by Cindi Myers
“Well I certainly don’t welcome it, or that kind of talk.” I held out my plate. “Jesse, would you serve me a piece of pie?”
“My dad and I once shot forty-two pigeons in less than ten minutes,” Bob said. “Do you think that’s some kind of record?”
“I think it’s wasteful to shoot so many pigeons if you couldn’t eat them all,” I said.
“Dad wanted to keep them out of the corn,” Bob said. “But we ate plenty of them. My mom made a wonderful pigeon pie. Not that yours isn’t delicious, too,” he added.
“Charley doesn’t seem to care for it,” I said, watching Bob’s brother push his serving of pie around his plate.
“Oh, it’s good, Zee,” Charley said. “I just don’t have much of an appetite tonight.”
“Do you think you could shoot forty-two pigeons?” Bob asked Jesse.
“I’ve never had occasion to want to shoot that many pigeons,” Jesse said.
“What about forty-two men? If they was all after you?”
“That’s not a proper topic for dinner table conversation, either,” I snapped.
Bob fell mercifully silent, though his brooding presence did little to lighten my mood. He stared morosely across the table, eyes fixed on the wall behind Jesse’s left ear, though the only thing to see was a section of brown figured wallpaper.
The next day, Jesse came home from town with a small wooden box under one arm. “Where’s Bob?” he asked, after he’d kissed me hello.
“He and Charley are cleaning out the horse stalls, like you told them.” I looked at the box. “What’s in there?”
“Just a little something I picked up for Bob.” He crossed the kitchen to the back door and called out, “Bob, Charley, get in here.”
The Ford brothers shambled out of the barn and headed toward the house. Charley at least had the presence of mind to stop at the pump and wash up before he came inside, and he insisted Bob do likewise.
Once they were inside, Jesse led them into the room that served as their bedroom, though it was meant to be the children’s room. Tim and Mary had to sleep on a cot in the front room until the Fords left, which I hoped would be soon. I stayed in the kitchen with the children, but I moved closer to the door so that I could listen in on the exchange.
“I brought you something, Bob,” Jesse said.
After a brief silence, Bob exclaimed, “It’s a beauty, Jesse! I never had a gun so fine.”
“I don’t want you getting us all killed with that relic you’ve been carrying. Besides, if you’re going to be one of the James gang, you ought to have a decent weapon.”
“Thanks, Jesse. I’ll treasure it always.”
“If you want to practice with it, remember to go off in the woods. I don’t want you upsetting Zee or the neighbors.”
The three soon emerged from the bedroom—Bob grinning, a new Colt revolver stuck in the waistband of his pants. Charlie looked pale and sicklier than ever, while I could only describe Jesse’s expression as smug.
“What are you doing giving that boy a gun?” I asked that night as we readied for bed.
Jesse ran the brush through my long hair. I was vain about my thick tresses, which were still dark and wavy, though I found more and more silver strands among the mahogany these days. “The old gun he had was dangerous and unreliable,” he said. “It could have blown up in his hand. If that happened in the middle of a job, we’d be done for.”
“It’s too expensive a gift to be giving a boy like that,” I said.
“He already thinks I’m some kind of hero,” Jesse said. “There are days when he can’t stop talking about all the things he’s read about me. He says he’s been studying me and Frank practically since he learned to read. Why not give him another reason to look up to me?”
“I don’t like it.” I hugged my arms across my chest, trying to ward off a sudden shiver. “I wish you’d tell him to leave. Him and Charley both. I want you all to myself.”
He laid down the brush and ran his fingers through my hair, then lifted it and kissed the back of my neck. “You have me now,” he said softly. “All to yourself.”
We made love tenderly that night, as if with our bodies we could make up for the unintentional slights and imagined hurts of the past months. I knew I’d been impatient with Jesse, pushing him to change his life in ways that made him feel uncomfortable and trapped. And he must have been conscious of his neglect of me, regretful of the weeks he’d spent roaming in the company of men he could never completely trust, while I waited at home with our children.
With my fingers and my lips I traced the scars that marked his body—the two indentations in his chest behind which one bullet still lay, and the deep crease in his thigh where a second bullet had lodged. I stroked his bearded chin and remembered the smooth-cheeked boy who had taught me about sex and love, and kissed the lines fanning out from the corners of his mesmerizing blue eyes.
Though he’d endured many physical hardships over the years, Jesse had kept himself in fine shape. He had the body of a young man, muscular and taut, and I reveled in the feel of his corded arms and strong chest as he rolled over and lifted me on top of him. “I like to look up at you when we’re making love,” he said. “To watch the pleasure on your face.”
Such scrutiny embarrassed me, but I soon forgot any timidity as he slid into me and began to move. The more than fifteen years we’d been together hadn’t lessened my ardor for my husband, or his for me. I had heard rumors over the years of other women, but I dismissed them as lies made up by those who wanted to profit from an association with a famous outlaw. I believed Jesse had been faithful to me, as I had been to him.
We knew the benefits of a long partnership that were simply not available to more casual acquaintances. He knew just how to touch and caress me and I knew how to move and respond in order to increase his pleasure and my own. Within minutes I was biting my lip to keep from crying out, acutely aware of my children and the Ford brothers sleeping nearby.
Jesse had no such compunction. He came with a loud cry, driving hard against me, making the bed springs creak and sing. I hurried to shush him, and he laughed at my concern. “It doesn’t matter if anyone hears,” he said. “The children won’t know what we’re doing, and if Charley and Bob figure it out, they’ll only be envious.”
“Hush!” I said, my horror at his suggestion and the very preposterousness of it combining to make me dissolve into a fit of giggles.
I fell asleep in Jesse’s arms that night, my head cradled in the hollow of his shoulder, feeling as safe and loved as I ever had.
The next day was Palm Sunday and Jesse and I took the children to church. Charley stayed behind, saying he didn’t feel well. I had heard him up during the night, being sick in a basin in his room. “You should drink some ginger tea to settle your stomach,” I advised.
“Charley’s just suffering from nerves,” Jesse said. “He’ll feel better in a couple of days.”
I assumed he meant after the job Jesse was planning was over but I didn’t ask for details.
After dinner Jesse read the papers and I laid down to take a nap, while Bob and Charley retreated to the bluff below the house and fired off Bob’s new revolver, round after round, until I put a pillow over my head to drown out the constant ringing.
At dinner that night, Charley refused to eat at all, while Bob chattered more than ever, telling some long involved story from his childhood. I pulled Jesse aside after the meal. “Those two have got to get out of my house,” I said. “I can’t stand them much longer.”
“They’ll be gone soon,” he said. “I promise.”
Jesse rose early the next morning, and took Tim into town with him to buy a paper. I made breakfast, which neither Bob nor Charley would eat. “What’s wrong with you two?” I asked as I took away their untouched plates. “Do I need to dose you with castor oil?”
“We’re just nervous about this upcoming job,” Bob said. “Jesse wants us to ride with him today to Platte City, to check out the bank t
here. There’s going to be a big murder trial there and he figures while everybody’s attention is on the trial, we can go into the bank and clean it out.”
“Shut up.” Charley spoke more harshly than usual and glared at his brother. “Jesse never talks about such things with Zee.” he said.
“Jesse always says the less I know about his activities, the better,” I said. “And I believe most of the time he’s right.” But secretly I was pleased to know Jesse’s plans. The sooner he took the Fords away from here, the better, as far as I was concerned.
Jesse and Tim returned shortly after that with the papers. Tim went into the back yard to play with Mary and their new puppy while I served Jesse his breakfast.
“What the—?” He looked up from his paper at me, his eyes flashing with anger. “It says here Dick Liddil’s been arrested,” he said.
I hurried to set the hot coffee pot on the table before I dropped it. “Arrested for what?” I asked.
“This doesn’t say, though Dick could have done any number of things to get in trouble since I saw him last.”
“Dick won’t say anything about you, will he?” I asked. Dick knew where we lived and the aliases we used; he could bring the authorities right to our door. We’d had to leave Tennessee because of the arrest of one of Jesse’s fellow outlaws who could have led the authorities to us. Would we have to repeat that exodus now? And where would we go?
“No, Dick won’t talk.” Jesse set aside his paper and picked up his fork. “At least he’d better not, if he knows what’s good for him.”
I reminded myself that Dick had been a bushwhacker, and Frank and Jesse both had vouched for his loyalty. Surely he wouldn’t betray Jesse.
Bob and Charley said nothing; they sat like statues, not eating or talking or even moving as they waited for Jesse to finish his meal.
After breakfast, Jesse set the Fords to loading the horses for the trip to Platte City. It was a hot day for so early in spring, and he removed his fine cashmere suit coat and folded it neatly at the end of our bed.
“Are you going out with your guns showing like that?” I asked as he passed through the kitchen once more. “Mrs. Turrell will wonder why a commodities broker has to go around armed.”
“Can’t have her spreading gossip,” he said. He returned to the bedroom and emerged a moment later without the gun belt. In all the years I’d known him, I had seldom seen Jesse without a firearm at his side, but I had no reason to believe he was in any danger in his own home.
He went back into the front room and started for the door just as the Ford brothers came in from the outside. I turned my attention once more to the breakfast dishes, though Jesse’s voice from the other room carried clearly to me.
“That picture of Skyrocket looks dusty,” he said. “Can’t have that.”
I heard the scrape of a chair being dragged across the floor, and the squeak of the wooden frame as Jesse climbed up on it.
The loud report of gunfire was so harsh and unexpected that at first I didn’t recognize what had made the sound. A second shot surprised a scream from me, and I dropped the dish I’d been washing. It landed at my feet in an explosion of shattered crockery. I sank to my knees and tried to gather the fragments, then a second, louder crash shook the house, the sound of something large and solid hitting the floor.
Conclusion
I don’t remember running into the front room, don’t remember kneeling on the floor or cradling Jesse’s head in my lap. Blood blossomed on my apron as I frantically stroked his cheeks. He stared up at me with sightless eyes, their brilliant blue already clouded. “Jesse!” I screamed, but even then I knew he was beyond hearing.
“It was an accident, Zee, I swear it was.”
I looked up to see Charley standing over me, his face contorted with grief. “The gun went off by accident,” he said.
“An accident!” I shrieked. “I guess it went off on purpose.”
Bob had already fled the room and now Charley ran after him.
I stared at Jesse, so still and silent, his blood soaking into my apron and skirt. A high, keening wail filled the room, and it took some time to realize it came from my own throat.
A small hand on my shoulder pulled me back to my senses. Tim stared at me with frightened eyes. “Mama, what’s wrong with Papa?” he asked. “Why are you crying?”
“Run across the street and fetch Mrs. Turrell,” I said. “Take Mary with you and don’t either of you come back into this house until I tell you.”
He hesitated, his gaze shifting to his father’s body. “Go!” I ordered, and turned him toward the door.
When I was sure the children were gone, I looked once more at Jesse. His blue eyes had lost their brilliance in death, and the blood seeping from his wound had slowed to a trickle now that his heart had ceased to beat.
“Oh, Jesse,” I moaned. I smoothed the hair from his forehead and bent to kiss him. His skin was waxen beneath my lips. My tears splashed onto his cheeks, and ran down into his beard. Sobs shook me and pain buffeted me. I clung to Jesse, afraid to let go. For so many years he had been my anchor in stormy seas. Now I was cast adrift, the prospect of the future too bleak to bear.
I don’t know how much time passed before I felt a hand at my elbow, and strong arms lifting me to my feet. I blinked, and looked around at a crowd of men that filled the small parlor of my home. Through the open windows I saw more people, pressed close about the house, everyone trying to see in.
“Madam, what is your name?” asked the man who still held my arm. He wore a dark blue suit and a grave expression.
“Mrs. Howard,” I answered automatically.
“Madam, I have two men who swear the man who lies dead here is none other than Jesse James.”
I looked over the man’s shoulder and saw Charley and Bob standing with two other men, one of whom carried a rifle and had a badge pinned to his chest. Charley looked as if he might pass out at any moment, but Bob grinned in triumph.
”You killed him!” I shouted, and lunged for Bob. “You killed the man who was your friend!”
The sheriff and the man who had spoken to me had to hold me back. I don’t know what I thought I could do to Bob, but more than anything, I wanted to erase that grin from his face.
The two men refused to let me go or to stop questioning me until I admitted that the man at our feet was indeed Jesse James. A murmur swept through the crowd at this news. “Mr. Howard?” someone exclaimed. “Mr. Howard was the outlaw Jesse James?”
They took away Jesse’s body and his guns, his clothes and my jewelry and all of his horses. Already, the crowd outside had begun to tear pieces of siding from the house, taking the bits of wood as souvenirs. They might have picked the place as clean as a swarm of locusts if the sheriff hadn’t posted guards to protect the building.
Lydia Turrell proved a true friend and helper, looking after the children and forcing me to drink cups of hot tea. She asked no questions and demanded no stories, only offered comfort and her silent support.
The Ford brothers were arrested for murder, but were soon released with a full pardon. It was some time before I realized they had both been in the pay of the governor, as had Dick Liddil. Jesse had been friend and mentor to them. He had welcomed them into his house and fed them at his table. He had made a gift to Bob of the very gun with which he was killed.
In the end, none of these kindnesses had mattered. He’d been shot in the back and left to die, assassinated for money.
Jesse had once suggested all Bob needed was to do something to make himself famous. Bob had followed that advice. Overnight, his name was trumpeted in newspapers around the world. He had his picture taken wearing a fine suit, the revolver Jesse had given him resting across his knee. In the picture, Bob held the gun with his left hand, even though he was right-handed. When a reporter asked him about it, he said Jesse was left-handed, so it seemed only fitting he should pose that way. The boy who had idolized Jesse James couldn’t let go of that fascination, ev
en after he’d murdered his hero.
If Bob thought the murder of a friend would bring him wealth and respect, he was wrong. Even people who had called for Jesse’s death hated the way it had been accomplished. It wasn’t long before people knew Bob Ford as ‘the dirty little coward who shot Mr. Howard, and laid Jesse James in his grave.’
Word was sent to Zerelda and she came up on the next train, dressed in yards of black bombazine and surrounded by reporters. She moved like a great battleship through their midst, grief adding dignity to her six-foot frame, righteous anger lending weight to every word she spoke, all of which were dutifully reported in the newspapers.
She and I both testified at the inquest, but it was Zerelda who drew the most attention. When she shouted that Bob Ford was a murderer, and lunged for him, the room erupted with excitement. Bob cowered before her, and two strong men held Zerelda back.
I bowed my head and watched tears make damp stains on the black silk of my dress. No amount of hysterics would restore Jesse to me. No possible revenge would make up for his death. No publicity or public outcry could bring me comfort. I was utterly bereft, every breath an effort.
As I waited outside the courthouse for a ride back to the hotel where the children and I were staying, a man approached. Taking in my widow’s weeds, he tipped his hat and asked. “Are you a member of the family?”
I nodded, mute. The stranger had the air of a reporter, and I’d had my fill of answering questions.
“May I ask who you are, ma’am?”
I stared at him with the detachment with which I viewed everyone and everything since Jesse had been shot. Who was I, now that Jesse was gone? I had spent my life as ‘Sister’ or ‘Mrs. Howard’ or ‘Josie’ or even as ‘Mrs. Jesse James.’ Only alone with Jesse had I been merely ‘Zee.’ “No one,” I answered, and turned away. In losing Jesse, I felt I’d lost myself as well.
I had spent weeks alone while Jesse traveled, competently caring for house and home. But now even the smallest task—buttoning my shoes or preparing breakfast—seemed impossibly hard. I could only conclude that before I had drawn strength from the knowledge that Jesse would soon return to me. Now that promise had vanished, and with it my will. Jesse had been everything to me and nothing would ever fill this emptiness inside me.