Shot All to Hell
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Murphy took what was left of Pitts and later presented the bones to a young Chicago physician. It is not known where Pitts’s skeleton ended up after that. However, at the time the remains rested in the county morgue, a newspaper reporter mentioned to Murphy that there had been no hair or scalp with the skull. “His scalp is in my office,” Murphy answered. “I removed his skin.” Today, a dried piece of skin containing an ear, labeled as the ear of Charlie Pitts, is in the collections of the Northfield Historical Society.
Clell Miller’s family and friends had successfully obtained his body before the University of Michigan medical students could carve it up. A letter published in the Liberty Tribune in November 1876 stated that the body had been recently buried in Muddy Fork Cemetery north of Kearney. “There can be no doubt about his identity,” the writer stated, “as a number of persons came to see the corpse who had known him from childhood.”
Bill Chadwell’s body does seem to have been dissected by Henry Wheeler and his fellow students. Afterward, the bones were cleaned and wired, and years later, Wheeler, then a prominent doctor of Grand Forks, North Dakota, proudly displayed the skeleton in his office. According to an old newspaper story, Wheeler received a surprise visit at his Grand Forks office sometime in the 1890s from Elisha Stiles, the father of Bill Stiles, the man who had been confused with Bill Chadwell shortly after the robbery. Stiles reportedly told Wheeler that his son had disappeared at the time of the raid, and he had been trying to trace him ever since. The elderly man stared at the skeleton a long time, suspecting that it might be the remains of his missing son. Of course, they were not the bones of Stiles because he had not been at Northfield. But they apparently were not Chadwell’s bones, either.
Years later, Dr. Wheeler admitted that the bones hanging in his office were actually those of Clell Miller. Wheeler had been responsible for Miller’s death so it made sense that he would want Miller for his trophy. And not wanting the Miller family to know they had been duped, he was understandably happy to let the curious believe the skeleton was Chadwell/Stiles. Wheeler reportedly donated his trophy to the Odd Fellows sometime before his death, and the skeleton ended up with a private collector in the 1980s. In 2011–12, a forensic team studied this skeleton’s skull using “craniofacial superimposition” (Miller’s postmortem photo was superimposed over an image of the skull) and found matches to Miller that were “remarkable.”
But who, then, is buried in the Miller family plot in Muddy Fork Cemetery? And why did Clell’s Missouri associates identify the body as that of their old friend? The forensic team is seeking permission to exhume the remains to do a DNA test.
The First National Bank gave Frank Wilcox a permanent position immediately following the raid. He remained at the bank a number of years, eventually becoming the assistant cashier. He also served several years as the treasurer for the Minnesota State Fair. In 1909, he moved with his wife to Yakima, Washington, where he operated a fruit farm. But every morning, as he sat at his kitchen table, he heard the exact same sounds he had heard the morning of September 7, 1876: the steady, loud ticking of the walnut-framed calendar clock that had hung in the First National Bank. When the bank replaced the clock, Frank had asked for it. And even at Frank’s death in 1921, it kept perfect time. Today, that same clock hangs in its old spot in the restored First National Bank, which is now a museum operated by the Northfield Historical Society.
Sam Hardwicke and his family returned to Clay County in the summer of 1877. With the James-Younger gang broken up, and Jesse and Frank in hiding, he did not fear for his safety as he once did. He still had an enemy in Zerelda Samuel, however—until one Sunday in 1894. On that day, Hardwicke gave a funeral oration at the old Shady Grove church; in the audience sat Zerelda. After the benediction, she approached Hardwicke, tears running down her cheeks. “Mr. Hardwicke,” she said, “I have long been prejudiced against you, but since hearing your address today, I am willing to let the past be buried, knowing that God is to judge one another.”
The two shook hands warmly, and Zerelda invited Hardwicke to have dinner with her, which he accepted. The words spoken and unspoken between the two at that dinner are unknown, but they had lots to talk about. Just a year later, in 1895, Sam Hardwicke died at his home south of Liberty. Zerelda joined her son Jesse in 1911.
After Cole Younger returned to Missouri, he immediately became involved in a Wild West show with his old pal Frank James. The ever-crafty Cole sidestepped the conditions of his pardon by lending his name to the show (for a 25 percent share of the profits) but not participating in any of the performances. He also rushed out his colorful but not-to-be-trusted autobiography, The Story of Cole Younger by Himself, to sell at the shows. The Minnesota pardon board was furious, of course, but there was little they could do, and no one was inclined to go down to Missouri and bring the man back.
The Great Cole Younger & Frank James Historical Wild West, which was not nearly as exciting as the illustrated posters and newspaper ads promoting it, ended abruptly in September 1903, with charges and lawsuits flying between the show owners and the former outlaws. This was the last time Cole and Frank would be business “partners,” although they remained close for the rest of their lives.
Cole’s account of the Northfield Raid was the big selling point of this 1909 book on prison life at Stillwater Penitentiary.
(Robert G. McCubbin Collection)
In 1906, Cole caused another uproar in Minnesota with the announcement of his scheduled appearance at a Fourth of July picnic near Kansas City, where he was to give a lecture and show a “moving picture film” depicting a train robbery. There was to be a small admission for the show. Even so, Minnesota’s governor John Johnson wanted nothing to do with the old rascal.
“It seems to me Minnesota is well rid of him,” said Governor Johnson. “We don’t want him back, and I am not in favor of trying to bring him back. Let him stay away.”
Frank James, studio portrait, 1898.
(Library of Congress)
Cole died at the home of his niece in Lee’s Summit on March 21, 1916. On his deathbed, he met privately with Jesse’s only son, Jesse Edwards James, and friend Harry Hoffman. As the two leaned attentively toward the prostrate old man, hanging on every word, Cole told them of the fight on the streets of Northfield and the escape through the Minnesota woods. Then, swearing them to secrecy, he spoke of the man who shot Heywood. He spoke to Jesse’s son about the gang’s split and assured him that the James boys’ “acts and treatment of us were honorable and loyal.”
Frank James died at the old family farm near Kearney on February 18, 1915. He had made good on the promise he and Jesse had offered time and again. All they wanted was a fair trial, they had said. Frank had gotten his trials and lived the remainder of his life—more than thirty years—a peaceable citizen. He had worked at different times as a shoe store clerk, a starter at horse races, a doorman for a St. Louis theater, and a farmer.
For the last few years of his life, he collected an admission of fifty cents to see the old home place—the site of Jesse’s birth and the scene of the Pinkertons’ biggest failure. Thanks to what John Newman Edwards had started, and the dozens of dime novels that came later, his brother Jesse had become the most famous—and most popular—outlaw on the planet. And, somewhat ironically, a big part of that legendary status had come from the defeat in Northfield. If nothing else, Jesse and Frank’s wild ride through a thousand manhunters cemented their reputation as among the most remarkable and notorious outlaws to ever live.
Frank James, circa 1910.
(Robert G. McCubbin Collection)
Many journalists paid the price of admission over the years, although it did not always guarantee a visit with Frank. Still, several reporters did manage to get stories from the former bandit, and during one interview, Frank was asked something he had not been asked before. The reporter wanted to know if Frank thought what he had done with his life had been “worthwhile.”
Frank paused for a moment,
as if his mind was racing over the scenes of his past: foolhardy charges, smoking revolvers, bloody corpses, the faces of Quantrill, Bloody Bill, Cole, Jesse, his mother—and Joseph Lee Heywood, stumbling to his desk.
Finally, Frank answered: “If you’re not a quitter, anything you’ve done has got to be worthwhile. You can make it worthwhile. I guess, if I had it all to do over, and had the choice, and had to make the choice as a young man, I’d rather have all the pain and danger and trouble than to be just a plain farmer. If I had an old man’s head, I would choose different. . . . ”
APPENDIX
The following poem was published anonymously in the September 23, 1876, issue of the Winona Daily Republican. It was reprinted in several other Minnesota newspapers.
THE ROBBER HUNT
This is the bank at Northfield.
This is the malt, that lay in the vault
That was in the bank at Northfield.
This is the eight, that smelled the bait
That is, the malt, that lay in the vault,
That was in the bank at Northfield.
These are the six, that got in a fix,
That’s left of eight, that smelled the bait
That is, the malt, that lay in the vault,
That was in the bank at Northfield.
These are the men, that mounted then
To chase the six, that got in a fix,
That’s left of eight, that smelled the bait
That is, the malt, that lay in the vault,
That was in the bank at Northfield.
This is Brissette,1 the capital pet,
Who swore, you bet, he’d have ’em yet,
That joined the men, that mounted then,
To chase the six, that got in a fix,
That’s left of eight, that smelled the bait
That is, the malt, that lay in the vault,
That was in the bank at Northfield.
This is Mike Hoy,2 that broth of a boy,
Who shouldered his little Winchester toy,
To beat Brissette, the capital pet,
Who swore, you bet, he’d have ’em yet,
That joined the men, that mounted then,
To chase the six, that got in a fix,
That’s left of eight, that smelled the bait
That is, the malt, that lay in the vault,
That was in the bank at Northfield.
And this is Dill,3 who went to fill,
With silvery speech, the deadly breach
Between Mike Hoy, that broth of a boy,
Who shouldered his little Winchester toy,
And Johnny Brissette, the capital pet,
Who swore, you bet, he’d have ’em yet,
That joined the men, that mounted then,
To chase the six, that got in a fix,
That’s left of eight, that smelled the bait
That is, the malt, that lay in the vault,
That was in the bank at Northfield.
This is the Governor’s right hand bower,4
Who waved his hand with majestic power,
And ordered in words that might appall,
The prisoners sent to “ye great St. Paul.”
O, where was Dill, who went to fill,
With silvery speech, the deadly breach,
And where Mike Hoy, that broth of a boy,
Who shouldered his little Winchester toy,
And where Brissette, the capital pet,
Who swore, you bet, he’d have ’em yet,
That joined the men, that mounted then,
To chase the six, that got in a fix,
That’s left of eight, that smelled the bait
That is, the malt, that lay in the vault,
That was in the bank at Northfield.
And this is the surgeon general,5 too,
Who probed with a telegraph wire, and knew,
Better than Cooley6 and Overhott,7
Whether the men could travel, or not,
Who backed the Governor’s right hand bower,
Who waved his hand with majestic power,
And ordered in words that might appall,
The prisoners sent to “ye great St. Paul.”
O, where was Dill, who went to fill,
With silvery speech, the deadly breach,
And where Mike Hoy, that broth of a boy,
Who shoulderd his little Winchester toy,
And where Brissette, the capital pet,
Who swore, you bet, he’d have ’em yet,
That joined the men, that mounted then,
To chase the six, that got in a fix,
That’s left of eight, that smelled the bait
That is, the malt, that lay in the vault,
That was in the bank at Northfield.
And this is Glispin,8 who knew his “biz,”
And sat right down on the St. Paul “phiz,”
And when ’twas squelched, he upward rose,
And put his thumb to the end of his nose,
And this to the surgeon general, too!
Who probed with a telegraph wire, and knew,
Better than Cooley and Overhott,
Whether the men could travel, or not,
Who backed the Governor’s right hand bower,
Who waved his hand with majestic power,
And ordered in words that might appall,
The prisoners sent to “ye great St. Paul.”
O, where was Dill, who went to fill,
With silvery speech, the deadly breach,
And where Mike Hoy, that broth of a boy,
Who shouldered his little Winchester toy,
And where Brissette, the capital pet,
Who swore, you bet, he’d have ’em yet,
That joined the men, that mounted then,
To chase the six, that got in a fix,
That’s left of eight, that smelled the bait
That is, the malt, that lay in the vault,
That was in the bank at Northfield.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I saw him occasionally at my daughter’s elementary school. Oscar Lindholm was an old horseshoer, and, from time to time, he would demonstrate his craft with a small forge in the school’s parking lot. The teachers loved to have him, although they were always a bit nervous about Oscar’s salty language in front of the kids.
I’m sorry to say that I never introduced myself to Oscar. I probably nodded hello as I walked by, but, to be honest, Oscar seemed a little intimidating. I only got to know him after his death, through his daughter, Myrna.
Oscar, I learned, had grown up in the teens and twenties on a farm near Webster, South Dakota. As an adult, he served in the army, and it was while stationed in Panama that he picked up a paperback copy of Homer Croy’s Jesse James Was My Neighbor. While reading this book, Oscar came across a name that was a bit of a shock to him. The name was Oscar Sorbel, the teenager who had spread the alarm about the fugitive Northfield robbers.
Oscar Lindholm instantly recognized Oscar Sorbel as the crusty old horse doctor he had known as a child. Lindholm was amazed that no one around Webster had ever said anything about it or even seemed to know that Sorbel had a famous connection to the James-Younger gang. And, for whatever reason, the horse doctor had never talked about it, either.
Later in his life, Lindholm made Oscar Sorbel a personal research project, writing historical societies and even Sorbel descendants. He gathered his Sorbel materials in a notebook, which his daughter, Myrna Wey of Green Mountain Falls, Colorado, kindly let me borrow. As I thumbed through this notebook, I came to realize—just as Oscar Lindholm had—that the past is not always such a distant place. Sometimes it’s as close as a simple hello.
Numerous others have assisted me in my pursuit of the story of the Northfield Raid. Chip DeMann of Dundas, Minnesota, has not only studied the raid for decades, but he has been an integral part of the painstakingly accurate raid reenactments held each September during Northfield’s Defeat of Jesse James Days.
Chip shared with me his considerable research and thoughts on the raid. But more than that, Chip challenged me to look critically at the available evidence and to question old interpretations. Chip may not agree with all of my conclusions, but there is no question that because of him this is a much better book. For that, and his friendship, I am truly grateful.
Hayes Scriven, director of the Northfield Historical Society, gave me open access to the collections in his care and always had time for my questions and requests. I enjoyed tremendously our many conversations about the several conundrums associated with the raid and manhunt. He has done an exemplary job leading his organization in the care of Northfield’s Scriver Block (which contains the restored First National Bank museum) and the society’s extensive historical collections. Several illustrations in this book are from the Northfield Historical Society.
My friend and fellow Old West enthusiast Donna Tatting of Forest Lake, Minnesota, made at least two trips to the Minnesota Historical Society on my behalf. On one of those trips, I had given her the task of looking in the papers of Governor Lucius F. Hubbard for the Frank James requisition sent to Missouri’s Governor Crittenden in 1883. She found it easily. That requisition, previously unknown to scholars, is the most important new find in this book. Thank you, Donna.
Another friend, Robert G. “Bob” McCubbin of Santa Fe, has carefully assembled the finest private library of Western Americana anywhere, and his collection of historic Old West photographs, a good number of which are outlaw images, is unsurpassed. Visiting with Bob and exploring his library is always a big highlight of my trips to Santa Fe, and he has graciously allowed me to use some of his photographs in this book.
I also want to single out Minnesota historian and author John Koblas. His many books on the Northfield Raid are excellent resources, as are his extensive research papers and notes, now part of the collections of the Northfield Historical Society. I spent several days going through his collection, which took him years to gather. John is also a pleasant and gracious man, and I was fortunate to have the opportunity to visit with him while I was in Northfield.