The Woman Who Loved Jesse James

by Cindi Myers

  “Mr. Howard, don’t you think that was a little excessive?” Annie asked, her voice frosty.

  “I had to shut him up and I did.” Jesse stepped into the box, pulling the door to behind him, and took his seat beside me.

  “Who was that?” I asked.

  “Never saw him before in my life,” Frank said, sitting between Annie and Dick.

  “You put the fear of God into him,” Dick said. “That’s the way to do it. Show ’em who’s boss.”

  Jesse ignored this praise. “The race is about to start,” he said, consulting his racing form. “I like a horse called Gussie’s Gumption in this one. What do you think, Buck?”

  “They’re all two-year olds,” Frank said. “I didn’t see anything worth betting on.”

  Gussie’s Gumption lost the bet, and fifty dollars for Jesse. He tore the losing ticket into tiny pieces and let them drift to the floor of the box, watching them fall with all the concentration of a child admiring his first snow.

  Jim Malone raced in the second heat. Jesse, Frank, Dick and even Annie stood to cheer the horses around the track. I sat silent, unable to shake the haunting image of the portly man crumpled at Jesse’s feet, and the impassive cruelty of my husband’s actions. Always before, I had dismissed news accounts that portrayed Jesse as a heartless killer as over-dramatization by the press. The Jesse I knew was no more a killer than I was.

  Tonight I had seen another side to my husband—a side that frightened and confused me.

  Jim Malone won the race. Jesse was ebullient, slapping Frank on the back, then pulling me close and kissing my cheek. I smiled, feigning delight, but the day was ruined for me. Even the money Jesse won did little to ease my dismay.

  I kept watching the crowd for the portly man, but saw him no more. Mrs. Peabody and her escort left soon after the second race, the man smiling smugly. Mrs. Peabody ducked her head as they passed our box.

  We stayed for two more races after Jim Malone’s win, but Jesse grew restless, rising from his seat and pacing our box. “There’s no point staying here any longer,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

  Annie looked as if she wanted to argue, but Frank gave her a quelling look. “Yes, we’d better go,” he said, and stood also.

  Jesse sent Dick to fetch the hired carriage. We rode in silence to Frank and Annie’s farm and collected the children, who were sugar-smeared and full of tales of helping Mrs. Morrison with her baking.

  Dick hung around our house for half an hour or so, as if he expected to be invited to supper, but Jesse finally sent him on his way.

  Later that evening, when the dishes were done and the children sent to bed, after Jesse had smoked the day’s last cigar and helped me out of my corset and combed out my hair, I crawled into bed beside him and turned down the lamp. I lay on my back, staring into the darkness, the image of the lamp flame still glowing on my retinas. Beside me, Jesse rearranged his pillow and settled under the covers.

  “Would you have killed that man today?” I asked.

  “What man?”

  I wouldn’t believe he’d already forgotten; he was being contrary, a tendency I’d always disliked in him. “The man at the track. The one who recognized you and called you Jesse.”

  “He had enough sense to shut up before I killed him.”

  I rose up on one elbow and tried to see his face in the darkness; it was only a blur of darker shadows against shadows. “Are you saying you would have killed him if he hadn’t stopped talking?”

  “I would have done what I had to do.”

  The icy calm of his voice chilled me. “How could you kill a man merely for talking?” I asked, trying to see the reasoning behind such a judgment.

  “It was his choice. I drew a line and he had to decide whether or not cross it.”

  “Who gave you the right to draw the line?”

  “Life is all about drawing lines. Every day. Surviving is a matter of knowing when to draw them—and when to step across.”

  “So if a man crosses your line, you kill him?”

  “He had a choice. He didn’t have to step across.”

  “And you don’t have to shoot him!”

  “But I do.”

  “No you don’t. Plenty of men go their whole lives never shooting anybody.”

  “Sure. Men who live soft, safe lives behind a desk or store counter. That’s not the kind of life I live. But if I start living like a store clerk or an accountant or a man like that—if a man crosses my line, and I don’t make him pay, then I might as well hang it up tomorrow, because I’ll be dead or behind bars within the week.”

  I lay back on my pillow, ignoring the hot tears that spilled from my eyes, anger and fear churning my stomach. “Sometimes I wish you were a store clerk or accountant,” I said.

  “No you don’t.” He entwined his fingers in mine. “Because then I wouldn’t be me. You love me as much for what I am as for who I am.”

  I wanted to pull my hand away, to deny this accusation. But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. “How do you know that?” I asked.

  “It’s the way we’re made.” He raised my hand to his lips and kissed my knuckles. “There’s a wildness in you that nobody but me sees—that part of you would never be happy with a clerk or an accountant. Just like I’d never be happy with a schoolteacher like Annie.”

  He rolled to me and gathered me close. I made no protest, but clung to him. “Jesse, I’m scared,” I whispered.

  He smoothed my hair and kissed my forehead. “Sometimes, I am too,” he said. “But it always passes after a while. It will for you, too.”

  For the rest of the year, Jesse and Dick traveled back and forth between our house in Nashville and who knows where. I heard rumors of stagecoaches way-laid and stores robbed, but these were easy enough to discount. For years, the James Gang had been credited with every robbery between Tennessee and California. Apparently the disgrace of being taken advantage of by robbers was lessened if the culprits happened to be the notorious Jesse James and company.

  I knew he spent some of this time at racetracks around the country, watching Jim Malone win purse after purse. The horse’s victories thrilled me, not because I cared about horse racing, but because I thought the excitement of racing and the winnings he collected might encourage Jesse to set aside some of his more dangerous pursuits.

  But at the end of the racing season, Jesse sold his interest in the horse. “I got a good profit for him,” he explained when I questioned this decision.

  “What will you do now?” I asked.

  His smile gave me no comfort. “Oh, I expect I’ll find something.”

  In January, Frank turned thirty-eight, and Annie invited us to dinner in his honor. Jesse presented his brother with a new Colt revolver in a handsome case, which seemed to please Frank, but made Annie frown. I knew if she had her way, Frank would never have cause to fire a gun again.

  Talk at the dinner table was all politics. President Garfield, a Republican, had won the last election and would be sworn in in March. “Garfield seems more moderate than Grant or Hayes,” Frank remarked as he helped himself to creamed potatoes.

  “Who’s president doesn’t matter as much to me as the man in the governor’s chair,” Jesse said. “Crittenden may be a Democrat, but he’s no friend of ours.”

  Governor Thomas T. Crittenden had taken the oath of office that week as governor of Missouri. Though we had lived in Tennessee for three years now, Missouri would always be home, and Jesse and Frank paid keen attention to politics there. Crittenden’s election had animated Jesse as few politician’s had done before.

  “Did you read his inaugural address in the paper?” he asked Frank. “The old goat practically declared war on us and our supporters.”

  “Times have changed,” Frank observed mildly. “People want to put the past behind them and focus on earning a good living for themselves and their families.”

  I wondered if Frank was talking about the citizens of Missouri—or about himself.

  �
��Since when has any politician cared two cents for the common working man?” Jesse asked. “Old Crittenden’s concerned about taking care of the rich bankers and railroad men who got him into office in the first place. It sticks in his craw that a handful of former guerrillas—men he fought against in the war—have those bankers and railroad men shaking in their boots.”

  “The governor of a state can marshal a lot of firepower behind him,” Frank said. “If Crittenden really is declaring war on the James Gang, the smart thing to do might be to find another line of work.”

  “Better men than him have been after me for the past fifteen years and none of them have succeeded yet,” Jesse said. “I’m not afraid of Crittenden and any army he can muster.”

  “Maybe you ought to be,” Annie said. She rose and began clearing the table. “No more talk of any of this. It’s time to bring the children in so we can cut Frank’s cake.”

  “Did you bake it yourself?” Frank grinned at her. Annie was not known for her skills in the kitchen.

  “Mrs. Morrison baked it,” Annie said. “And Rob helped put on the candles.”

  “All those candles are liable to attract the Fire Brigade,” Jesse teased. I was happy to see Annie’s remarks and his disagreement with Frank hadn’t put him out of sorts.

  As the children rushed in from the kitchen where they’d been eating, he gathered Tim and Mary into his lap. “Did you clean your plates?” he asked them. “And drink all your milk?”

  “Yes, Papa.” Tim put his arms around his father’s neck and hugged him close. “For my next birthday, can I have a cake as big as Uncle Ben’s?”

  “Even bigger,” Jesse said.

  “With choc’late,” Mary added.

  “Yes, with chocolate.” He smiled at them and my heart turned over, moved by love and fear. All I wanted was for all of us to be safe and healthy—for Governor Crittenden to forget Jesse existed, and for Jesse to stop fighting the banks and railroad and whatever demons stirred inside him.

  In early March, Jesse left home again, saying he was going to visit his cousin, Wood Hite, in Kentucky. He returned only a few days later, in high spirits and riding a new bay gelding. He had plenty of money, both greenbacks and gold and silver coins. I could only guess how he’d acquired such a sum, though of course he kept to the fiction that he’d made the profit off the sale of commodities.

  Dick Liddil was with him, his sly smile and overly-courteous manner fraying my nerves. “Can’t you send him away?” I asked that first evening when we were alone.

  “Dick’s useful to me right now,” Jesse said. “You can tolerate him for a few days.”

  Jesse was reluctant to even venture out of doors for the next few days, which confirmed my suspicions that the money was ill-gotten. He was waiting for the furor over the robbery to die down before he showed his face around town.

  Saturday morning, he sent Dick to town to buy the latest papers. “There might be something in them for your scrapbooks,” he told me, laughter in his blue eyes.

  Dick returned within a half an hour, hurrying up the drive almost at a run, several papers tucked beneath his arm. His sallow complexion was pale, his eyes agitated. “Bad news,” he said as he burst in the door. “Where’s Jesse?”

  “In our room.” I followed Dick down the hall, to the bedroom where Jesse was polishing a pair of boots.

  “Bill Ryan’s been arrested,” Dick announced, tossing the papers on the bed. “He’s sitting in the jail right here in Nashville.”

  Jesse set aside the boot he’d been working on and picked up one of the papers.

  “Right there.” Dick pointed to a column of print. “Says he’s been positively identified as one of the men who robbed the Muscle Shoals payroll last week.”

  I picked up another of the papers and scanned the front page until I found a similar article. “Three bandits relieved payroll supervisor Alexander G. Smith of $5,240.18 in gold and silver coin and greenbacks at gunpoint,” I read. “The money was the payroll of workers on the Muscle Shoals canal project.”

  Jesse frowned at the article. “Somebody better let Buck know,” he said.

  “Let me know what?” I turned and saw Frank standing in the doorway, Tim holding on to his hand. “Nobody answered my knock, so Tim let me in,” Frank said.

  “Tim, go play with your sister,” I said.

  “I wanna stay with Uncle Ben and Papa,” the boy whined.

  “Go to your sister, Tim,” Jesse said firmly.

  When the child was gone, Frank stepped into the bedroom and closed the door. “I came as soon as I read the papers,” he said.

  “No need for alarm.” Jesse tossed the paper aside. “Bill won’t say anything.”

  “Can you be sure about that?” Frank asked. “He’s not one of the men we rode with during the war. These young fellows don’t have the same sense of loyalty.”

  “Bill won’t talk,” Jesse said, but there was little conviction in his voice.

  “There’s something else,” Frank said. “Did you notice who made the arrest?”

  “I didn’t read that far,” Jesse said.

  “Justice W. L. Earthman.” Frank’s scowl deepened. “The same Bill Earthman who’s spent the day at the track with Dave Howard and Ben Woodson on several occasions.”

  “How long do you think it’s going to take him to make the connection between Mr. Howard and Jesse James?” Dick asked. “Especially if Bill starts talking?”

  Jesse sucked in a deep breath. “We’d better leave,” he said.

  “The sooner the better,” Frank said. “I’ve already got Annie packing.”

  “Leave?” I cried, alarmed. “Where will we go?”

  “Back to Missouri,” Jesse said. “I’ll send you and the children ahead on the train. I’ll meet up with you when I can.”

  “Missouri? Jesse, it isn’t safe there.”

  “We’ll be safer there, among country we know,” Frank said. “There are still people there we can trust.”

  The brothers’ quick agreement let me know they’d discussed this before. The James brothers hadn’t escaped capture for so long by failing to plan ahead.

  “Get the children and pack a trunk,” Jesse said. “We’ll send for what we can later.”

  I wanted to argue against such a hasty decision, but the grim look in Jesse’s eyes silenced my protests. I hastened to pull our traveling trunks from the box room off the kitchen, mentally cataloguing the items we would have to take with us and those we would be forced to leave behind.

  Frank returned to his home while Jesse and Dick readied the horses for travel and collected all the guns we owned and made sure they were loaded.

  The children sensed the new tension in their parents; Mary began to cry for no reason, while Tim followed me from room to room, peppering me with questions. “Where are we going, Mama?” he asked. “Why are we going now?”

  I made up answers I hoped would satisfy him, pretending we were going to visit relatives, and that our stay would be temporary.

  But I had heard the determination in Jesse’s voice when he’d cited Missouri as our destination. It was the place he always came back to, drawn there by friends as well as enemies. That the governor of the state himself had declared his determination to put an end to men like Jesse deterred my husband not one bit. We were going home, and I knew we were going there to stay.

  Chapter Seventeen

  But before Missouri, there was Kentucky. “You and the children can stay with my old friends, the Carters, and I’ll join you in a few days,” Jesse said. “We’ll travel to Kansas City together.”

  “We can’t just invite ourselves into someone’s home,” I said.

  “The Carters won’t ask questions,” Jesse said. “They’ve known me and Frank for years.”

  “What about Frank and Annie?” I asked. “Where will they go?”

  “Annie and Rob are going to her father’s place. Frank’s going to stay in Nashville a little while and wrap up our affairs there.” />
  I didn’t like the idea of being separated from Jesse at a time of such danger. And I didn’t like the idea of staying with strangers. But I couldn’t argue with Jesse’s years of experience in staying one step ahead of the law, and I trusted him to keep us safe.

  So the children and I took the train to Kentucky, where the Carters welcomed us with open arms. Jesse joined us a few days later. “Is everything all right?” I asked anxiously, as soon as he and I had a moment alone.

  “Everything is fine,” he assured me. “No one has any idea where we are. We’ll rest up here a couple more days, then head to Missouri. We’ll be fine.”

  After supper that night, Jesse pushed his chair back from the table. “Care for a hand of cards?” Mr. Carter asked.

  “No gambling in my kitchen,” Mrs. Carter said.

  “I wouldn’t want to violate the rules of the house,” Jesse said, eyes twinkling. “What if instead of wagering for money, we teach you ladies to play?”

  I laughed. “You want to teach me to play cards?”

  “Faro.” Jesse pulled a deck from the inside pocket of his coat. “You too, Liv. You never can tell when such knowledge might come in handy.”

  “You do say the most surprising things, Jesse” Mrs. Carter said. But she removed her apron and joined us at the table.

  I watched with interest as Jesse explained the value of the various cards in the deck. Both our parents would have been shocked to see us: our Methodist forebears believed card-playing was every bit as sinful as dancing. But I’d long since ceased worrying about what such seemingly petty things could do to the health of my soul.

  Jesse had just finished laying out the cards when the Carters’ eldest son came to the door. “Dad? Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  Jesse and Mr. Carter exchanged glances, then the older man slid his chair back and joined his son in the hallway. They conferred in hushed tones. My eyes met Jesse’s. I could see that he, like I, was straining to hear their words, but I could make out nothing.