by J. T. Edson
From the beginning, as she felt sure was the case with the guard and the driver, Betty had studied the gang with eyes that knew the West and could read the signs. Everything she saw suggested they were just youngsters who considered the excitement and money acquired as outlaws preferable to honest hard work. The way in which Jesse was acting implied that he at least had read and was influenced by the luridly fanciful stories such as were given in books like The True and Factual Life of Jesse and Frank James. The politeness to her and presentation of money to the poor nester were part of the pattern. In fact, she considered the way in which the leader allowed himself to be called Jesse so openly a desire to make his victims believe he really was the notorious Missouri train and bank robber.
Betty had never met Jesse James, although she had read some of the books that portrayed him as being an unselfish, kindly, and noble Clay County version of Robin Hood using a brace of Colts instead of a yew longbow. On the other hand, she had heard Dusty Fog’s views on him both as a reputed hero of the Confederate cause while riding with William Clarke Quantrill’s guerrillas and later as an outlaw. They were far from complimentary, but more accurate with regard to his real nature than anything that appeared in print. She could hardly prevent a smile from coming as she remembered her illustrious cousin’s reply when one of the younger cowhands at the OD Connected had spoken of “Dingus” James robbing only the rich. “Why sure,” Dusty had answered, “Jesse wouldn’t rob the poor, they’d have nothing worth taking.” Which, she considered, summed up the generous behavior of Jesse James.
There was further proof that the leader of the gang was still trying to copy the fictional Jesse James when Graham Taylor and Sim Wilbran were sent to fetch their horses. On arrival, these proved to be far from the fine and fiery steeds upon which Dingus and his men were claimed to ride. In fact, they looked closer to the culls left behind at some trail-end town as being unworthy of being taken back to Texas. If horses like that had ever been found in the OD Connected’s remuda, inconceivable as such a thing was with Dusty as segundo, all hell would have been raised by Ole Devil and she would have had a few less-than-kind words on the subject to say herself.
“Ham,” Jesse said, looking at the horse left from the stagecoach’s scattered team. “We can’t have no for-real lady like Miss Hardin riding barebacked. She can have your boss.”
While grateful for the thought, the girl would almost have wished to be left with the harness horse, as it looked capable of being able to outrun the mounts of the gang given a chance. Instead of mentioning the point, she allowed herself to be assisted to mount by Jesse and sat getting the feel of the animal, no difficult task for one of her equestrian ability since it was completely docile. With the gang in their saddles, Jesse flipped the noose of his rope around the neck of the animal she was given. She accepted this more as a tribute to her ability as a rider than for any other reason. Such a precaution was hardly due to the quality of the horse she was astride; it was a sorry creature and the worst of the bunch, being unlikely to be able to outrun any of the others.
Not that Betty had any intention of trying to escape. In the unlikely event that she succeeded, the gang might vent their rage by going back and killing the men left with the stagecoach. When she was captured, as she considered almost certain to happen, Jesse could be driven to change his polite treatment as a means of keeping his dominance over the others. If he failed, he would be replaced by the one called Jack, who struck her as being most unlikely to have forgotten the humiliation she had instinctively inflicted and might seek to avenge it in a way she would be compelled to resist even to death. She had already concluded that it would be unwise to take any chances with such a bunch. They would be as dangerous to fool with as a fully loaded and cocked Colt: safe to a certain point, then deadly.
As much to delay the departure, in the hope that something might happen to let the tables be turned upon her captors, as realizing it would come in useful, Betty asked for her overnight bag to be collected from inside the stagecoach. When Jesse inquired whether she wanted any of her other belongings taken, she declined on the truthful grounds that they were all too bulky. With the article she requested and her handbag brought by Sim, but searched and not given to her, the party set off.
Watching the gang and their captive ride away, the thoughts of Flint Major and Pizen Joe Leatherhead ran along much the same lines her own had taken. Much as they hated having to let Betty Hardin be abducted without making any attempt to stop its happening, also seeing the bunch as dangerously close to amateurs, they had known better than to try anything. Rather, they concluded they could serve her best by getting to Bent’s Ford with the news as quickly as possible. Being left afoot, it would be after dark before they arrived, which meant no pursuit could be started before morning. However, preparations for carrying it out could be made and expert assistance in such matters as following the tracks of the gang obtained, if they were not already available. Spitting disgustedly, the driver followed the guard to gather up their discarded weapons.
“A fine thing!” Russel Prouty boomed indignantly, staring after the departing riders. “An armed guard and we still get robbed with such ease. I’m not without friends among the Wells Fargo superintendents, my man, and I’ll see this gets reported to them.”
“You just do that,” Major grunted in an uninterested fashion. “I reckon they’ll be right pleasured to hear I did like the company says I should when such happens.”
“You might even get a bonus for doing her, Flint,” Leatherhead commented dryly. “Though I wouldn’t go holding my breath a-waiting for it, was I you.”
“Why didn’t you do something?” Prouty demanded, glowering from the old driver to the guard.
“I did,” Major answered, holstering his Colt after replenishing the chamber with bullets from the loops on his belt. “That was one dangerous bunch there, mister. Happen I’d tried to fight ’em off, which is against the company’s policy when there’s passengers to be considered, they’d likely’ve killed all of us afore they stopped throwing lead.”
“You can practical’ guarantee that,” Leatherhead supported.
“Jesse!” The portly businessman came much closer to yelping than speaking in a conversational fashion, directing his words to the other two passengers, while the driver was still making the sardonic comment. “They called that outlaw Jesse. We’ve been robbed by Jesse James!”
Although Harold Goodgold had arrived at a similar conclusion, he did not offer to give his support to the theory. The only two men to be armed were already starting to walk in the direction of Bent’s Ford, and he did not intend to remain by the stagecoach until they returned with help. Instead he followed on their heels, and the other passengers, realizing what was portended by the sight, wasted no time in bringing up the rear.
Once the gang were well clear of the stagecoach trail, Jesse Wilbran drew down the bandanna with which he had masked his face in what he had read was the tradition of owlhoots to avoid being recognized and identified at some future date. Mopping at the sweat that coated his face with his left hand, he gazed at his companions with an air of satisfaction and said everything had gone as planned,
“No point in keeping ’em on, boys,” the would-be leader of outlaws declared when none of his companions duplicated his action despite also clearly showing indications of discomfort.
“She’ll know all of us without ’em,” said Frank Dobson, being an equally avid reader of blood-and-thunder fiction and so just as aware of the reason for wearing such masks. “So we shouldn’t let her see our faces.”
“We’ll be hard put not to, times she’ll be with us,” Jess stated. “It’s going to take a fair piece for us to get paid off, and we can’t keep ’em covered all the time until we do. ‘Sides which, do you allow as how we’re going to let some other bunch get the credit for our job? Like hell we are. Not even Jesse James ever pulled a stage holdup ’n’ a kid-snatching—which is what they call what we’ve done to you, ma’am�
��one right on top of t’other.”
Gripping the reins gently in her black-gloved hands, Betty Hardin managed to hide her smile. It was obvious that Jesse considered there was something very special in what he and his gang had done. Therefore, he was afraid some other outlaw leader might steal his thunder. As she was to learn later, he was annoyed that the early robberies he had committed were barely given a mention in the newspapers. The exploits of the Dalton brothers, Bill Doolin, Sam Bass—the Texas robber of trains and banks—all received far greater coverage. What was more, even Belle Starr, the Rose of Cimarron, and, to a lesser extent, Cattle Annie and Little Britches had received greater attention. xxvii However, he was certain that the dual crime he had committed would redress the matter and wanted to be sure that he received all the credit rather than its going somewhere undeserved.
“Hey, Jess,” Sim Wilbran remarked after he and the others had also uncovered their faces with equal suggestions of relief. “You reckon Bent’ll do what Belle reckons he will when he hears what’s happened?”
“Sure,” Jesse stated, but he had no intention of allowing the girl to know it had been just the idea of the lady outlaw. “Like we both allowed when I let her in with us, he’ll telegraph her folks ’n’ they’ll send word right back for him to pay up ’n’ they’ll square with him later.”
“So that’s how you’re going to do it,” Betty said with what sounded like admiration, having been wondering how the deal would be carried out. She also decided that, whoever the woman might be—and she was still certain it was not Belle Starr—it was obvious who had been the brains behind the affair. “But how do you intend to let Mr. Bent know?”
“That’s easy ’nough done,” Jesse claimed. “She s—I said as how we’d send her something of your’n like your handbag to prove we’d got you and she could get it ’n’ the word to Bent. Which being, you’d best go right now, Sim.”
“I’ll do it,” Jack Cunningham put in truculently, moving his horse forward.
“All right,” Jesse assented. Sensing a challenge to his authority and not being ready to take it up right then, he had sufficient low cunning to see how he could effect a compromise without appearing to let himself be compelled to agree. “You can ride along of Sim.”
Watching the pair ride away, Betty decided that her task of remaining alive, unmolested and perhaps even effecting an escape, were getting better.
However, having no idea where she was being taken, the girl concluded that the least she could do in her own behalf was everything she could to help whoever came in search of her find where she was being held.
There was, Betty told herself wryly and not for the first time since her abduction, only herself to blame for her present predicament. Having had to go to Chicago on some business for her grandfather and an aunt—fulfilling a long-held ambition, traveling there by paddle-steamer from Galveston to New Orleans and then by riverboat and train the rest of the way—she had intended to go to Mulrooney in Kansas so that she could at last make the acquaintance of Dusty’s wife. She had been in written contact with the beautiful and most efficient titled English lady who had found it necessary to live in the United States under the alias “Freddie Woods” and felt sure they would get along famously. xxviii
Unfortunately, a message from the aunt, Selina Blaze—who ran a most successful business as a dressmaker, with clientele spread across the West—which reached Betty in Chicago, had stressed the urgency with which the various latest-mode garments she had acquired in New York and there should be delivered so they could be copied and dispatched to customers. Knowing how much her aunt’s livelihood and continued success depended upon such transactions and sensing that any visit with Freddie was sure to be lengthy, she had reluctantly sent a letter to Mulrooney explaining the situation and saying that, as she expected would prove the case from similarly bitter personal experience, her sister-in-law would want to be rid of them. Her cousin and the rest of the floating outfit should be told when she would be passing through Bent’s Ford so they could meet her there and she would ensure they behaved themselves properly during the remainder of the journey to the OD Connected.
“Which only goes to prove the way to Hell is paved with good intentions,” Betty mused, as the remainder of the gang started moving while Sim and Cunningham set off in another direction. “Because my intentions were of the very best!”
Fifteen – She Paid A Hell of A Price For Doing It
“Howdy, Miss Starr,” Simcock Wilbran greeted, having received no encouragement when he had addressed the reddish-brunette as “Belle” during their previous meeting. “It went off slick ’n’ easy as you said it would.”
Having spent the intervening time at Big Win’s place without incident, other than its owner—having been told by the bartender what happened in her absence—demanding to be paid for being allowed to stay and not be required to carry on the pose of being a saloon girl, Libby Craddock had been waiting in the woodland a short distance from it at the place she had arranged as a rendezvous for herself and whichever of the gang came to let her know how the holdup and kidnapping went off. Despite having had no intention of going on with their association, or staying in the West once she got her hands on the currency-printing plates, she had pretended there would be other and even more lucrative robberies in which they could participate. Therefore, she had not doubted they would come to bring her share of the loot.
“Where are her bags?” the reddish-brunette demanded coldly, having stipulated that these items should be taken with the woman she believed to be Belle Boyd, looking pointedly at the saddles of the pair’s horses. “I said for you to bring them.”
“Hell, there was a big pile of ’em on top of the stage,” Jack Cunningham growled, feeling resentment over having a woman speak to him in such a bossy fashion even if she was—as he, like all the others, believed to be—the famous Belle Starr. “Big ’n’s to boot. We wasn’t going to hang around, going through ’em all, nor sorting her’n out to weigh the hosses down toting ’em along when they likely wouldn’t have nothing but women’s doodads in “em.”
“Did she ask you to take any of them?” Libby snarled.
“Naw,” Sim replied in a placating tone, deciding against mentioning that nobody had remembered until too late that the “lady outlaw” had said they should fetch all their victim’s baggage and pleased Cunningham had been sufficiently quick-witted to come up with a passable reason to explain the failure to do so. “But Jess allowed she should have her handbag and the little ’n’ that was inside the coach ’cause it’d got things she’d need while we was holding her for ransom. We got us a fair amount of cash money out of the handbag, so we’ve added your share of it to what we got from the three fellers. It comes to a tidy sum.”
“Wasn’t there anything else in either of them?” the reddish-brunette inquired, deciding she had better change her attitude, as she could see Cunningham was showing signs of annoyance over her behavior and sensing he could be dangerous if crossed. Wanting to avoid arousing suspicions and having no intention of saying what she was really interested in hearing about, she went on, “I mean like jewelry.”
“Was some in the handbag,” Sim admitted. “But Jess said as how she was to be let keep it, seeing’s how we’d get a better’n fair price as ransom from her folks and it wouldn’t be right to go robbing no lady when such wasn’t our intention for taking her with us.”
“And what about in the other bag?” Libby queried, concluding that Jesse Wilbran would think in such a fashion to keep up his pretense of being a noble and gallant outlaw in the mold of the fictional Jesse James.
“Just ordinary she-male’s doodads,” the younger Wilbran brother replied with something like a blush coming to his cheeks. “You know, like the kind you see in the dream-books iffen you get to one afore your momma’s tore ’em out.”
“There wouldn’t have been some flat lead plates about this size?” the reddish-brunette said, trying to make the words sound casual. While ge
sturing the appropriate dimensions with her hands, she hoped that if the answer was in the affirmative none of her dupes had noticed and drawn the correct conclusions from the way the items were inscribed. “Women often carry them for—well, men who’ve been around as much as you don’t need telling what for.”
“Ain’t never seen no woman toting such,” Sim admitted, trying to sound worldly-wise. “And Miss Hardin for sure wasn’t.”
“Oh well, they wouldn’t have been worth taking anyway,” Libby said, needing to exert all her willpower to speak as if the subject were of no great consequence. Deciding that the only consolation she could draw was that her share of the loot would be a welcome addition to her depleted revenue, she continued, “Tell Jesse and the others I’ll leave word with Big Win where we can get together for our next job.”
“Aren’t you coming back with us?” Sim asked, seeing that a horse with a fair-size bedroll strapped to the cantle of its saddle was standing hitched to a bush.
“No!” Libby replied, and realized she had spoken with too much vehemence, so sought to make amends as she had no wish to stir up suspicion. “I’ve got to go and pick up some information for another job we can pull, but I’ll come back to Big Win’s to collect my cut of the ransom money when it gets here.”
“We might as well get going, then, Sim,” Cunningham stated, showing relief for some reason, which the reddish-brunette could not understand but decided against questioning. “We’ve got things to do.”
“Jess’ll let you know when your cut’s come, ma’am,” Sim promised, doffing his hat and then following his companion’s example by mounting his horse to ride away.