Shot in the Back

by William W. Johnstone

  Jesse inched his hand toward his pistol.

  “Now, hold on, hold on there!” Bob Ford said, reaching his hand out toward Jesse. “Hear me out.”

  “All right, what is it? What’s your idea?”

  “Tell ’im about Bigelow, Charley,” Bob said to his brother.

  “Bigelow? You mean Charlie Bigelow?” Jesse asked.

  “Yeah. Since you’ve heard of ’im, then you prob’ly know that he’s been robbin’ stores, stagecoaches, and even held up a bank, claimin’ to be you,” Charley Ford said.

  “That’s how come there’s been all these robberies that you’ve been blamed for that you didn’t do,” Bob said.

  “Like you say, I have heard of him, but I’ve never met him,” Jesse said.

  “Well, if you was to see him, you’d think you was lookin’ in a mirror,” Bob Ford said.

  “He looks that much like me?”

  “Yeah, he does. That’s how come he’s been able to convince ever’one that he’s you,” Charley said.

  “So, when I say I’m goin’ to collect the reward on you, what I’m actually goin’ to do is collect it on him,” Bob said, “and pass him off as you. That way, the law will think they’ve got their man, and you’ll be free and clear. Nobody will be looking for you again.”

  Jesse shook his head. “That won’t do. If you take him in, he’ll just say that he isn’t me. And there are enough people who actually do know me that they’ll know he’s tellin’ the truth.”

  “He won’t be tellin’ nobody anythin’ if he’s dead,” Bob said.

  “You plan to kill him?”

  “At your house,” Bob said.

  “At my house?”

  “It has to be done at your house, if we are to pass him off as being you.”

  Jesse shook his head. “Not with Zee and the kids there.”

  “You’ll just have to get them out of the house for a while.”

  “How are you goin’ to get Bigelow to come to my house?”

  “I know that he would like to join up with your gang,” Bob said. “He’s asked me a couple of times to talk to you about it. All I have to do is tell ’im that we’re goin’ to pull another job ’n you want him to join us.”

  Jesse drummed his fingers on the table for a moment or two. “All right,” he said. “Go see him, and the three of you come over to the house for breakfast tomorrow morning.”

  “I thought you weren’t going to do any more jobs,” Zerelda said as she cut bacon for their breakfast.

  “I’ve got to, Zee. We didn’t get but three thousand dollars from the last job, which I had to divide that up with the others. And that was six months ago. We’re running out of money.”

  “When, Jesse? When are you going to stop? We have two kids who don’t even know their real names. Jesse and Mary think they are Tim and Mary Howard.”

  “For now it’s best that they don’t know their real names. We can’t take the chance on one of them saying something. In fact, why don’t you take them down to the park this morning before the men come? You don’t need to know what’s going on anyway.”

  “All right,” Zerelda said. “But, Jesse, please promise me. After today, no more jobs.”

  Jesse put his hands on Zerelda’s shoulders and looked straight into her eyes.

  “I promise you, Zee,” he said. “After today, Jesse James will pull no more jobs.”

  “Nor Tom Howard,” she said.

  Jesse nodded. “Nor Tom Howard,” he promised.

  Shortly after Zee left, Bob Ford arrived with his brother and Charlie Bigelow.

  “Thanks for agreeing to take me into your gang,” Bigelow said.

  “I’m not taking you into my gang,” Jesse replied. “I no longer have a gang.”

  “But, Bob told me—”

  “He told you that so that you would come,” Jesse said. “Bigelow, what were you thinking, killing and robbing, and passing yourself off as me?”

  “I . . . I only did it out of respect for you,” Bigelow said.

  “But the twenty-five-thousand-dollar reward isn’t being offered for you, is it? It’s being offered for me. Now every law officer, every private detective, and every bounty hunter in America is looking for me. I’ve promised my wife that I was going to quit, that I was going to lead a quiet life from now on, but you’ve made that impossible.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” Bigelow said, shaking his head. “You can’t blame me for that. You was robbin’ and killin’ long before I ever started.”

  “The difference is, Bigelow, I only killed people who were trying to kill me. You robbed a train near West Plains last month, and you killed three of the passengers for no reason. I can’t afford to have you around anymore.”

  Bigelow pulled his pistol and pointed it toward Jesse.

  “I don’t know what you’ve got in mind but—” That was as far as he got before there was the sound of a shot. Bigelow fell with a bullet in the back of his head.

  “I did it!” Bob Ford said, holding the smoking gun. “Now all we have to do is get the sheriff here so we can claim the reward.”

  “Move his body over there by the chair,” Charley Ford said.

  “Why?”

  “Nobody is going to ever believe that you could just walk up behind Jesse James and shoot him. Move him over there by that chair, then set that picture crooked, like as if he was standin’ up on the chair straightenin’ it out.”

  “Yeah,” Bob said. “Yeah, that’s a good idea.”

  Bob and Charley Ford moved Bigelow’s body into position.

  “If you’re goin’ to get the sheriff, I need to be out of here,” Jesse said.

  “Zee needs to be here, though,” Charley Ford said.

  “Why does she have to be here?”

  “She needs to be here so she can identify the body.”

  “No, I don’t want her to have to go through that.”

  “She has to, Jesse. Don’t you see? The only way this is going to work is if she identifies the body,” Charley said.

  “And you’re going to have to leave Saint Joseph,” Bob added. “Without her.”

  “How is she supposed to look after herself and the kids with me gone?”

  “We’ll split the reward money with her,” Bob promised. “With half the reward money, she and your kids will be in good shape.”

  Jesse found Zee sitting on a bench, looking out at young Jesse, who was pushing Mary on a swing.

  “Have they gone?” Zee asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And did you plan another robbery?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t? Oh, Jesse, I’m so pleased!” Zee said happily. “Let me get the kids and we’ll go back to the house. You may have eaten breakfast, but the kids and I haven’t.”

  “I’m not going back to the house, Zee,” Jesse said. He paused for a moment, then added, “ever.”

  “What? Jesse, what are you saying?”

  “When you return to the house, you will learn that I have been killed.”

  “What?” This time the question was a gasp.

  “There is a man who looks just like me. He has been on a robbing and murder spree, passing himself off as me. Zee, did you know that the reward on me has reached twenty-five thousand dollars?”

  “No, I didn’t know.”

  “All because of the crimes this man has committed.”

  “That’s awful. But, what do you mean I will learn that you have been killed?”

  “The man’s name is Charlie Bigelow. Bob Ford killed him, and he is now lying in the floor in the living room of our house.”

  “Jesse! How dare you do such a thing, in our own home!”

  “I told you, I didn’t do it. Bob Ford did it. Zee, it was the only way, don’t you see? You are going to tell the sheriff that Bigelow is me. That way the law will be off my back, I can start over, and I’ll be free forever. Bob Ford will get the reward money, half of which will go to you.”

  “You mean half
will come to us.”

  “No. Just to you.”

  “What do you mean, just to me?”

  “This . . . this is the hardest part of it, Zee. In order for this to work, I’m going to have to disappear. Forever.”

  “We can go to California,” Zee said.

  “No,” Jesse said, shaking his head. “You don’t understand. You are going to stay here as the grieving widow. That is the only way this can work. Zee, we can never see each other again.”

  “No! Jesse, what are you saying?”

  “Don’t you understand, Zee? It could have been me, lying dead on that floor. And it will be me, someday, if I don’t leave now. Yes, you and I will never see each other again . . . but at least you will know that I’m still alive.”

  “Jesse, no, I can’t,” Zee said. “I just can’t. Please don’t ask me to do that.”

  “Zee, this is my life we are talking about,” Jesse said. “Don’t you love me enough to save my life? Even if it means that we can never see each other again?”

  “It won’t work anyway,” Zee said. “There’s no way I can cry over the body of some man that I don’t even know and make people think it’s you.”

  “Yes, you can, Zee. Because to you, I will be dead. Don’t you understand what I’m saying? I will be out of your life forever.”

  Zee put both hands to her face and began crying.

  “I will always love you, Zee. And if you love me, you can take some satisfaction in knowing that I’m still alive, somewhere, and that I’m not about to hang or spend the rest of my life in prison. Will you do it, Zee?”

  “I . . . I’ll do it,” Zee said, her voice so weak it could barely be heard.

  “Don’t let the children see the body. Tell them that if they do see it, it will haunt them for the rest of their lives. It’s very important that they don’t see the body. If they do, they’ll know that it isn’t me, and it would ruin everything.”

  “All right,” Zee said.

  Jesse reached out for Zee, but she pulled away from him. “No,” she said. “Don’t kiss me, Jesse. Don’t hug me; don’t even touch me. I don’t think I could stand it. Please just go. Go now.”

  Jesse looked at her for a long moment, then turned and walked out of the park, in the opposite direction from their house.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Granbury—February 2, 1942

  Jesse James stopped in the middle of his story, then got up and walked over to the window of Faust’s hotel room. He looked down onto the traffic on West Pearl Street, at the white headlights coming one way and the red taillights going the other.

  “Do you want to take a break here,” Faust asked, surprised by the unexpected show of emotion.

  “It’s been sixty years,” Jesse said. “You’d think that, after sixty years, it wouldn’t mean anything to me.”

  “Mr. James—”

  “Call me Jesse. It’s been a long time since anyone has, and I’d sort of like to hear the name used again.”

  “All right. Jesse, as a writer, I well know that long buried emotions can reemerge, and when they do, they can be as strong as they were on the day they were planted in your soul.”

  “Yes. I loved her, you know. Oh, I’ve had another family since then, and I loved my second wife, Molly, and the children we had. But, talking about how it was when I had to leave Zee, well, it was harder than I thought.”

  “Do you want to call the whole thing off, Jesse?”

  “No,” Jesse replied. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose for a long moment; then, dropping his hand, he looked straight at Faust. “No, I’ve lived a lie all these years, I think it is time I put things straight. I want to go on . . . I want to tell you everything.”

  “All right.”

  “Only there’s too much to talk about in a hotel room. I’ve got me a nice little cabin down on the Brazos, along with an extra bedroom. Why don’t you move in with me till the tellin’ is all done?”

  “Sounds like a good idea,” Faust agreed.

  “I’ve done my job, putting the two of you together,” Sheriff Baker said. “I’ll be leaving you two to work together. But if you need me for anything, just let me know.”

  “Thanks, Sheriff, for setting up the meeting,” Faust said. He smiled at Jesse. “I think this may wind up being the most interesting project I’ve ever worked on.”

  The cabin on the Brazos—February 3, 1942

  After breakfast the next morning, Jesse and Faust went out onto the porch. The Brazos River broke white over rocks in front of the cabin, and sun jewels danced on the rushing deep blue water. Jesse sat on a cushion on the porch and leaned back against the wall. Faust sat at a small table with a pencil and writing tablet. He had brought a cup of coffee out with him.

  “Where do you want to start this morning?” Jesse asked. He asked the question between puffs as he lit his cigar. Soon a cloud of smoke rose around him.

  “Let’s start with where you left off,” Faust suggested.

  “Look here, Faust, some of these things I’m goin’ to be tellin’ you could get me in trouble,” Jesse said.

  “How? It’s like you said, Jesse, there’s been no paper out on you for sixty years.”

  “I’ve read up on it,” Jesse said. “I know there’s no statute of limitations on killing.”

  “That’s true, but as far as anyone you might have killed during your outlaw days, well, those cases were all closed the day Bob Ford shot you, or, Bigelow. I wouldn’t worry about those.”

  “I’m not talking about those cases,” Jesse said.

  “Oh? You mean you didn’t leave your life of crime then?”

  “It wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be.”

  “I see.”

  “While I’m telling you my story, what would keep you from going into the law and giving me up?”

  “Oran Baker is the law. He’s the sheriff here, and he is your friend. If he planned to arrest you, don’t you think he would have done it already?”

  Jesse shook his head. “I’ll be telling you things that not even Oran knows. I just need to know if I can trust you.”

  “You can start right now by telling me the last time you had to kill someone.”

  Jesse was silent for a moment. “I’d rather not say, at least not now. As I’m telling you my story, and when I get a bit more comfortable with you, well, any killin’ I did since 1882, which is when the whole world thinks I was killed, I’d rather just let it come up in the story. Is that all right with you?”

  Faust drummed his fingers on the table for a long time as he looked at Jesse.

  “You said there is no paper out on you. But you also said that there is no statute of limitations on murder?”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call it murder,” Jesse said. “I mean, it’s not like I shot anyone in cold blood. It was more like self-defense.”

  “Jesse, you’ve been around long enough to know that killing someone in the act of a felony is first-degree murder, even if the killing is accidental. Say that you are in a shootout with the police, and one policeman accidentally shoots another policeman. You would be the one charged with that murder, even though you aren’t the one who actually shot the police officer. A perfect example is the story you told me about Northfield. You said that Nicholas Gustavson was shot by one of the townspeople.”

  “That’s right. Neither I nor anyone in my gang killed him.”

  Faust shook his head. “Technically, all of you are guilty of murder in Gustavson’s case. He was killed during the perpetration of a felony.”

  “That doesn’t seem right,” Jesse said.

  “It may not seem right, but it is the law. That one, you don’t have to worry about, because like I said, it was closed when the world thought Jesse James was killed. Though, in truth, if your identity as Jesse James is established, beyond a reasonable doubt, even that case could be reopened. I just doubt that it would be.”

  “Yeah, well, I sort of knew that. About the law never f
orgetting about a murder, I mean.”

  “Jesse, at this point it is your call,” Faust said. “I’m not going to physically tell anyone. But if you are going to tell me your story, your whole story, it’s going to wind up in a book. When it does, it is likely to get the attention of the law. Especially since it will be events that happened in your current life. You see, the law won’t care whether you are really Jesse James or not. They will only be interested in what you have done as Frank Alexander.”

  “I know, but I’m just going to have to take that chance,” Jesse said. “I have a story that needs to be told, and I want you to tell it.”

  “All right.” Faust picked up the pencil again. “Let’s pick up from where you left off. Where did you go after you left Zee in the park?”

  April 1882

  Jesse had nothing with him but his guns, the clothes on his back, and three dollars in cash. He did have a fast horse, though, and he rode the horse at a gallop for the first four miles, then he walked him four miles, then ran him another four miles. Not until he had left the state of Missouri did he begin to ride at a more leisurely pace. He reached Lawrence, Kansas, just before nightfall the next day.

  At first he felt a little hesitant about riding into Lawrence. He had been here before, with Quantrill during the Lawrence raid. But that had been nineteen years ago, and he hadn’t been back since then. Also he had been much younger then and was but one of a large group of men. He was absolutely certain nobody would recognize him as Jesse James, and certainly not from having seen him during the Quantrill raid.

  Jesse stopped in front of the hotel on Main Street. During the raid, Quantrill had recognized the proprietor as an old friend, and during the time his men were in town, Quantrill had remained in this very same hotel to protect him. Tying off his horse, Jesse went inside and looked around the lobby but saw nothing that he could remember from before.

  “Yes, sir, do you need a room?” the clerk asked.

  “I do, sir,” Jesse replied. He started to sign his name as Thomas Howard but when he picked up the pen, he hesitated.