by Cindi Myers
I was out of breath by the time I reached the outskirts of town, having walked as fast as I was able away from the lawman. I slowed and massaged the stitch in my side, and looked back over my shoulder. The road was empty, and I breathed a shaky sigh of relief.
But the encounter with the lawman continued to haunt me. No doubt he had intended eventually to question me as to my knowledge of Jesse’s activities or whereabouts. That didn’t upset me as much as his judgment of Jesse did. What was it about Jesse that caused strangers to choose their preferred version of him? Some, like the boy on the train, saw him as a hero, while men like the deputy painted him as the worst sort of demon. The press didn’t help with their sensationalist reports of every rumor surrounding the James brothers. The president himself didn’t garner so much coverage in the papers, at least in Missouri.
Whatever the reason for the public’s views of Jesse, I hated to see him so misjudged. The man I knew was neither devil nor angel. He was a special man, to be certain, but the qualities that endeared him to me were apparently hidden to most others. I knew Jesse’s kindness and caring, and his deep, abiding love for me. I saw the vulnerability of the boy he had been and the man he was. I had seen the strength of his convictions and felt the depth of his sorrow at the loss of his brother and the injury to his mother. I knew the gentleness with which he held his child, and the passion with which he expressed his love for me.
Jesse had made me the woman I was today. If not for him, I would be some unhappy farmer’s wife, condemned to always struggle to reconcile the dutiful role society had dictated for me and the private rebellions of my heart. Only with Jesse was I free to be myself, rebellions and sins and all. He loved me despite of and because of my flaws and foibles, and understood me as no one else ever could.
Those of us who lived now at the Samuels’ farm carried out a daily ritual. Ambrose rose early and rode into town to meet the first train, and collected as many different newspapers as were available. We would begin reading them over breakfast and continue through the morning, drinking cup and after cup of milky coffee and sweet herb tea and debating the merits of this story or that.
“This story says two boys were plowing a field when six men in rubber coats accosted them.” Annie indicated an article in the paper she was reading one morning. “The men took the horses at gunpoint, and forced the boys to guide them into the woods. They said one of the men was heavily bandaged and feverish.”
“This story says three hundred men have rallied to the pursuit.” I scanned another article. “It also says it’s rained every day since the bank robbery.” I closed my eyes, swallowing tears as I thought of Jesse, cold and hungry and possibly hurt, slogging through rain. He wasn’t in the woods of Missouri or Kansas, territory he knew well, but in a strange northern land far from home, with hundreds of men pursuing him, like hounds determined to run a fox to ground.
Later reports that reached our ears indicated the six outlaws were on foot, having abandoned their horses. Zerelda scoffed at this idea. “My boys would never walk when they could ride!”
The men were said to be hungry, stealing food to survive—cabbages and corn from fields they passed through, and the occasional chicken. I could scarcely force food down my own throat as I thought of Jesse starving in some field somewhere.
September 21, when I had been at the Samuels’ farm for a week, two weeks after the raid on the Northfield bank, lawmen cornered Cole, Bob and Jim Younger and Charlie Pitts in a farmer’s field near Madelia, Minnesota. In the gun battle that followed, Pitts was killed and the three Youngers badly wounded. Out of options, the Youngers surrendered and were hauled off to jail.
I read this account with my heart in my throat, then looked across the breakfast table at my fellow sufferers. I knew we were all thinking the same thing, but Zerelda was the only one brave enough to say it out loud. “Where are Frank and Jesse?” She pounded the table with her fist, making the silverware jump. “What has become of my boys?”
We sent Ambrose to the depot for papers twice a day now. The reporters fell silent on the subject of Frank and Jesse, but we had an answer soon enough. Two days after the news broke of the capture of the Youngers, a posse approached the farm, calling for the surrender of Frank and Jesse. They were answered with a hail of bullets, and forced to withdraw. But the encounter made Zerelda almost giddy. “If they’re looking for them here, that means they haven’t found them elsewhere,” she crowed.
The law was still hunting Jesse and Frank, but they had no proof to tie them to any crime. When Cole Younger was asked to reveal the identity of his two accomplices, his answer was a note, handed to his jailers. Be true to your friends if the Heavens fall.
I thought of the handsome young man who had asked me to dance that long-ago day at my sister’s wedding, and sent up a prayer for his protection. I had not fallen in love with Cole, but the man I did love couldn’t have asked for a better friend, and I hoped Cole wouldn’t suffer too much because of that friendship.
If it is possible to live on hope alone, then that is what I did in those two weeks with the other women at the farmhouse. And I think it must be some of what kept Jesse going across hundreds of miles of hostile territory. The hope of warmth and food and safety. The hope of seeing home and family once more.
Only later did we learn that, having separated from the rest of the group, Frank and Jesse stole a pair of horses from a farmer’s barn. They found kind folks who fed them and gave them a change of clothes. They forded rivers, crossed fields, and rode by moonlight to avoid discovery. They made it to Dakota Territory, then on to Iowa, and finally to Missouri.
They returned to the farm late one night at the end of the month. The pickets the Samuels had posted spotted them first, and sent word to the house. Perry, now seven, was sent to wake me, though he didn’t tell me why. Pulling on a dress, I hurried into the front room, where a sight from my dreams—or my nightmares—greeted me.
Frank sat on the settee, his coat off, his trousers sliced open to the knee, revealing an ugly wound, which Dr. Samuel knelt before him to dress. Annie sat beside him, holding his hand and stroking his arm.
Jesse sprawled in a chair nearby, as filthy and thin as his brother, but seemingly unharmed. He looked up when I entered, and smiled broadly, though the happiness in that smile didn’t reach all the way to his eyes. His gaze as it met mine spoke of weariness and unutterable suffering.
I ran to him and collapsed onto the floor beside him, throwing my arms around him. He was painfully thin, and filthy, his hair matted, his beard a thick tangle. I was reminded of the boy who had been brought to my parents’ parlor all those years ago. He had not been expected to live then, and he had. He had not been expected to escape Northfield, either, yet he had. He was beaten, but not defeated, bent but not broken.
“God, I’m so glad you’re safe,” I murmured, my face pressed against his shoulder.
“I’m safe,” he said, his hand caressing mine. “Did you ever doubt I’d find a way to make it home to you?”
“All I want is a meal and a bath and bed, in that order,” Frank rasped. Annie smiled at his outburst, and smoothed his matted hair.
Zerelda moved from son to son, reassuring herself more than them with her ministrations. She barked orders to Ambrose and Charlotte, to haul water and stoke fires, to fry steak and potatoes and bake cornbread and pies. The prodigals had returned and we all must celebrate.
And celebrate we did. In the wee hours of the morning we drank and ate and praised the Lord for the return of those we loved. Later, Ambrose filled a zinc tub with hot water from the stove. Frank bathed first, then another tub was drawn and it was Jesse’s turn. I waited anxiously outside the door, ready if he should need anything, but after some initial splashing, the room fell silent.
Alarmed, I rushed into the room, only to find that Jesse had fallen asleep, head lolling, one hand clutching the side of the tub, the other resting on the butt of the pistol in the chair beside him.
Even in
sleep, he couldn’t give up his vigilance. All the soap and hot water in the world would never remove that taint of violence.
Jesse slept for the better part of two days, scarcely even rolling over in bed, his face slack with exhaustion. When he woke, we made love with all the fervor and gratitude of two people resurrected from the dead. Afterwards, he trimmed his beard and combed his hair and dressed in a clean shirt and trousers. He admired himself in the washstand mirror, then went into the kitchen and kissed his mother and Annie, and even kissed Charlotte, waltzing her around the room until she shrieked in protest.
“They thought they had us trapped,” he boasted. “But there hasn’t been a trap set that could hold the James brothers.”
Frank, always prone to moroseness, looked more downcast than ever. “We were lucky,” he said. “But it seems to me our luck has about run out.”
Jesse studied his brother, then drew up a chair beside Frank, who sat with his injured leg propped on a stool in front of him. “We had a close one,” Jesse admitted. “But we made it through and we’ll make it through again.”
Frank looked at him, sad-eyed as a hound dog. The back door opened and Ambrose appeared, his arms full of newspapers, and we began the afternoon ritual.
The news was grim. Pictures of the dead Clel Miller, Bill Chadwell and Charlie Pitts dominated the front pages of almost every paper. I wanted to look away, but my eyes remained riveted to the staring eyes and blood-streaked bodies of men who had dined at my table and thanked me politely for the meal. Even in death, Clel still smiled sweetly, while Bill and Charlie looked surprised at their fate.
“It says here the James brothers are thought to be hiding out in Mexico.” Jesse guffawed at the idea.
“This paper says they’ve gone west, to live with a tribe of Sioux Indians, where they’ve married squaws and have a pack of half-breed children.” Annie regarded her husband over the top of the paper. “If you did that, you’d have more than some measly sheriff’s posse to worry about.”
“The question is, where do we go now?” Jesse asked.
“Away,” Frank said. “Away from the heat.”
“Can’t none of these people say for certain we were at that bank,” Jesse said.
“Haven’t you figured out by now it doesn’t always matter what proof the law has as much as what they think they know?” Frank’s stool clattered back as he rose, clutching the back of the chair for support. “You can do what you want,” he said. “But I’m going away.”
Jesse’s eyes met mine across the table. For as long as I had known him, he had always followed after Frank, from the days of toddling across the yard, trying to keep up with his brother, to the night he rode after him to join the bushwhackers. They were a team, “The James Brothers,” or “The James Boys” or “Frank and Jesse James.” One name didn’t sound right without the other.
Jesse leaned across the table and took my hand. “What do you say, Mrs. Howard?” he asked. “Shall we try our hand at respectable living?”
“I think we should, Mr. Howard,” I said. I held my breath as I waited for his answer. I wanted Jesse to be happy, but I also wanted him alive, and it seemed Frank’s idea to go away for a while—perhaps forever—was the best way to keep us all safe and happy.
He rubbed the side of his leg, his lower lip stuck out in contemplation. “We’ll do it, Zee,” he said finally. “It’s time I put aside my wild ways and became a responsible citizen.”
Frank snorted and mumbled under his breath about “impossibilities,” but Jesse ignored him. He swept aside a stack of papers to clear a space in front of him on the table. “Charlotte, is there any more of that peach pie?” he asked. “Seems I have some catching up to do.”
Chapter Ten
In October, the five of us—Jesse, Frank, Annie, our son Jesse Edwards and I—returned to Tennessee, to Nashville. Jesse and I rented a house in town and established ourselves as J.D. and Josie Howard. Frank leased a nearby farm and styled himself B.J. Woodson and his wife, Fannie.
I would have thought it wise to keep our distance from our neighbors lest, in getting to know us better, they became suspicious as to our true identities. But that wasn’t Jesse’s way. He enjoyed the company and conversation of others and even a simple errand to buy a set of shoelaces could turn into an hour-long expedition as he stopped to converse with the shopkeeper and other customers. People liked Jesse—men responded to his intelligent conversation and firm handshake, while women were ever susceptible to his winning smile and piercing blue eyes.
We had scarcely been in Tennessee a week before we were invited to dinner at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Waymon Endicott. Mrs. Endicott even offered the services of her housekeeper to look after Tim while we were dining. Jesse happily accepted.
“How is it you know Mr. Endicott?” I asked as we dressed for dinner.
“We met downtown, at Scott’s Saloon.” Jesse lifted his chin and tightened the knot on his tie.
“What kind of work does he do?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. Something that allows him the leisure to hang around at the saloon, debating politics.”
Of course. Politics was a favorite subject of Jesse’s. He followed every election passionately. I sometimes wonder how different things might have been for us if his voting rights and the ability to run for office had not been stripped from him after the war. He resented this disenfranchisement more deeply than most people knew.
We walked to dinner, since the Endicotts lived only three blocks from the house Jesse had rented for us. The housekeeper, Mrs. Boston, met us at the door of the attractive brick manse, and ushered us into a pleasant parlor before carrying Tim up to the nursery where the Endicotts’ twin two-year old daughters waited.
Mrs. Endicott was a petite beauty with spun-gold hair and friendly gray eyes. She greeted me warmly. “You must call me Francis,” she urged.
“Then you must call me Josie,” I said.
She led me to the sofa, while Jesse took a chair opposite Mr. Endicott by the fireplace. “I hope you’re enjoying your new home in Tennessee,” Francis said.
“Yes, it’s very nice to be here,” I said.
“Where are you from originally?” she asked.
“Kentucky.” This was the fiction Jesse and I had agreed on.
“I have a sister in Logan County,” Francis said.
“I never had the pleasure of visiting that part of the state,” I said. Though I knew Logan County was the location of Russellville, the site of one of Jesse’s early robberies. I quickly sought to steer the conversation away from the minefield of our made-up past. “How long have you and Mr. Endicott lived in Nashville?” I asked.
“Four years now. He was sheriff in Chattanooga before taking the job here.”
I caught my breath, sure I had blanched. “Y . . . your husband is the sheriff?” I stammered. “I didn’t know.” The room suddenly seemed very small and stifling. I avoided looking at Jesse, afraid I might give away my mounting panic.
“It’s always a pleasure to meet an officer of the law,” Jesse said heartily.
A Negro maid in a white apron appeared in the doorway. “Dinner is ready, Mrs. Endicott,” she said.
Francis rose and led the way into the dining room. Jesse gave my arm a reassuring squeeze, but I took no comfort from the gesture.
The dining room was elegantly appointed, with Hepplewhite furniture and a crystal chandelier. Either the office of Sheriff of Davidson County paid very well, or one or both of the Endicotts had brought money to the marriage.
We sat down to a first course of cucumber soup. I forced myself to eat, not tasting the food. Was our host even now studying Jesse, comparing him to descriptions circulated on the posters which offered a reward for his capture?
“Do you find much crime to keep you busy here?”
I stared at Jesse. He seemed completely relaxed, smiling at Endicott as he awaited the answer to his question.
“Enough,” Endicott said. “Tennessee hasn’t
had the trouble some other places have with bandits, but we’re always on our guard.”
“Yes, I imagine you have to be,” Jesse said. “I’m really amazed at the audacity of some of these robbers, operating in broad daylight, then slipping past dozens of pursuers to escape.”
“They’ve done that in Missouri,” Endicott said. “Where they had sympathizers to hide them or cover their tracks. They haven’t had such luck elsewhere. Look at that fiasco up in Northfield, Minnesota with the Younger brothers.”
Jesse nodded solemnly. “Yes. But the law caught all those bandits, didn’t they?”
“They were caught, but it took a lot longer—and cost a lot more in manpower and resources—than it should have.”
“Except the James brothers. It seems no one can lay a hand on them.”
“Their time will come,” Endicott said. “They’ll get cocky or careless and the law will be there to bring them to justice.”
The maid cleared our soup bowls and delivered plates of Dover sole and new potatoes. “What do you think is the key to stopping these desperados?” Jesse asked.
If I’d been seated closer, and not been hampered by my skirts, I would have kicked him under the table. I couldn’t believe he was deliberately keeping the subject on his own crimes. He clearly enjoyed leading the sheriff on.
“I believe more banks and express companies will begin stationing armed guards in their buildings and in the express cars on trains,” Endicott said, warming to the subject. “I’ve also heard talk of alarm systems, and telegraph lines linked directly to the police. If enough of these thefts are stopped before they begin, and their perpetrators locked away, it will discourage the rest.”
Jesse nodded. “You may be right. But I would think there’d be a danger of the robbers adapting their approaches to compensate for the law’s moves. Perhaps they’d strike at night, when the guards weren’t around. Or have an accomplice hire on as an employee of the bank or express company.”