“Jesse said he was sorry he had killed the conductor,” Clarence said. Even witnesses believed that the homicide had been an accident. Most of Jesse’s shots—fired for the sake of intimidation—went into the roof of the car; Westfall had just been straightening up after taking a ticket when the bullet struck him. But the press soon reported that Westfall had been in charge of the special train that had carried the Pinkertons on the famous raid on Zerelda’s farm, and speculated that it had been a revenge killing. “We got the papers regularly,” Hite noted. When Jesse learned that he had killed a man involved in the raid, “he said he was glad of it.” Then, as always, the gang dispersed.24
James Timberlake immediately went to the scene, then returned to Clay County and assembled a posse. “Sheriff Timberlake believes that Jesse James is alive, and he entertains the belief that the full whiskered man who murdered Conductor Westfall was Jesse,” reported the Kansas City Times. “His height answers to his, and the whiskers were an easy disguise.” As an old guerrilla himself, Timberlake knew whom to suspect and whom to avoid as he led the chase through the backcountry. “Many farm houses were passed but no stop made, owing to the fact, as the sheriff afterwards told the newspaper men, that he ‘would not trust the occupants,’ ” a journalist observed. Perhaps the most notable member of the posse was W. H. Wymore, the Liberty marshal. “He is inclined to think the James boys had a hand in the affair,” the reporter continued, “and has by no means forgotten the wanton brutal murder of his brother on the streets of Liberty [in 1866].”25
As the search continued—aided by Jackson County officials, among others—politics once again bubbled to the surface. “If it shall turn out that the James boys or any of their old gang had a hand in it, then the Democratic party of this state is responsible,” argued the Kansas City Journal, “for had it not been for sympathizing friends, all of whom are Democrats, the whole gang would long since have been caught.” Such crimes did happen in other states, “but unfortunately for the good name of this common-wealth, the perpetrators were all Missouri Democrats.”26
Halfway across the state, John Edwards disingenuously complained in the Sedalia Democrat about “the political twists and turnings given to each train robbery” by the Republicans. “Eliminate politics altogether from each transaction,” he demanded. Unfortunately for Edwards, it was the Democrats who did just that. The Kansas City Times denounced the Winston raid as “the most atrocious of the many desperate robberies of this class that have disgraced our State of late years,” and actually called for special legislation to fight banditry! Even Jesse James’s supporters grumbled about him, albeit anonymously. “How can I help myself?” one complained to the press. When Jesse called, the farmer had to give him what he wanted or face dark consequences. “I simply say, ‘Glad to see you Jesse. Come in and make yourself at home. How are the children and the old lady?’ ”
Observers could see the bandits’ grassroots support was fading away. Four days after the robbery, the Kansas City Evening Star published a mocking account of an old “unreconstructed rebel” in Liberty. “This county possesses not a few of these people,” it noted, “although it is gratifying to know that they are fast disappearing.” Even in Kearney, people began to speak openly against the James brothers. “The writer overheard a conversation between Mrs. Samuels, the mother of Frank and Jesse James, and a prominent merchant of Kearney,” wrote a reporter. “In substance, Mrs. Samuels indignantly inquired if he had been out after the boys. He replied that he had, and with all deference to her feelings, he said he had hoped to catch and hang them.”27
And yet, none of this was sufficient to bring Jesse down. Earlier officials had fought valiantly against the bandits, as had angry neighbors. Indeed, between militia action and lynch mobs, the former bushwhackers had been nearly wiped out during Governor Fletcher’s administration. Certainly the changes in society weakened the outlaws, made them less popular and more vulnerable, but the critical transformation was within their own ranks. They were not the same group they once were. None of the bandits Jesse had recruited since Northfield were former guerrillas. They lacked that intense bond of loyalty, forged out of ideology and wartime experience.
And that was where Governor Crittenden hoped to strike. “As money was their object in the first place in their lawless pursuit,” he later explained, “I believed an offer of a large sum as a reward by the law officers of the state would eventually reach those who had become tired of the life, and more tired of being led on in blood and crime by a desperate leader.” But he lacked the means to proclaim a large reward, thanks to the statutory three-hundred-dollar limit. In a sense, the governor was a victim of a problem of his party’s own making. As elsewhere across the South, once the Democrats had taken control back from the Republicans, they had immediately set about dismantling the power of government. “The state, once Redeemed,” notes historian Scott Reynolds Nelson, “was worth less than the Redeemers expected.” With few resources available, Crittenden had to turn to the same forces he was currently confronting over their debts to the state: the railroads.28
On the evening of July 25, exactly ten days after the Winston robbery, the governor boarded a train for St. Louis. The next morning, he walked into the gentlemen’s parlor of the Southern Hotel. The luxuriously appointed room hummed with the conversation of more than a dozen men, all called together at Crittenden’s urgent request. They were vice presidents, superintendents, managers, and attorneys—representing all the major railroads in Missouri, including the Wabash, the Missouri Pacific, the Rock Island, the Chicago and Alton, and the Iron Mountain—along with S. H. Laflin, head of a gunpowder firm, and an agent from the United States Express Company. The doors were closed, and the meeting began.
To all appearances, the conference was a curious balance between public and private interests. On one hand, the issue of banditry simply did not much affect the railroads. Train robberies remained quite rare—only the Rock Island had been hit twice by the James gang—and it was the express companies, of course, that suffered the losses. It was much more of a political question for a governor who wished to attract immigrants and investment to Missouri. The railroads, however, had begun to worry that the state’s poor reputation might be affecting their business over the long run. A representative of the Chicago and Alton mentioned that he had heard a man at a hotel in New York discussing reports of a Missouri train robbery, saying, “He’d be d—–d if he’d pass through the state of Missouri. He’d go 500 miles around the state in case he had occasion to reach the other side of it.” And the murder of conductor Westfall particularly sparked the railway executives’ interest. “These companies have been thoroughly aroused by this cold-blooded butchery,” a reporter wrote, “and they have made up their minds to protect their men, cost what it may.”
At one point, the gunpowder magnate, Laflin, rose and delivered an emotional speech. “You are the governor,” he declared, “and these robbers must be taken at all hazards, if we have to watch all day and night, and noon and Sundays; and to do this I will agree to furnish gratis all the powder that may be necessary.” The railway officials loudly applauded his words; then they began to make demands. “Several of the railroad men insisted that a special clause be inserted in the proclamation offering a $10,000 reward for the arrest of each of the James boys, without considering whether they were connected with the Winston robbery or not,” the press reported. “This was acceded to.” On July 28, 1881, Governor Crittenden proclaimed a $10,000 reward for each of the James brothers—half on capture, half on conviction—along with $5,000 for each of the other Winston and Glendale bandits, funded by the railroads.29
WHEN THE NEWS of Crittenden’s conference with the railroads and of his reward proclamation came, the thought of being hunted aroused Jesse’s wrath, as always. “Jesse said … that if he only knew on what train Gov. Crittenden was he would take him off and hold him for a ransom,” Clarence Hite recalled. “Thought he could get about $25,000.”30
; Ultimately, Jesse decided to rob another train as soon as possible. As had so often happened lately, however, the first attempt failed. The gang dispersed for a few weeks. Liddil and Charley Ford robbed a stagecoach near Excelsior Springs, then Liddil, Wood Hite, and both Charley and Bob Ford held up another stage in Ray County. In early September, Jesse once again gathered the crew to seize a train south of the Missouri River—on the Chicago and Alton line, east of Independence, in an excavation known as the Blue Cut. Wood and Clarence, Liddil, and Frank took part, along with Charley.
On the night of September 7, 1881, the bandits piled rocks between the tracks at a spot where the trains had to slow for a curve. With a red cloth wrapped around a lantern, they flagged down an eastbound locomotive, then quickly ran through the well-established motions—down to the routine pistol-whipping of the express messenger when the safe turned out to be nearly empty. For only the second time in all of Jesse’s train raids, he decided to rob the passengers. The bandits slowly marched through the cars, Charley waving a revolver in the terrified passengers’ faces as they shoveled their valuables into a meal sack held by Wood. Jesse, however, knew what to expect. He ordered a porter to point out where everyone had hidden their money. You’ve gotten it all, the railroad employee replied. “Jesse then went to the first seat,” Clarence reported, “turned it up and got about $60 and a gold watch.”
But the outlaw’s demeanor was more lighthearted than cruel. “He then went to the brakeman and told him the same thing,” Clarence continued. “The brakeman said: ‘I gave you 50 cents—all I had.’ Jesse then gave him $1 or $1.50, saying, ‘This is the principal and interest on your money.’ ” When one woman fainted from fright, a passenger observed, “the leader seemed to be very solicitous about her. He went and wet a handkerchief and bathed her face, and then gave her back a dollar that they had taken from her.”
Jesse actually seemed energized by the railroad conference and the governor’s reward proclamation. Once again, he found himself in the place he liked best: alone in the spotlight, at center stage. Perhaps this was what he had missed most during his three years in exile—not so much plunder or thrills, but a grand enemy, whose very enmity inflated him into the mythic figure he imagined himself to be. “He kept talking all the while,” one passenger reported. Speaking in “a decided Southern accent,” Jesse declaimed at length to his literally captive audience. “If you are getting tired of holding up your hands so straight, why, slip them around behind your head and rest them. I suppose most of you put your hands up two or three times a day.… I suppose the detectives will all be here in a day or two. They will all come on free passes, but they won’t find us here. They can’t stop us from robbing trains; it’s our business. We could do it just the same if the baggage car was full of soldiers.” Another passenger quoted him saying, “We expect to keep this up all our lives; if they put soldiers on the train we will wreck everything and gather up the spoils, and if these [rail]roads offer more rewards we will cut the sleeper off and burn the damn cars next time.” He quoted the Bible repeatedly, saying that it was as evil to lie as to steal. “If we are going to be wicked,” he added, “we might as well make a good job of it.” After going through the Pullman sleeper car, he turned and gave a deep bow. “Good-bye,” he said. “This is the last time you will ever see Jesse James.”
This remarkable performance had not yet ended. “When the thing was all over the robbers came back to the front of the train,” the engineer reported. “The leader was a tall, rather good looking fellow, with dark, heavy beard … and wore a broad slouch hat. He came up, shook hands, and said his name was Jesse James.” The outlaw’s oration in the cars had left him feeling buoyant. He handed two dollars to the engineer, saying, “You’re a good one; take this and spend it with the boys. You’d better quit running on the road. We’re going to make it so hot for this damned Alton road they can’t run.” Then he disappeared over the bank.31
The Blue Cut raid would be the last train robbery ever carried out by Jesse James. Tellingly, it was also the first in which he publicly denounced the railroad corporations. Though his speech making reveals his taste for highly publicized battles with outsized enemies, it also demonstrates why his significance was declining. The struggles that had made him a hero at the zenith of his career had revolved around the politics of Civil War loyalties and Reconstruction, and they were long since over. Only now, at the very end of Jesse’s outlaw life, did he condemn the railways—not as enemies of the small farmer or as economic oppressors, but as his personal foes. His words merely voiced his own spite against them for funding the governor’s efforts. As he stormed and gestured up and down the aisles of the Chicago and Alton cars, he had never been more defiant, never more famous, and never more hollow.
THE NEXT SEVEN months belonged to his enemies, and to the making of enemies. Governor Crittenden immediately issued an outraged address. “We are again shocked by the intelligence of another express and train robbery,” he fumed. “It is said—and I fear with truth—that these outlaws are secreted and protected by a class of citizens who reside in the Western counties of Missouri.… The people of the state must rise en masse and apprehend not only the criminals themselves, but every known ally. Those who furnish asylum to the robbers must be taught that the law recognizes but one treatment for crime—swift punishment.” He boarded the first train to Kansas City, where he met with the division superintendent of the Chicago and Alton. He also spoke with Frank Tutt, the district coal oil inspector, ordering him to Lafayette County to lead a search party of twenty-five men. As the meeting broke up, reporters observed Tutt strapping on a revolver. “If I get the drop on them,” he told the governor, “I shall bring them in dead or alive.”32
Crittenden may have suspected that simple pursuit would never be enough. Jackson County teemed with posses in the hours after the robbery. One of them was led by Kansas City police commissioner Henry H. Craig, who—in a gesture that perfectly symbolized the futility of the endeavor—accidentally shot off his own toe. Then came heartening news: Some of the searchers had made arrests, rounding up a set of suspicious young men near the scene of the crime. The more experienced bandit hunters raised their eyebrows at the prisoners’ utterly obscure names. But one of them, John Land, strangely made a confession, and all were charged in the holdup.33
Then the trial of Bill Ryan finally began. Prosecutor Wallace had devoted months to his preparations. “After fifteen years of unchecked robbery and bloodshed it was the test case between the law and the bandit,” he recalled. “Many of my friends advised me to dismiss the case and let it go. They said it was not worth a man’s life to conduct the prosecution, and in the end would only result in an acquittal.” Wallace’s words barely begin to convey the tension that surrounded the Jackson County courthouse in Independence as the case went forward in the last week of September 1881. There was still a great deal of support for the outlaws in nearby Cracker Neck, a rural district thick with former bushwhackers.
The governor came to observe, accompanied by eight marshals. “It is presumed that in the event of Ryan’s conviction an attempt would be made to rescue him,” the press reported. “The streets are lined with people from the neighborhood of Cracker’s Neck [sic], and every motion of the marshal is watched. The prevailing thought is that the attempt will be made at the time of Ryan’s departure for jail from the court house. Quite a number of Craig Rifles [a local militia unit] are present as also Captain Craig, police commissioner, and should a rescue be attempted much bloodshed will be the result.” The terrified officials of the Chicago and Alton refused to testify. When Tucker Bassham took the stand, a mob stormed his house and set it on fire. But the jury took only five minutes on September 28 to find Ryan guilty.34
“It begins to look as if the day of reckoning with these villains had come at last,” said the St. Louis Republican. “The conviction of Ryan at Independence, in spite of the threats of his confederates, shows that the law-and-order element in Jackson county is uppe
rmost and means business.” Few missed the significance of this event—the first time that a Missouri jury had convicted one of Jesse James’s comrades. It followed close behind another telling moment, when a reunion of former Confederate soldiers in Moberly, Missouri, had voted to condemn the Blue Cut robbery. In a ringing resolution, the old rebels said that they “will be content with nothing less than the extermination of this class of enemies of society.”35
Those enemies of society began to exterminate each other. Tensions within the gang were fed by Jesse himself, who had turned against Jim Cummins and murdered Ed Miller. Bassham’s betrayal intensified his already intense suspicions. Charley Ford said that Jesse “watched every move we made. He thought we were true, but he watched everybody, even his own brother.” Meanwhile, Liddil and Wood grew increasingly edgy around each other. Wood accused Liddil of stealing from the Blue Cut loot, but the real problem apparently grew out of their shared interest in Martha Bolton. After Ryan’s conviction, Jesse sent word that he wanted everyone to meet at the Hite farm in order to rob a train in Kentucky. Only five days after Liddil arrived, his dispute with Wood flared. The two marched into the yard and pulled their pistols, firing with such wild inaccuracy that neither man was hurt. Liddil promptly departed for Missouri.36
Wood Hite, furious and frustrated, fumed for two or three weeks more. Then a black farm laborer named John Tabor made the mistake of calling him a horse thief within earshot. Hite shot Tabor dead. “About ten days afterwards [he] was arrested,” his brother Clarence recalled, “made his escape, and left, saying we would never see him again.”37 His destination was the home of Martha Bolton.
And that was where Liddil had spent most of his time since returning to Missouri after the gunfight. (But not all of his time: he had a wife in Jackson County.)38 On the morning of December 4, 1881, Liddil came down for breakfast in Bolton’s home and found Wood. “Liddil refused to shake hands,” Bolton observed, “and said he had no use for him.” The two men began to argue. Liddil said that Hite had once claimed that he could prove his theft charges, and now he wanted that proof. Hite denied it. Liddil snapped back. Then they both drew their pistols.
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