Topping off the day’s bizarre reports, though, was a dispatch received later that afternoon from Waseca. Two manhunters sent word that they had come across a fresh grave in the woods where they believed the outlaws had taken refuge. They immediately assumed it contained the body of the wounded and bloody robber so many people had seen. The men had hurriedly clawed back three feet of soft, black earth and found it . . . empty.
At 3:00 P.M. on a wet and muddy Sunday, as the telegraph wires sizzled with the false report of the robbers near Waterville, the funeral of Joseph Lee Heywood took place at the family residence in Northfield. A memorial service that morning had drawn a crowd of between eight hundred and a thousand people, and several hundred converged on the modest home on West Third. “The house was literally packed,” reported the Rice County Journal, “the piazza also; the front, quite spacious yard was full, and the street on which the house fronts was full of carriages generally filled with occupants who could not get into the house.”
After the funeral, a long procession followed the horse-drawn hearse to the Northfield Cemetery. Among the pallbearers were two men who had played a dramatic role in defeating the outlaws: Anselm Manning and J. S. Allen.
But the true hero of Northfield was the dead man in the coffin. In florid commentaries, newspapers across the country lauded the assistant cashier’s bravery and “rare fidelity” in resisting the ruffians in the bank. His “instincts and self-culture led him to prefer death even, to the surrender of truth, duty, trust,” wrote the editor of the Journal. “It is a glorious finale of a beautiful career.”
A dissenting voice, however, came out of Spring Valley, Minnesota. The editor of the town’s newspaper, the Western Progress, found it difficult to swallow the idea that it had been the assistant cashier’s “duty” to give his life for the First National Bank:
Do the demands of the employer of the employee extend so far? Is not an employee’s life of greater value than a few thousand dollars of the employer’s gold? We would not detract one iota from the dead man’s laurels, but we fear he gave his life from a mistaken motive or demand of duty. He was a husband and father, with a wife and children looking to him for care and protection, whose demands cannot be measured by gold and silver; and was not his duty to them more sacred and of far greater importance than the treasure for which he sacrificed his life? . . . The coldhearted, selfish employers will look with secret satisfaction upon his sacrifice, and the thoughtless world will plaud it as heroic; but a more thoughtful tribunal will judge that in dying for others’ gold he transgressed a higher and holier law, and cruelly wronged his wife and children.
Describing the men who ran the First National Bank as coldhearted may have seemed mean and unfair, but it would be hard to prove otherwise when it came to one of the bank’s investors: Adelbert Ames. Outwardly, Ames and the other shareholders acted appropriately in offering a respectable reward for the capture of the robbers. But in a letter to his wife, Ames lamented the $400 he stood to lose as his share of the monies set aside for the robber reward and the compensation for Heywood’s widow: “This would buy the much-coveted stem-winding watch—and—well, I have forgotten what the other thing is I stand so much in need of.”
Nevertheless, numerous banks made certain that Heywood’s sacrifice did not go unrewarded. Several St. Paul bankers established the Heywood Fund to benefit the widow and little girl, and soon thousands of dollars poured in from banks in Canada, New York, Boston, San Francisco, and all over Minnesota.
Heywood’s murder was a tragedy, but there were other, unforeseen casualties in the days following the raid. Two boys of Henderson, Minnesota, inspired by the exciting events in Northfield, were playing a game of “robbers” armed with a pitchfork and a shotgun when the shotgun went off. The boy with the pitchfork went down clutching an “ugly wound” in his side.
Near Owatonna, a seven-year-old child came up with an antiquated pistol and somehow convinced his mother that he should load it to be ready in case the robbers appeared. The mother consented and watched intently as her son charged the weapon with bird shot. The next thing she knew, the pistol exploded, sending the full charge of lead into her face and neck. The woman lost one eye outright with the other seriously injured. And the attending doctor believed one small shot had penetrated her brain.
Cold and hungry, the James boys, the Youngers, and Charlie Pitts draped their rubber-coated blankets over a framework of branches to shelter themselves as the rain splattered down around them. It was late in the evening of Friday, September 8, and the men were thoroughly soaked, not only from the steady rain but from brushing against the forest’s wet undergrowth and slogging through countless bogs. Even if they could have found dry tinder for a fire, it was far too risky to build one.
As one of the outlaws removed the blood-soaked bandages from Bob Younger’s swollen and disfigured elbow, the men talked in low tones. They were again down to five horses, and they were thoroughly played out at this point. If the gang wanted to keep moving, they would have to abandon their mounts. This might be an advantage, though, because the posses were looking for men on horseback. They had often been dismounted, leading the horses through the timber, so they would likely travel just as fast, at least while they were in the Big Woods. Still, the outlaws would need all their cunning and stealth to avoid being caught.
After Northfield: The James-Younger gang escape route.
The men were too miserable and cramped to get any sleep, so they just waited for the gray murkiness of dawn, which came at about a quarter till six. The men took all the bridles and the better saddle blankets from the horses and used the bridles to tie the rolled-up saddle blankets and rubber blankets around their bodies. They left all the horses picketed in the woods with long straps, hopeful that it would be some time before the posses discovered the animals.
The gang moved slowly through the trees and swamps in a westerly direction. Sometime before noon, they reached a secluded island or finger of land, heavily forested. The rain had let up, and they were sure they were far from any homesteads or roads so they started a fire and crowded around it. These men were used to doing nearly everything in the saddle; their tall boots were riding boots. All this walking had begun to take its toll on their feet. They had worn out their socks, and blisters had formed on their soles and where the wet leather rubbed against their skin. As they warmed themselves near the fire, they cut up their underclothing and used the cloth to wrap around their feet.
For food, the gang had subsisted on green corn, wild plums, and whatever else they could scavenge or steal (one farmer’s wife complained that the gang had run off with her day’s baking). But this camp gave them a chance for meat. A stray calf appeared and one of the boys quickly pulled his revolver and shot it, but he stared in disbelief as the wounded animal ran off. The same thing happened when a hog was spotted nearby. The outlaws were afraid to fire follow-up shots, though, because they did not want to draw the attention of any posses that might be close on their trail.
The gang rested until nearly dark before starting out again, marching all night but taking frequent breaks. As the morning glowed in the east, they stopped near the edge of a clearing and started another fire. They placed corn in the husk and potatoes upon the coals and tended to their feet and wounds as they waited for the vegetables to cook. Later, as they devoured their simple breakfast, the men suddenly pricked up their heads at a distinct sound in the distance. It was a bell. They were camped about a half mile north of the tiny hamlet of Marysburg, and the bell of the Catholic church was pealing for early mass.
After breakfast, the outlaws decided to move their camp, most likely because earlier they had been spotted. Two boys, not more than twelve years old, reported having seen the suspicious men near the edge of the woods, not far from the Marysburg church—and they said the men were wearing linen dusters. Detective Mike Hoy listened to the youngsters’ story later that same day and scoffed at it. The strangers they saw were “as likely to be pursuers as
pursued,” he declared. And he did not bother to go to the place where the men had been seen. The Minneapolis detective’s mistakes were beginning to pile up.
The gang walked at least three miles to the south and set up temporary camp on the banks of Madison Lake, in Blue Earth County. That night, they tramped nine hard miles west, skirting the north edge of Eagle Lake and arriving within three miles of Mankato, where they discovered an abandoned house in the woods. Finally, they could get out of the rain. They holed up there all day Monday, Tuesday, and Tuesday night, nursing their bodies and letting time and the elements wear on the posses.
On Tuesday morning, the manhunters discovered the robbers’ abandoned horses. Two of the mounts had broken free and were found first. About an hour later, the camp was located with the three remaining horses, including the noted buckskin. The tied horses had eaten every bit of foliage within reach, which was not much to begin with, and then had begun eating the bark off the elm trees they were tied to. In addition to being visibly thin, the horses had saddle sores on their backs and cuts on their sides where the outlaws had furiously raked their spurs time and again. On the ground behind a log lay the McClellan saddles the outlaws had purchased in Minnesota. Two bullet holes were discovered in one of the saddles, and a posse member got a prized souvenir when he dug a pistol bullet out of one of the holes.
By that afternoon, the telegraph flashed the news that the robbers were on foot, advising that “every stranger should be carefully scrutinized and detained if any way suspicious.” But while the discovery of the robbers’ horses made big news, it also delivered a blow to the posse leaders because it was now clear that the outlaws’ horses had been abandoned days ago. There had been no positive sightings of the robbers in the last seventy-two hours, which caused many to conclude that the outlaws had escaped the Big Woods and might even be beyond the Iowa border.
“It is hard to account for their escape,” wrote the Minneapolis Tribune, “but we are compelled to accept it as fact.”
The number of manhunters was getting lower and lower, even though the amount of the reward offer had been increased. The Pioneer Press and Tribune claimed that the robbers “have, for the time being at least, completely baffled their pursuers.”
But then on the evening of Tuesday, September 12, the sheriff of Faribault County rode into Mankato to report that he had spotted five suspicious men, likely the robbers, near Indian Lake, a few miles to the east. The news brought detectives Hoy and Bresette with their posses to Mankato late that night. The detectives made plans—separately, of course—to look for signs of the outlaws at Indian Lake at first light. But another downpour came during the evening, hard enough to obliterate any trail. The detectives decided there was no point in searching any more. The Faribault sheriff’s report made little sense, anyway, because the place where he saw the suspicious men was only eighteen miles from where the horses had been abandoned. Sullen, dirty, and tired, Hoy, Bresette, and their men boarded trains for home first thing in the morning. The Twin Cities’ best accepted defeat.
About 6:00 A.M. on Wednesday morning, September 13, thirty-three-year-old Thomas Jefferson Dunning stepped out of his house three miles north of Mankato to bring in the boss’s cows. Ambling east, toward the woods, Dunning had hardly passed the back of the barn when he came face-to-face with six stout and grungy strangers. They wore black rubber coats and had rolled-up blankets tied around them. Large spurs were tied to their bridles. The men told the startled hired hand that they were hunting the robbers and that they believed he was one of them. Dunning took a step back in shock, strongly proclaiming his innocence, but the men drew their revolvers and forced Dunning to put his hands behind his back, which they bound tight with one of the bridles.
The man whom Dunning took for the leader carried a nickel-plated revolver with ivory grips, and the other robbers called him “Captain.” Jesse, the captain, ordered Dunning to show them the way to Mankato and motioned him to start walking. One of the men followed close behind, holding the reins of the bridle securing Dunning’s hands. As the group marched south, Dunning begged to be released, saying he had absolutely nothing to do with Northfield. Instead, the men asked Dunning question after question. Which roads led around Mankato? Were there skiffs on the Minnesota River? Could the river be forded? Could they swim it? What was the country like farther south near the Blue Earth River?
Jesse next told Dunning he would have to guide them through the woods around Mankato, but the hired hand claimed he really didn’t know the area that well, and he continued to plead with the men to let him go, saying he had a “delicate wife” and a young child at home. When that failed to get a response, Dunning laid it on thicker, telling the strangers he had heart problems, and if he was out long, his family would come looking for him.
“I suppose you know who we are?” Jesse finally said. Dunning answered that he had a good idea. Jesse then asked Dunning if he knew where they were from.
“From Missouri?” Dunning replied in a shaky voice.
“We’re a damned long way from Missouri,” one of the outlaws said.
Jesse talked about the raid and said they would not have killed the cashier if he had just opened the safe. The outlaw also said the next son of a bitch that was ordered to open the safe would do it pretty quick.
The men talked low among themselves, and when crossing a road, they walked in Indian file, each man carefully stepping in the tracks made by Dunning. But after tramping three-quarters of a mile, the robbers decided Dunning was more trouble than he was worth. Whether or not he was lying about how well he knew the area, he might lead them in an unsafe direction. But what to do with the man? Dunning promised in the strongest terms he would not tell anyone about them.
The outlaws moved off a short distance to discuss Dunning’s fate. Jesse and Frank wanted to shoot the man on the spot, arguing that it was the only way they could be sure of Dunning’s silence. Short of that, they should tie the man securely to a tree and leave him, although the poor man might not be discovered for some time, if at all. Cole opposed shooting Dunning, and he also did not like the idea of tying Dunning in the woods. Jesse had expected Cole to be contrary as usual, so he suggested that they let Bob decide.
“If we turn this man loose,” Jesse said to Bob, “he will have the whole country after us in twelve hours, and with your broken arm, we cannot possibly get away.”
Bob thought for a moment and said, “I would rather be shot dead than to have that man killed, for fear his telling might put a few hundred men after us. There will be time enough for shooting, if he should join in the pursuit.”
Dunning overheard the outlaws debating whether he would live or die. His palms became sweaty and cold, and he started to shake. He thought about running, but one of the men spoke up and said Dunning “seemed a good sort of fellow” and “they did not want his family to suffer for them.” They made him swear a solemn oath that he would not report them. And they warned that if they learned that he had broken his promise, they would hunt him down and kill him, no matter how many years it took. The outlaws promised to mail him a handsome gift, and they asked for his name and postal address, which they jotted down in a small book.
Cole loosened the leather bridle and freed Dunning’s hands. Dunning rubbed his wrists as the outlaws bade him good day and told him they might see him again soon. Several sat on the ground watching as Dunning hurried off. One of the outlaws spoke up in a loud voice, obviously intending for Dunning to hear: “Let’s shoot the damned son of a bitch, and then he will be sure not to tell.” And then the outlaw laughed. Dunning began to run faster.
When he got home, Dunning tried to figure out what he should do. He believed the outlaws when they said they would come after him if he failed to keep his pledge—they were proven cutthroats. But here was an opportunity to capture the bandits and put them behind bars. Dunning sat down to breakfast and thought about it, eventually deciding that, despite the risk, he had to tell someone. He went to the house of
his employer, the farm’s owner, Henry Shaubut, and told him the entire story of his terrifying hour with the outlaws. Shaubut immediately saddled a horse and rode for Mankato to alert the authorities.
At 8:45 A.M., the rapid tapping of metal on metal stirred to attention telegraph operators up and down the lines. They quickly wrote down the details of the robber sighting. “This report is reliable,” read the telegram. “Get men out immediately to hunt them.” The exciting news instantly reinvigorated the manhunt. Mike Hoy’s party had nearly reached Minneapolis when they received the report. When they arrived at approximately 10:00 A.M., Hoy, Minneapolis chief of police Albert Munger, and their officers rushed to the nearest gun store, where they bought fine Winchester repeating rifles and “an abundance of ammunition.” It’s never been clear why Hoy’s party needed additional arms, but they may have left their original weapons with the posses remaining in the field. Hoy tried to get a special train to take his squad back to Mankato, but he wasn’t successful, which meant he, Munger, and five policemen were forced to wait for the 2:30 train.
A correspondent of the Pioneer Press and Tribune interviewed Hoy as he stewed about the delay. “We have had but little sleep since we left home and are pretty well played out,” he admitted. As for the robbers, Hoy said “they are, without doubt, the James-Younger gang. They are armed with revolvers good for 100 yards, and each man of the gang carries three or four of them, so that when they meet a determined body of pursuers, bloody work will ensue.” He believed the outlaws were headed to Sioux City, Iowa, or St. Joseph, Missouri. Hoy felt the newspapers had reported his movements during the manhunt fairly accurately, but “those relative to Bresette’s party have been exaggerated.”
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