Shot in the Back (4 page)

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.”

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 forgetting 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?”

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.

“Go ahead and sign in, sir. We have a room available.”

“How much?”

“Fifty cents.”

Jesse signed the register as William Clements, taking “Bloody” Bill Anderson's first name and “Little” Archie Clements's last name. These were two of the men he had ridden with, in addition to Quantrill.

“Where is the friendliest saloon?” he asked as he received the key.

“Why, just next door, sir, the Jayhawker,” the clerk said.

Jesse felt a quick flash of anger. The Jayhawkers had been his bitter enemy during the war, and the idea of going into a saloon by that name didn't sit well with him. On the other hand, if he intended to completely disguise his identity, this might be the perfect place to start. He smiled at the clerk.

“Now, there's a good name if I ever heard one.”

“Indeed it is, sir,” the clerk replied.

Leaving the hotel, Jesse went into the Jayhawker and stepped up to the bar to order a beer.

“It come by telegram today,” someone said. “The
Tribune
put it in the paper this afternoon. Jesse James is dead, shot down by one of his own, the story says.”

“Well, good riddance, I say,” one of the others replied. “It's just too bad it took so long to kill the son of a bitch.”

“I don't know,” another said. “He never done any of his robbin' or killin' here in Kansas. And they say he was mostly ag'in the railroads. Well, I ain't none too happy 'bout the railroads my own self. If they want your land, they just take it.”

“What do you mean, he ain't never done nothing here? Are you forgettin' the time Quantrill come here? He left a hunnert and eighty dead, he did.”

“That was Quantrill.”

“Jesse James rode with Quantrill.”

“Oh? I reckon I didn't know that. Anyhow, if he was just one of Quantrill's men, who would take notice of him?”

“Ha! I'll bet ole Marv Montgomery is glad Jesse James ain't here now,” the first man said.

“Why's that?”

“Ain't you heard? He's got fifty thousand dollars in his bank right now.”

“Lord all mighty, why's he got so much money?”

“The First Security Bank in Kansas City had a fire. Didn't burn down the buildin', but it did make a mess of things, and they've transferred all their money out to several different banks until they get ever'thing all cleaned up again. Marv says the money that he's holdin' will probably be here for near a month or so. The bank is makin' five hunnert dollars for holdin' it for 'em.”

 

 

The next morning Jesse left the hotel before daybreak. He rode out of town, then made a wide circle and came back into town from a different direction. He tied his horse off in front of the building that was next door to the Lawrence Trust and Savings Bank, then crossed the street and stood in the gap between two other buildings, all the while keeping his eyes on the bank.

Just before eight o'clock, he saw a man walk up to the front door and take a key from his pocket. Jesse crossed the street quickly, glancing both ways to see who might be out. He was happy to see that the street was deserted.

“Mr. Montgomery?” Jesse said as he stepped up onto the porch of the bank. “I'm glad to see you are opening the bank early. I've some business to conduct.”

“I'm not open yet,” he said. “The tellers won't be here until eight o'clock.”

“Oh, we don't need any of the tellers for the business I have to conduct,” Jesse said. He shoved his gun into the banker's side. “Let's go on in, shall we?”

With shaking hands, Montgomery opened the door, then stepped inside. He started to lift the shade.

“Leave the shade down,” Jesse said.

“I'm afraid you are going to be disappointed. We are a small town; our citizens aren't wealthy people. We don't have that much on deposit.”

“I tell you what. Let's not bother with any of your depositors' money,” Jesse said. “I wouldn't want to take anything from the poor people. I'll just take the fifty thousand dollars you are holding for the First Trust in Kansas City.”

Montgomery gasped. “How did you know about that money?”

“Word gets around,” Jesse said. “Just give me that money, and I'll be on my way. None of your depositors will be hurt.”

“I can't give you that money. I've been entrusted with it. I gave them my word that I would keep it safe for them.”

“Did you give them your word that you would die before you let it go?”

“What? No. Why would you say such a thing?”

“Because if you don't give me the money, I'll kill you.” Jesse cocked his pistol, the hammer making a frightening clicking sound as it came back and the sear engaged the cylinder.

“No! Please, I have a wife and children!”

“Then you don't want to make your wife a widow and your children orphans, do you?”

“No.”

“They are going to be if you don't give me the fifty thousand dollars.”

With his hands shaking so badly that he could barely turn the combination lock, Montgomery got the vault open.

“There's all the money I have, take it, please take it,” Montgomery said.

“I don't want all of it. I just want the fifty thousand.”

Montgomery took out two cloth bags. “Here,” he said.

Jesse smiled. “It's been very nice doing business with you. Do you have a telephone in this bank?”

“Yes.”

“Where is it?”

“It is over there, on the wall.” Montgomery pointed to the wall-mounted instrument.

Jesse walked over to the phone, then, using his knife, pulled the box away and cut the line.

“Now, I want you to lie down on the floor, facedown.”

“Why? What are you going to do?”

“Nothing, if you behave yourself.”

The banker lay down as instructed.

“Mr. Montgomery, I think you should know that my partner is on the roof, just across the street. He has a rifle and a very good view of this bank. The moment I leave, he is going to start counting. If he sees you come through that door before he gets to one hundred, he will shoot you dead. Do you understand that?”

“Yes,” Montgomery replied in a small voice.

“I suggest that as soon as you hear the door close, you start counting. I take it you do have an extra key, because I intend to lock the door behind me as I leave.”

“Yes, I have another key.”

“Good for you.”

Jesse draped his coat over his arm, effectively covering the two bank bags. He stepped outside, locked the door behind him, then mounted his horse and rode off.

The most money he had ever gotten in all his years as an outlaw was sixty thousand dollars from the Clay County Savings Association, back in 1876. All of that money wasn't easily negotiable, and it had to be divided up among the entire gang.

This fifty thousand dollars was all his. It was enough to start a new life.

He thought about Zee and wondered if there was some way he could send some of the money back to her, but he knew it wouldn't be possible. Anyway, she wouldn't need it. Bob Ford was going to give her half of the reward money, and Zee was frugal enough that she would be able to make that money go a very long way.