, “and hand me that bottle.”

  Lycurgus A. Jones did not move. I ripped the sleeve off John’s shirt, and studied the bullet wound. “Went straight through.” I let out a breath. “Don’t think it hit any bone.”

  “I didn’t … mean … nothing …” John stuttered as tears flowed down his pallid cheeks.

  “Shut up.” Whirling, I pointed a finger across the kitchen table at Lycurgus’ face. “The bottle, damn you.”

  Fear had a strong hold on my in-law. Not fear for my brother’s life, but for his business, his reputation. He still could not move. Maybe he could not even hear me.

  It was Retta, who had just turned fifteen, who brought over the Kentucky bourbon.

  “Can I have a drink?” John asked.

  “You’ve had enough to drink,” I snapped, and poured the good liquor over the two holes in his right arm. He screamed, and was still screaming when Martha Anne brought over the clean bandages. I began to dress the wound.

  “You’ve done … this … before …” Retta said.

  I gave my baby sister a quick look, and tried to smile. “I’ve had some practice, honey,” I said. “Don’t fret. John’ll be fine.”

  “But you … can’t … stay … here …” said Lycurgus haltingly, having found his voice again.

  He was right. I knew that. Everyone in the house that horrible night understood what had happened. Briefly, I closed my eyes, wishing that months ago I had lit a shuck for anywhere, and that I had taken John with me.

  Retta said: “I’ll saddle the two thoroughbreds.”

  Martha Anne said: “I’ll pack you some grub.”

  I finished with the bandaging, and let John explain what had happened again, though he did not know why the lawman had come to the saloon—the particulars of which would be discovered in the months to come—and was too drunk to realize that, had he acted with any sense, he would probably have just been arrested until he sobered up and paid a fine the next morning.

  “We’ll have to ride hard,” I told John, “at least till we get into the Indian Nations. You up to that?”

  “Tie me to the horn if you need to, Cole.”

  After I helped him to his feet and threw a greatcoat over his shoulders, I led him to the door. Martha Anne handed me a sack of food, kissed my cheek, then John’s, and stepped aside. The tears staining her face nearly broke my heart. I had come to Texas to get away from this kind of scene, only to bring misery and violence and blood to my sister’s home. Eventually, they would have to leave Texas, too.

  “You take care of my cattle,” I told Martha Anne’s husband, and even shook the bastard’s hand. “That might ease the burden we’ve placed on you.”

  His head bobbed, and he went to his wife.

  “Maybe you’ll come back,” Martha Anne said, sniffling as she tried to wipe away the tears. “When things settle down.”

  “Sure,” I said, and Retta came through the door.

  I tousled her hair, kissed her forehead, and led John into the graying light that told us dawn would arrive shortly. “When things settle down, we’ll pick things up. Don’t you fret.”

  Oh, we all knew that would never happen. I had worn out my welcome in Texas, though I had broken no law. I was Cole Younger, which was bad enough. That dream of ranching, of living in peace, had died in a saloon in Dallas County, a saloon I had never even frequented.

  I had no choice. Back to Missouri we rode.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Home.

  And my people shall dwell in a peaceable habitation, and in sure dwellings, and in quiet resting places …

  Isaiah 32:18.

  After leaving John with an uncle in Roscoe, I rode to Jackson County. I had picked some flowers in Harrisonville for Lizzie, but they had wilted a mite by the time I reached the Wayside Rest, removed my hat, wiped my boots on the mat, and knocked on the door.

  Jack Brown, Lizzie’s brother, opened the door, and the look he gave me caused me to step back. Stepping onto the porch, he quickly pulled the door shut.

  “Bud,” he said urgently, “what are you doing here?”

  That struck me as a fool question, but I bit my tongue, and got down to the point.
“Is Lizzie …?”

  He didn’t let me finish, but I give Jack credit for not leaving me bleeding to death, dying real slow. No, sir, the boy killed me quick.

  “Lizzie’s married, Bud. Been married a couple years or so, now. Henry Clay Daniel. He’s a lawyer. Got a big house in town.”

  I clenched the flowers behind my back. I said something, though I don’t remember exactly what. Good for her. Some idiotic comment.

  “How’s your mother?” I asked.

  His head dropped. “She passed eighteen months ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, though death likely came as a blessing to that poor woman.

  “Bud … Lizzie …”

  Jack Brown stopped as I settled the hat on my head, saying: “You tell your sister that I came by … just to say howdy … and that I wish her all the happiness there is.” All the happiness that I would never know. I even smiled, but don’t know how I managed that. “Your pa doing fine?” I asked.

  Jack’s head nodded. “Probably at the tannery. You could drop by. He’d love …”

  “Nah,” I said before he had finished, then moved toward my horse. “Just tell him I come to say hello. Came up to see Jim and Bob, but now I’ll be heading back down to Texas. Good to see you, Jack. Place looks fine. Real fine.”

  It looked like as rawhide of a place as I’d seen all across Cass County. Dumbly, I climbed into the saddle, and rode off.

  Now, I don’t blame Lizzie Brown—I mean, Lizzie Daniel—at all. How long had I been in Texas? Had I ever written her? Did she know where to write me? Never had I ever asked Mr. Robert Allison Brown for his daughter’s hand, or even the right to call on her. Lizzie owed me nothing. But, hell’s fires could not have hurt as much as I hurt when I rode away from the Wayside Rest for the last time. I rode to my mother’s grave.

  It was quiet, peaceful, as I walked into the Lee’s Summit cemetery. Dark at ten in the evening, but the moon peeked behind the clouds, guiding my way to Ma’s grave. Kneeling, I placed the flowers by the headstone at the same time I took off my hat.

  “Lizzie,” I told my mother. “Picked these for her, Ma, you know, but … well …”

  A bullbat disturbed the stillness, and I looked past the fence, but saw no threat, no posse, no one.

  In the darkness, I smiled. “Should have just fed the flowers to Jo Shelby, I guess,” I told Ma. Jo Shelby was the name I had ladled upon the thoroughbred I rode. “You rest easy, Ma. Don’t you fret over me. I know what I’m doing. Know what I’m good at.” I rose, put on my hat, and said in parting: “I’ll be seeing you, Ma. Give Dick and Pa and Duck my love. Tell them I miss them all … badly.”

  When I swung into Jo Shelby’s saddle, I thought about where I stood in life. No woman to love. No home. I could not visit my brother Jim without risking both of our lives should the law be watching. I didn’t even feel safe visiting my mother’s grave in the darkness of night. They had outlawed me, a man who wanted nothing but peace.

  With nowhere to go, I rode to Kearney up in Clay County, bought a chicken from a butcher, found a Negro, and gave him directions to a farm outside of town, and a Liberty dollar. I told him to deliver the chicken to Mrs. Samuel and to tell her that Bud was waiting on the far side of the Rubicon.

  * * * * *

  “What are you doing?”

  We sat at an Iowa farmhouse, waiting for the good woman to bring us breakfast after we had spent the night in her barn. I had taken pencil and paper and decided to write a letter, having disagreed with a statement some inkslinger had posted in a St. Louis newspaper.

  “Pointing out some egregious errors this scribe made in his account of the Lawrence raid,” I told Jesse James.

  “And they’ll print it?” Jesse asked, leaning over to read my letter.

  “Perhaps. It depends on the editor or publisher … or, I guess, whether they have space.”

  “Could you teach me how to write?” Jesse wondered aloud.

  I set the pencil down. “Dingus, you know how to read and write better than some schoolmasters I had growing up.”

  Frank James and Clell Miller, who had ridden with Quantrill when very young, chortled.

  “Yeah,” Jesse said, “but not fancy writing. Not writing to newspapers kind of writing.”

  Frank pushed his cup away. “What would you write to a newspaper editor, Dingus?”

  “Nothing about egregious errors,” Jesse said. “But I like that guy who writes for the Kansas City Times.”

  “John Newman Edwards?” Frank asked.

  Jesse’s head bobbed with excitement. “He could straighten up that matter about what happened in Gallatin.”

  “What happened in Gallatin …” Frank began, and I could tell Frank’s dander was up, so I interjected: “Dingus, I’d be delighted to show you how to correspond with a newspaper editor.”

  “Really?”

  “ ‘I am not the poet of goodness only … I do not decline to be the poet of wickedness, also.’ ”

  He blinked. “Shakespeare?”

  I smiled. “Walt Whitman.”

  “I knew it wasn’t from the Bible,” Jesse said, and, with that, he bowed his head—we followed the example—as the farmer’s wife brought our supper. Jesse led us in prayer, we ate, and left the woman a five-dollar note. Frank gave her son a silk bandanna that the boy had fancied. Then we rode to Corydon.

  * * * * *

  Hard to believe, but it seemed as though half the county had converged into the Methodist church grounds that Saturday afternoon.

  Every window on the church had been raised, and people stood ten deep behind each window, listening to the goings-on inside.

  “Weddin’?” Clell Miller asked as we walked our horses toward the town square.

  “Must be the prettiest girl in the state,” I said.

  “No wedding,” Frank said. “Man’s preaching too much fire and brimstone for a wedding.” He pointed to the sign hanging in the bunting that stretched across the façade of a hotel.

  Corydon Welcomes

  HENRY CLAY DEAN

  “Bring on the Railroad”

  “By Jacks,” Frank said as he shifted the tobacco in his mouth, “I always wanted to hear that fellow orate.”

  Who didn’t? After all, Henry Clay Allen was said to be one of the fanciest speakers, best politicians, and master of words that the nation had ever known. Sure, he hailed from Pennsylvania, but he had the gumption to speak up against the war Mr. Lincoln had started, and, even if he did not hold with slavery, he didn’t think we needed to kill each other over that. Lawyer, preacher, stonemason, teacher, he was a fine Democrat—Yanks called him a Copperhead —who had gotten wise and moved across the border into Missouri, at Rebel Cove, earlier that year.

  Frank and I swung off our horses near the northeast corner of the square and walked inside the Wayne County Treasurer’s Office.

  “Mister,” I said, “I was hoping that you could change this note for me.” I started to show him a $100 note.

  “We’re closed,” he said as he pulled on his coat. The man was in such a hurry, I feared he might have recognized us and had a mind to fetch the law. “Vault’s locked. Treasurer’s at the church, and that’s where I’m going, as much as I would love to oblige your request.” Basically, he shooed us out of the office onto the boardwalk. “Much obliged,” he said as he locked the door, and started running toward the church. I blinked away astonishment, but the man turned as he ran, and pointed. “Bank’s there. Maybe they can accommodate you gents.”

  We stared down the boardwalk toward the northwest corner. Frank motioned to Clell and Jesse, who, still holding the reins to our horses, started walking down the street.

  Wasn’t much to look at. A long, skinny frame building, a door between two windows, and a wooden façade hiding the slanted roof. Painted on the wood was: obocock brothers ba
nk of corydon, est. 1870.

  “Well?” Frank asked.

  With a shrug, I tried the doorknob. To my surprise, the door opened.

  “How about you let me go in this time, Buck?” Jesse called out to his brother.

  “You’d do well to stay out of banks, Dingus,” Frank answered.

  His brother straightened with indignity. “Ain’t my fault that son of a bitch in Gallatin was the spitting image of a murdering bastard.”

  Letting Jesse pout, we stepped inside.

  Parson, I know what you’re thinking. Why would I return to “the owlhoot trail?” Well, perhaps I called it back when we started planning that deal in Liberty, Missouri, in 1866. Remember what I told Frank and Jesse? We start this, and there’s no turning back. I had tried, tried hard, to forget those words, to remember my upbringing before the war turned Missouri crazy. However, fate, the law, the Yankees, just wouldn’t leave me be. Or maybe I lacked the willpower to follow the straight and narrow. Perhaps I was everything Kansans and Republicans were calling Cole Younger.

  Ma’s words from so long ago echoed in my head.

  The devil gets ahold of you, Coleman.

  Pulling out the bill, I asked one of the Obocock boys, the only man inside the bank, for change.

  “Be happy to oblige you, sir.” He sure was a friendly cashier, but I decided he must be a Radical Republican. Otherwise, he would have been in the churchyard, ear craned toward an open window, trying to catch every word from Mr. Dean, the great debater.

  “In that case …” I pulled out the Navy. “Maybe you can oblige us even further.”

  As Frank stuffed cash into our wheat sack, I tied up the cashier, stuck a gag in his mouth. When we were through, we walked out of the bank just as calm as could be. Hell, outside of the Methodist church, the town was pretty much deserted. After Frank handed Jesse the bag, we mounted the horses, backed them away from the hitching rail, and headed out of town.

  Jesse led the way, so when he stopped in front of the picket fence, we reined up, too. I guess he couldn’t help himself. Apparently Dean’s speech was over, for crowds were filing out of the church. It wasn’t long before I got my first look at Henry Clay Dean.