To nobody’s surprise, a little more than a year after becoming city marshal, Stoudenmire resigned. Taking his place was former Texas Ranger Jim Gillett.
St. Joseph, Missouri April 3, 1882
On a quiet street in St. Joseph, Jesse James lived under the alias Thomas Howard. A robbery was being planned, and the Fords—Bob and Charlie—were staying at the James residence. Charlie, having ridden with the James gang before, had no trouble getting Bob into the gang. For some time, Robert Ford had considered murdering Jesse James, and had once met with the governor of Missouri to discuss it. Governor Crittendon had promised a large reward and a full pardon. It was right after breakfast on a Monday morning.
“Jesse,” said Bob, “Charlie and me are goin’ to the barn to tend the horses.”
“Go on,” Jesse replied, “but come on back as soon as you can. We have planning to be done for that bank job tomorrow.”
The Ford brothers went on to the barn, returning to the house at half-past eight.
“That picture’s hanging crooked,” said Jesse.
He removed his coat, unbuckled his gunbelt, and climbed onto a chair to straighten the picture. Charlie Ford nodded at Bob and they drew and cocked their pistols. The ominous sound warned Jesse, and he started to turn. But Bob Ford shot him in the back of the head, and Jesse James was dead when he hit the floor. Jesse’s wife ran screaming into the room. That and the sound of the shot alerted the neighbors. Charlie and Bob Ford ran from the house, bound for the telegraph office. Nathan Stone was on his way to the local newspaper when the commotion drew his attention.
“I shot Jesse James!” Robert Ford shouted, standing before the telegraph office. “He’s dead! Jesse James is dead, and I killed him!”
Robert Ford went on into the telegraph office, where he sent a telegram to Governor Crittendon, claiming the reward. He then went outside where his brother Charlie waited, and they led the curious back to the house where Jesse James lay dead. Nathan followed, not believing what he was hearing. The sheriff soon arrived, and in deference to Jesse’s grief-stricken wife, forced the curious to leave.
“Sheriff,” Nathan said, “I don’t want to intrude at such a time, but I do need to know whether or not this dead man is Jesse James. Where will the body be taken?”
“To the undertaker’s,” said the lawman, “over yonder next to the jail. Stick around, and when he’s laid out, I’ll get you in to see him.”
Nathan waited more than two hours for the body to be laid out at the undertaker’s. The curious were allowed to file past the wooden coffin, and when Nathan reached it, he saw a young man with a black, bushy beard. He had seen Jesse James only once, more than ten years ago, and he just wasn’t sure this man was the notorious outlaw. Leaving the undertaker’s, Nathan found a crowd had gathered. Charlie and Robert Ford had their backs against the wall of the jail and were bombarded with angry shouts and curses.40
“Break it up,” the sheriff shouted. “You two,” he said, turning to the Fords, “get out of town.”
“I’m waiting for a telegram from the governor,” Bob Ford protested.
“Damn you and the governor,” said the sheriff angrily. “Get out of here before I jail the both of you.”
St. Joseph, Missouri April4, 1882
Jesse’s grieving wife soon convinced everybody, including Nathan Stone, that Jesse James had been shot and killed. Nathan went to the telegraph office and sent a message to Byron Silver in Washington.
Jesse James shot and killed in Saint Joseph on April third.
Nathan signed his name, paid for the telegram, and awaited an answer. He received it an hour later.
Meet me in Saint Louis at Pioneer.
There was no signature, but Nathan needed none. He and Silver had stayed at the old Pioneer Hotel before. Nathan rode back through Kansas City and said goodbye to Eppie. He and Empty then headed east, toward St. Louis.
El Paso, Texas July 29, 1882
There was more trouble involving Dallas Stoudenmire in the Acme Saloon. Will Page, who had at one time been Stoudenmire’s deputy, got into a fight with Billy Bell. Stoudenmire broke up the fight and persuaded Page to go with him to Doyle’s Concert Hall. There the two spent the evening drinking, returning to the Acme Saloon near midnight. Almost immediately they started arguing, and Stoudenmire drew a gun. Page struck the weapon just as it went off, and it blasted lead in the ceiling. Stoudenmire then drew a second revolver, but before he could fire he was confronted by city marshal Jim Gillett, who had a shotgun. Gillett then marched the troublesome pair to jail, where he locked them up for the night.
“I wish I’d seen that,” Wes Tremayne said later.
“Better that you didn’t” Jim Gillett replied. “After gunning down one of the Sandlin gang, you have no business in town after dark.”
“That’s been awhile,” said Wes. “I think I’ve lived that down.”
“I don’t think so,” Gillett said. “They’re waiting for the right time and place.”
Renita had grown weary of spending all her time at Granny’s boardinghouse, so Wes had agreed to take her into town on Saturday afternoons. The first two trips behind them, Wes began to relax, but not for long. They were riding past a livery barn, when suddenly there was the roar of a Winchester from the loft. The first slug struck Wes in the left shoulder, driving him from the saddle. The second shot narrowly missed Renita, but only because she all but fell out of the saddle trying to reach Wes.
“Get away from me!” he shouted.
A third slug kicked dirt in his face, and although he had no specific target, his Colt spat fire. Then the firing ceased, and Renita came running to him.
“You’re hurt,” she cried.
“But I’m alive,” said Wes. “Damn it, you could have been killed getting to me.”
Jim Gillett came galloping toward them, his Winchester at the ready.
“Where was he holed up?” Gillett asked.
“In the livery loft,” said Wes. “The varmint wasn’t just after me. He was shooting at Renita, too.”
“You’d better ride on in and let the doc patch you up. I’ll nose around and see if I can find any tracks.”
Renita mounted her horse and, with some difficulty, Wes mounted his. They rode on into town, reining up at the doctor’s office. Doctor Winslow asked no questions, for it was a time and place where a day seldom passed without at least one gunshot wound. When his wound had been bandaged, Wes paid the doctor two dollars. Just as he and Renita stepped out the door, Jim Gillett rode up.
“The sidewinder was afoot,” Gillett said. “Plenty of tracks around the barn, but no way of knowing which were his.”
“About what I expected,” said Wes. “Next time, I’ll just have to be ready and go get him before he can escape.
“Next time,” Gillett said, “he may get you dead center with the first shot.”
“Oh, I wish we didn’t have to stay here,” said Renita when Gillett had gone.
“We don’t have to,” Wes said. “I’m just not the kind to back off from a fight.”
“Even when they’re firing from cover and you don’t know when they’ll strike next?”
“Even then,” said Wes.
“I know you have your pride, but pride’s no good to a dead man, and a dead man’s of no use to me.”
“I’ve been dry-gulched before,” Wes said, “by hombres who did a hell of a lot better job of it, and I’m still alive. I’m more afraid of them shooting you than hitting me.”
“I’m afraid for you,” she said, “and you’re afraid for me. I’m glad you’re afraid for me. Since mama died, you’re the only one who’s cared.”
Having finished their shopping, Wes took a different way back to Granny Boudleaux’s.
“Next time,” said Renita, “let’s ride as far from all the buildings as we can.”
“We will, going and coming,” Wes said, “but we’ll be afoot and in plain sight on the boardwalks.”
“Then after this, I won’t
go to town as often,” said Renita. “I’ll be more satisfied at Granny’s.”
But there was no safety, even at Granny Boudleaux’s, for that very night riders came in close, shattering windows with gunfire.
“This is going to be difficult,” Jim Gillett said, when he came to investigate. “We’ll be hard pressed for defense because we’ll never know when they’re coming.”
“It’s me they’re after,” said Wes, “and I’ll take care of the defense. Every night after dark I’ll be outside with a shotgun. Let them try that again, and I’ll empty some saddles.”
“All my windows gone,” Granny lamented.
“I’ll pay to have them replaced,” said Wes.
“That’s no more than you should do,” Molly Horrell said. “Perhaps you should consider moving somewhere else.”
“Maybe I should,” said Wes, meeting her eyes, “and I will, if my defense fails.”
“No,” Granny said firmly. “We no let bastardo outlaws drive our people away.”
St. Louis, Missouri April 10, 1882
When Nathan and Empty reached St. Louis, Silver was already there. As so often was the case, he was in Room 21 at the Pioneer Hotel. Nathan knocked twice, paused, and knocked a third time.
“Who is it?” a voice inquired.
“You damn well know who it is,” said Nathan. “Let me in.”
The door opened just enough for Nathan and Empty to enter. When they had, it was quickly closed.
Silver laughed. “Where have you been? I got here yesterday.”
“I stayed an extra day in St. Joseph,” said Nathan. “I was only ambushed twice, and I reckoned there might be a few more wantin’ a shot at me.”
“Now, now,” Silver said, “let’s not be bitter. You did the best you could. Even the government doesn’t expect more than that.”
“Well, God forbid that I should disappoint them,” said Nathan. “Are you sure you’ve got no more phantom outlaws for me to track down?”
“Not at the moment,” Silver said cheerfully. “Maybe when I return to Washington. It’s a shame you didn’t get to Jesse in time, but Frank’s surrendered. If there’s any money left from the robberies, he may be willing to give it up for a more lenient sentence.”
“It’s even more of a shame you didn’t think of that before I wasted four months of my life looking for Jesse,” said Nathan.
“It is,” Silver agreed. “I’m good, but I’m not perfect.”
Conversation lagged. Nathan sat down on the bed and drew off his boots. Empty sat on the oval rug, regarding Silver in a quizzical manner.
Silver laughed. “Look at him. He’s getting more like you every day, sittin’ there just looking right through you, and you don’t know what the hell he’s thinking.”
“I know what he’s thinking,” Nathan said. “He’s thinking it’s time he was fed. We’ve been on short rations since Christmas, because those damn people in Missouri wouldn’t sell us grub.”
“Oh, is that all?” said Silver. “If I feed you, will your sweet disposition return?”
“Maybe,” Nathan said. “Why don’t you try?”
“Come on,” said Silver. “Both of you. After we eat, we can buy passage on the boat to St. Louis.”
“I’m taking my horse,” Nathan said, “because I don’t know how long I’ll stay at the McQueens’. When I’m ready to go, I aim to go.”
New Orleans April 16, 1882
Silver rented a horse and saddle, and with Nathan astride his grulla, they set out for the McQueen place. Recognizing familiar territory, Empty ran on ahead. Spring had come early to New Orleans, and the mighty oaks wore mantles of green, while wildflowers had sprung up in the fields and along the road. They rode past the horse barn, and under the spreading oak where Eulie Prater had been buried was the unmistakable mound of a second grave. Nathan’s heart was in his throat, for he didn’t want to know who slept there beside Eulie. McQueen had acquired some more dogs, and they came loping around the house—four of them—baying their heads off.
“You dogs,” McQueen bawled, “here!”
Reluctantly they reversed themselves and started back to the house. Nathan and Silver rode around to the back porch, as they always had. Empty was already at the back door, expecting Bess McQueen to greet him. But it was Vivian who greeted him, and when they stepped down to take the big hand of Barnabas McQueen, there was something different about him. To Nathan, it seemed almost as though Barnabas wished they hadn’t come, and for some reason, Vivian’s eyes refused to meet his. Something was wrong. Bad wrong.
“Barnabas,” Nathan said, “what’s wrong? Where’s Bess?”
“Over yonder ... by the horse barn,” said Barnabas, choking on the words.
“When ... how ... ?”
“She died ... two weeks ... after Harley left,” McQueen said. “Sudden. She took sick and three days ... later ... she was gone.”
“God,” said Nathan. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“So am I,” Silver said. “She was a great lady.”
“You might as well come on in,” said Barnabas. “The place won’t be as neat as it used to be. Vivian and me ... we’ve been away ...”
All of them sat down at the kitchen table, but Empty walked on through the house in search of Bess. Returning to the kitchen, he regarded them all with sad eyes. He then sat down at the kitchen door and howled mournfully.
“Oh, God, Empty,” said Nathan, “stop it.”
“Nathan,” Barnabas said, “there’s ... there’s been some changes. We should have gotten word to you ...”
“You didn’t know where I was,” said Nathan. “Tell me.”
“I ... me ... Vivian and me ... are husband and wife,” Barnabas said, his eyes on his folded hands. “We were so ... lost without Bess, and we ...”
Nathan said nothing as memories came flooding back. Memories of Vivian from the day he had first seen her in Dodge, half-starved, seeking her brother.
“Congratulations,” said Nathan, having trouble with the word.
“Amen to that,” Silver added.
There was a painful silence. Nathan’s eyes were on Vivian, and the harder she tried not look at him, the more surely it seemed that she must. Finally she got to her feet, leaned across the table toward him, and the dam broke.
“Damn it, Nathan, why did you have to come back, just ... just when I thought I ... I was free of you ...”
“You are free of me,” Nathan said. “I ... I have a woman in El Paso. I ... I thought you ought to know ... I’m ... on my way there ...”
They were the hardest words he had ever spoken, but they were for her, for Barnabas. He got to his feet, put on his hat, and took Barnabas McQueen’s hand for the last time.
“So long, Barnabas.”
Vivian stood there in silence, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. Nathan stepped out the back door, with Silver and Empty behind him. Nathan and Silver mounted and rode away without looking back. Empty paused, looking back toward the McQueen house, and then back toward the distant riders. Reluctantly he turned away, trotting to catch up to the horses.
“My God,” said Silver, when they were well away from the house, “who would ever have thought ...”
“I’d give anything if we’d never come here,” Nathan said. “I may have spoiled whatever slim chance they might have had.”
“You did the right thing,” said Silver. “You left Barnabas believing you hadn’t come to take Vivian away, and you left Vivian believing you’d thrown her over for another girl. Give them time, and that’ll draw them together. I know what that cost you, amigo. You’re one bueno hombre. The question is, where do we go from here?”
“I’m going to El Paso,” Nathan said. “You’re welcome to ride along.”
“I’m obliged for the offer,” said Silver, “but I can’t see it accomplishing anything. It’s a good thousand miles from here, and I’d use up the rest of my leave just getting there. I reckon I’ll leave this horse and saddle at the
livery and take the next boat north. I hope when our trails cross again, it’ll be under better circumstances.”
Nathan and Empty waited at the landing until Silver had boarded the steamboat. Without a backward look, Nathan Stone rode out of New Orleans for the last time. Riding west into the setting sun, he felt suddenly free. While he regretted losing Vivian, he now knew she had become a burden without his realizing it. He felt some obligation to her, but now she belonged to Barnabas McQueen.
“Empty,” said Nathan, “we’re goin’ near Houston, so I reckon we’ll stop long enough to see Captain Dillard of the Texas Rangers.”
Houston, Texas April 23, 1882
“It’s near suppertime, Captain, and I’m buying,” Nathan said.
“I’ll take you up on that,” said Captain Dillard.
The two old friends spent an hour in a cafe, and when they parted company, they had planned to meet for breakfast the following morning before Nathan again rode west.
“Is Bodie West still in south Texas?” Nathan asked, as they sat down to breakfast.
“Yes,” said Captain Dillard. “He’s in Austin or San Antonio. Most likely San Antone.”
“Good,” Nathan said. “I’d like to see him again. He was a friend to Captain Jennings.”
“If there’s any one thing I dislike about the Rangers,” said Captain Dillard, “it’s all the old friends who have died in the line of duty. Among them, Sage Jennings.”
“He won’t be forgotten,” Nathan agreed.
San Antonio, Texas April 26, 1882
“Nathan,” said Ranger Bodie West, “it’s good to see you again.”
“Good to see you,” Nathan replied, taking West’s hand. “What’s happened since I was last here?”
West laughed. “You won’t believe it. In 1879, Ben Thompson ran for city marshal of Austin and was defeated. He ran again in 1881 and was elected.”
Autumn of the Gun Page 42