The Jessie James Archives

by Craig Gallant

  Truett landed in the sandy shallows and his breath was knocked out of him. He rolled in the warm water, struggling to breathe, and fought desperately when he felt two hard arms wrap around his chest and begin to haul him backwards. His entire body was on fire, pain throbbing in almost every muscle and joint. Only his right leg was free from agony; cold and heavy.

  The lieutenant coughed up a stream of water and rolled over onto his stomach, wrenching away from the arms that had dragged him clear of the river. He coughed with ragged breath, trying to struggle to his hands and knees only to tip onto his right side as his cold, heavy limb refused to support him.

  “Now, now, kid.” The voice was hovering over his head and maddening in its friendly openness. “Don’t hurt yerself any more ‘n you already did.”

  Truett felt a hard hand patting him on the shoulder and tried to shrink away. “Don’t touch me!” He tried to shout, but it came out as a feeble whimper.

  “It sure has been a bad day, now, ain’t it.” The voice spoke in consoling tones and the hand patted him on the shoulder again. Truett forced his eyes open and looked up into the grinning face of Jesse James. He tried to surge to his feet, but his body failed him, and the outlaw reached out and casually pushed him back into the warm sand.

  “Now, son, I’d hate fer you to try to stand up and bleed out, now.” James stood up and looked down at Truett, mechanical hands on his hips.

  A terrible thought rushed into the commander’s mind and drowned all the heat that had settled there. He struggled up onto his elbows and looked down at his legs. Or rather, he looked down at his leg. His right leg ended just below the knee. Ragged tatters of flesh and fabric trailed off into the shallow river where a swirling stain of red eddied away into the deeper water.

  “Oh my sacred God… “ The lieutenant’s whispered words were not lost on the outlaw standing above him. James smiled down with an even broader grin.

  “Well, you’re a might better off than yer friends over yonder.” One metal arm rose to indicate the boat.

  Every element of Truett’s mind shouted at him not to look down that articulated mechanical limb, but he could not stop his head from swiveling on his neck. His eyes searched along the side of his boat and out into the river.

  Nearby, floating on its back in the shallows was the dark-clothed body of the agent. A massive red crater had been blasted out of his chest, and the water all around him was cloudy with his blood. The goggles had been torn from his head and crude ruby lenses flashed in the bright sun. Further out, beyond the stern of the wrecked boat, there was nothing to mark the passing of Engineer’s Mate Hadley but a few bubbles and an ever-widening pink stain that rushed away downriver while the lieutenant watched.

  Truett looked back up at Jesse James, hatred rushing through his body and mind. “You bastard… “

  James crouched down beside the Union officer and all traces of his grin were gone. “Well now, that’s hardly a complimentary thing to say, old son. Especially by a man wearing the uniform of the very folks who hanged my old man, and then whipped me in front of him, tryin’ to get at the whereabouts of my big brother.” The outlaw leaned back a little to look at Truett’s gory wound.

  “This looks like it’s gonna hurt a whole lot more before it might start gettin’ to feel a little bit better, boy.” A ghost of the grin came back, but it was cruel and cold. “Which means I got some good news for ya.”

  Jesse James stood again and drew one of his sleek, custom-looking pistols. “You ain’t gonna have to worry about sufferin’ through the pain.”

  “Just kill me, you gray-back bastard!” Truett could feel the tears of rage and frustration coursing down his face. He cursed the weakness of his own body that denied him the dignity of facing this moment with a dry eye. He could feel James pacing around him.

  “Oh, you were a dead man the day you named your damned boat, Billy Yank.” Jesse James took the toe of one boot and gently settled it over the wounded officer’s shattered leg. “Who you think you are, comin’ into the territories sportin’ a boat with a name like that?”

  Truett screamed as the outlaw applied gentle pressure with the boot. James crouched down by his head again and the officer tried to muster the strength and coordination to spit. He only managed to dribble bloody liquid down into his own beard.

  “You folks back east, you think you won yer war, but yer wrong.” Hot breath brushed against Truett’s ear. “Out here, that war ain’t even close to bein’ done yet. And you ain’t even come close to winnin’ it. Out here, you ain’t just fightin’ those of us left who remember the Confederacy. You’re fightin’ the Doc and his monsters; you’re fightin’ the savages of the Warrior Nation an’ all their ghost story shenanigans; an’ yer fightin’ the people, old son.”

  Truett watched as Jesse James stood up once more. “Because the people out here, they ain’t havin’ none of it no more, soldier boy. The world’s rollin’ along, and it’s gonna roll over you, an’ yer Union, an’ yer president too.”

  The lieutenant found himself looking down the wide muzzle of the outlaw’s pistol. “When you see ‘im, you thank Lincoln fer his gift now, ya hear?”

  A crimson-edged flash was the last thing Lieutenant Joseph Truett ever saw.

  *****

  Jesse was stretched out on the canted deck of the wrecked Union packet boat. His mechanical arms were crossed casually behind his head, back resting on the twisted metal wreckage of the weapon cupola. The distant grumbling of Iron Horses had been growing for some time, and it was no surprise when his brother Frank rode up, his machine stopping abruptly in a sharp turn that threw sand and dirt across the body of the dead Union officer.

  Another ‘Horse roared up behind Frank. The youthful face of Bob Younger, the fledgling of the notorious outlaw family, smiled beneath its layers of grit and trail dust. The young man looked up at the ruined Union boat and whistled.

  “Damn, if we didn’t do a number on this ole girl! Eh, Frank?” Bob Younger leaned in over the control panel behind the wind fairing of his ‘Horse to get a better look.

  “Well, I’m damned glad those old fishing nets you got from St. Louis worked, Frank.” Jesse stood up, brushing non-existent dust from his legs. “I wasn’t lookin’ forward to tryin’ to take this thing down with that old rocket launcher you left me.”

  “Damnit, Jesse, you were supposed to wait for the rest of us before you took on the survivors! There was a damned federal agent aboard this boat!” Frank swung his leg over the saddle and dismounted, pulling an elegant, elaborate long rifle from its boot behind his seat. He careful sidled down the embankment towards the crumpled bow of the boat.

  “Yeah, I know.” Jesse grinned at his brother. “You wanna meet ‘im? He’s takin’ a swim right over on the other side of the boat.”

  Frank shook his head. “An’ you din’t have to kill every livin’ soul, neither. You are gonna get yerself killed one of these days, an’ there won’t be nothin’ I nor anyone else can do about it.”

  Bob shrugged. “Looks like he did a pretty thorough job of it, Frank.” He smiled up at Jesse and gave him a mocking salute.

  Frank snorted. “Yeah, he did a great job. Your brothers blew up two of the cavalrymen, you an’ I took out the other two, an’ I took out the boat gunner with Sophie here.” He patted the scoped long rifle. “Then the chain we strung up took out another one, hangin’ yonder.” He pointed the rifle at the figure hanging over the river not far away. “And the nets we all put out took out the boat’s engines and sent it crashing into the dirt here so he could gun down the wounded folks who survived.” He spit off into the sand. “But yeah, he did a great job.”

  Jesse grinned even wider. “Don’t be sore, Frank. It’s always your plans work out best.” He jumped down into the shallow water. “An’ now we got more gold’n we’d know what to do with! We’ll be havin’ ourselves a hog-killin’ time fer months now!”

  Frank frowned at his brother and shook his head. “You ain’t got the brain
’s God gave a beaver, Jesse. I swear.”

  Frank tossed Sophie up onto the tilted deck then jumped up, grabbed ahold of the deck edge, and heaved himself up and onto the boat. He was still talking to himself as he jumped down through the wrecked cupola and into the metal chamber within.

  “I thought you was awesome, Jesse.” Bob Younger grinned at Jesse as the outlaw chief sloshed ashore.

  “Thanks, Bob. You guys seen any sign of yer brothers as you rushed up here to save my virtue from the terrible Union?” Jesse walked up to the other man and stood with his back to the officer’s sprawled body.

  “Well, they was supposed to stay behind an’ make sure no one was followin’ along. Then they was supposed to get here to back us up backin’ you up. But no, I ain’t seen ‘em yet.”

  Jesse nodded and turned, moving around the body to look out over the water. Over the constant rushing of the shoreline he could just here a distant rumble, almost like thunder that never ended but instead built slowly over time. He grinned at Bob.

  “Bobby, I think this might be them makin’ their heroic arrival already.”

  The sound grew louder and louder until there was no doubt. Soon after, three Iron Horses burst out of the brush on the far side of the river and rode straight into the water. Huge clouds of vapor boiled up around the three vehicles as they tore across the Missouri River. Jesse smiled to hear Cole’s rebel yell as he shouted out, seeing the crumpled ruin of the boat.

  The three eldest brothers tore up out of the river in a cloud of moisture that soaked Jesse, Bob, and the ruined boat. Cole Younger grinned hugely behind his thick goggles and hooted. “Man alive, that is some ride! You remember when we had to worry about bridges an’ the like, Jesse?”

  Jesse nodded as Cole and his brothers leapt off their ‘Horses. The machines growled down to idle, hovering just an inch off the ground. “Yeah, I do, Cole. I hear you boys din’t run into too much trouble takin’ out the Yanks.”

  John Younger, older only than their little brother Bob, grunted. He was always putting on grave airs, trying to come over the big man on the scene. “Wasn’t nothin’. They weren’t even watchin’ fer us. Jim took out the first one with rocket pods, ‘n the other one, we got ‘em with blasters between us.”

  “Weren’t no one followin’, neither. So it’s a good thing you lot din’t need no babysittin’.” Cole grinned and leaned over to spit a stream of tobacco juice into the sandy soil.

  Bob shook his head. “Weren’t us t’all, Cole. Jesse took three of ‘em out all on his own afore we ever got here!”

  Cole laughed. “I’m sure that set Frank off into a tizzy, eh?”

  “You ladies want to stop with yer afternoon tea and help me with this damned strongbox?” Frank called out from inside the boat. Soon the men were on the tilted deck, tossing small, heavy bags of coin up and then handing them along until they could be thrown onto the shore.

  When all the gold coin was piled up in the sand, the outlaws stood around admiring their handy work. “This oughta keep us livin’ the life o’ Riley over in Kansas City for a while more, don’t you think?” Bob’s smile was as wide and open as a child’s, as if there weren’t dead bodies floating just yards away.

  “Well, not exactly.” Frank was crouched down on his haunches, frowning down at the pile. He had a small wooden box in one hand, several winking red lights flashing dully in the sun. When he did not offer any further comment, Cole knocked one foot against his leg.

  “What you mean, Frank? By ‘Not exactly’?”

  Frank shook his head and waved a hand over the pile. “The coins‘re all shot with RJ-1027. This level, won’t fade fer months. An’ no way to get rid of the trace no matter what you do.”

  Jesse frowned down at his brother. “What?”

  Frank tapped the top bag. “There’s always been rumors they zap all gov’mint gold headin’ west.” He waved the wooden cube. “I ain’t never been sure ‘till now.” Frank stood and stretched his back. “Nope, if we want face value on this plunder, we’re gonna have to bury it and wait a few months at least. Probl’y as much as a year.”

  Jesse kicked at the sand as his mechanical hands came to rest on his hips. “Well that ain’t all! We din’t just blast this boat outa the water so’s we could live like paupers fer a year!”

  Frank gave his brother a tired, irritated look. “We ain’t livin’ like paupers now, Jesse. We got plenty of coin stashed away, we don’t live too high on the hog. But we might not have to wait, neither.”

  The outlaw chief’s lip curled in a barely-controlled scowl. “You see a trail clear o’ this bein’ fer nothin’, Frank, you best speak up now.”

  Frank shook his head again. “No, I know some folks, back in St. Louis, can unload gold like this, even with the mark.” He shrugged. “They work for the government, but they ain’t too partic’ler about extra business they can pick up.”

  Jesse sighed and crossed his mechanical arms. “So, we don’t just go back to KC and whoop it up, but we can get us the payola?”

  Cole laughed. “You mean you don’t go back to KC and whoop it up, kickin’ yer heels with the lovely Miss Mimms don’t you? I ain’t noticed the rest of us moonin’ over any dancehall girls lately that’d have us rushin’ back to Kansas City any time soon.”

  Jesse shrugged, shooting the firstborn Younger a sharp look. “I mean, we ain’t goin’ back to KC?”

  Frank shook his head. He picked one of the bags up and tossed it in his hand as if weighing it. “No, I don’t think we all need to go into St. Louis. Besides,” he looked up and gestured with the bag at his brother’s arms. “You stick out like a nun in a whore house wherever you go, dressed like that. No, I think Cole an’ me, we can take care of this.”

  He shot a warning finger up at the other men. “Now, you keep in mind, marked goods like this, we ain’t gonna get even a solid part of what normal gold would be worth. We gonna have to settle with a beggar’s share. But that’s better than nothin’.”

  Jesse snorted and threw up his arms, spinning to walk away. “We gotta do it this way, Frank? We can’t just unload this plunder in Kansas City?”

  Frank gave his brother a pitying look. “Where’s your brain, Jesse? We rode all the way out here so we wouldn’t draw attention to us layin’ low in KC. You wanna push queer gold right where we’re livin’? That ain’t no way to avoid the marshals, an’ you know it.”

  Jesse kicked at the sand and swore under his breath. “Hey, it ain’t all bad!” Bob Younger grinned. “I always wanted to go see St. Louis! Jesse, you get a coat with some sleeves on, the rest of us are good as we are, an’ we all go into town and kick us up a good row in the big city!”

  Jesse shook his head. “Naw. I wanna get back. I don’t need to go into no big Yank city anyhow.”

  Cole chuckled. “I knows a lot of folks’d take exception to that remark, there Jesse.”

  “I don’t care none. This is all a crock.” Jesse moved back towards the trees where his own Iron Horse was hidden. “I’m goin’ back to KC, you boys get what you can for the plunder, and I’ll meet you back there. Maybe we do another job when you get back.”

  “Jesse,” Frank’s tone had a warning edge to it. “We don’t need to do another job anytime soon. We got enough coin to set us up right nice for a while. We need to lay low for a bit.

  Give the marshals some time to find another diversion.”

  “We’ll see.” Jesse did not turn around as he moved into the trees.

  “I’ll see you all in Kansas City.”

  “Say hello to Misty for us!” Cole laughed and his brothers joined in.

  “It’ll be a few days, maybe a week before you see us.” Frank’s voice was sharp. “Don’t get into any trouble before we get back.”

  Chapter 2

  The sun beat down on the dusty streets of Tombstone, driving most folks indoors despite the close heat they found there. The bulky shapes of a few old civilian Iron Horses lined the streets, shimmering in the sun. Long landing
skids rested on rubber recharge pads, shimmering waves of heat rising off the barrel-shaped forward cowlings and empty weapon mounts. Leather seats strapped above the powerful RJ-1027-fueled engines had cracked and dried in the intense heat. Beside each recharge pad an RJ-1027 generator hummed softly, winking crimson lights barely discernible beneath the sun’s hot glare.

  A single man in shirt sleeves and a tight vest ran from the protected walkway of a small building and into the headquarters of the self-styled Federal Bureau of Lawmen, formerly the Sheriff’s office. He ran past an old crow hunched on a rotten hitching post. The bird barely ruffled a feather in acknowledgement.

  Virgil Earp pushed through the creaking door of the office with one balled fist, pulling his hat off with the other and fanning himself desperately.

  “Damn, it’s hotter’n a whore house on nickel night out there!” He sat down heavily in a creaky old chair that was already host to the heavy uniform duster of a Federal Lawman. The room held several desks cluttered with chunks of rock, paperwork, and a strange array of mechanical parts including two RJ-1027 power cylinders, their glows a dull, pulsing burgundy.

  Wyatt Earp, Over-marshal of the western territories and de facto leader of the Federal Bureau of Lawmen, looked up from the report he was reading with an exasperated sigh.

  “Did they have anything?” He looked pointedly at the flimsy piece of paper clutched in Virgil’s fist.

  “Don’t get ‘em in a bunch, Wyatt, town ain’t gonna burn down while I catch my breath.” The older man carefully folded the paper flat against the desk top and handed it over to his brother.

  “Your friend’s been seen in Kansas City. No official reports yet, but I sent out specific inquiries, knowin’ you’d want hard info before you stirred from here. The wires ain’t that reliable out this far, but we should hear something before too long.”