by Cindi Myers
Jesse’s body was photographed and the photos sold for five dollars each as souvenirs. He was packed in ice, and displayed in the window of the local undertaker’s. I shuddered when I saw him, remembering the happy morning when he had lain in the snow in front of our house, making snow angels with the children.
Local officials arranged for Jesse’s body to be transported by special train to Kearney, where it was displayed at the local hotel so that people could pay their last respects. Many did so; I read later that almost as many people came to say good-bye to Jesse as did to see the body of President Garfield.
Zerelda and I rode in a special car on the train, escorted by a retinue of law officers who were properly deferential, many of whom seemed genuinely sorry for our loss. Tim and Mary stayed behind with Mrs. Turrell. I didn’t want to expose them to the circus I feared the funeral would become, and doubted my own ability to keep from breaking down in front of them.
They were having a bad enough time of it, coming to terms not only with the loss of their father, but with the knowledge that he had been, not Dave Howard the commodities dealer, as they had always been told, but Jesse James the famous outlaw, about whom they had heard stories all their lives.
Mary was too young to understand much, but Tim—whom people suddenly began addressing as Jesse Junior or Little Jesse—must have felt that his whole life until now had been a lie. His father wasn’t who he’d said he was and Tim’s name wasn’t even really Tim. The man he’d idolized simply for being his father was now a larger-than-life public figure—one revered and mourned by thousands of people, so that the boy’s grief was not even his own.
Jesse was buried in the front yard of the home where he had grown up, so that Zerelda could watch over his grave. In death, she had reclaimed him, drawing the attention of the press and the public to herself. I was too heart-sick and half-crazy with grief to care. If not for the knowledge that my children needed me, I might have laid down myself and died right there.
I lost the baby I was carrying, and had to sell almost everything we owned, including the puppy Jesse had brought from his mother’s for the children. Little Jesse and Mary and I went to live with my oldest brother, Robert, for a while, and then to my sister Sallie’s. All those years we shared that attic bedroom in my parents’ home in Kansas City, I’d never imagined she would have to take me in, but there was nothing else I could do. All the money Jesse was said to have taken in his career as an outlaw was gone. If not for John Edwards raising a subscription to support me and the children, I would have been destitute.
Not many months after Jesse was buried Frank surrendered, turning over his guns to Governor Crittenden. He was tried and acquitted, and moved into peaceful retirement. I wept at the news, thinking of what might have been.
I heard that Charley Ford took his own life two years after his brother shot Jesse. I blame Charley for not stopping Bob’s rash act, but I can’t help but believe Charley would have never been party to such a betrayal without Bob’s encouragement. As for Bob, I don’t know where he is now, though I like to think he suffers in hell, whether the one in the afterlife, or one in this life of his own making.
Zerelda guards Jesse’s legacy jealously. She charges visitors who want to tour her home, and subjects them to long lectures about her famous son, who grows more virtuous with each passing year. Before they leave, she sells them stones from Jesse’s grave, for twenty-five cents each. When the selection grows sparse, she replenishes it from the creek behind her house.
I care about none of this. My spirit is impoverished, if not my pocketbook. All of life is veiled in gray for me now, without Jesse to give it color. I kept the scrapbooks, and I look at them often, reliving those times when life held so many possibilities.
I never meant to fall in love with Jesse James. But I might as well have tried to stop a prairie fire or a raging tornado. He had that same wild power, both beautiful and terrible to behold, the same heat and intensity to illuminate and destroy everything in his path, both those he hated and those he loved.
Afterward
Jesse had a wife
To mourn for his life
Two children—they were brave.
But that dirty little coward
Who shot Mr. Howard
Has laid Jesse James in his grave
—American folk ballad
Zee Mimms James died November 13, 1900. She had worn widow’s weeds and mourned Jesse for more than 18 years. She had raised her children, but had never recovered from the loss of Jesse. Though he had stolen hundreds of thousands of dollars in his career as an outlaw, she was left destitute. Despite her poverty, she refused numerous lucrative offers to sell her story, choosing instead to keep Jesse’s secrets to her grave. Those who knew her best said she died of a broken heart.
She was buried in Mount Olivet Cemetery in Kearney, Missouri. About eighteen months later, Jesse’s body was moved from the James’ family farm to rest beside hers. In death, Zee and Jesse were reunited at last.
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About the Author
The first books author Cindi Myers remembers loving were historical novels—The Little House books and Caddie Woodlawn. History, particularly American history, enthralled her. She began her writing career crafting historical romances, and has written nonfiction articles about American history for publications ranging from Texas Highways to Civil War Illustrated to True West. Her idea of a good time is spending hours reading through old journals or newspapers, and she has planned vacations around visits to historic sites and museums.
Cindi is the author of more than forty novels, both historical and contemporary. Her work has been praised for its depth of emotion and realistic characters. You can learn more about her and her work at www.CindiMyers.com or www.RomanceoftheWest.com.