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And then the robbery was over. The James gang sprang down to the ground and down through the weeds and ran into the night, cutting their reins instead of untying them and then riding south through the woods.
CHICAGO NEWSPAPER PUBLISHERS—who were still smarting over the loss of immigrants to St. Louis and Kansas City—made a great deal of the Winston train robbery, alleging that “in no State but Missouri would the James brothers be tolerated for twelve years.” Missouri was being called “The Robber State” and “The Outlaw’s Paradise,” and yet the governor had the authority to offer only three hundred dollars for capturing the outlaw. Governor Crittenden would later write: “Concluding that the James gang pursued its lawless course for the money in it, oftentimes acquiring large sums, I determined to offer a reward of $50,000; so much for each capture and conviction, which in my opinion would be a temptation to some one or more of the gang to ‘peach’ or divulge on their associates in crime. As money was their object in the first place in their lawless pursuit, I believed an offer of a large sum as a reward would eventually reach those who had become tired of the life, and more tired of being led on in blood and crime by a desperate leader.”
He arranged a meeting with the general managers of the railroads and express companies operating in Missouri and persuaded them to contribute to a common fund from which the governor could offer rewards of five thousand dollars for the arrest and conviction of each person participating in the robberies at Glendale and Winston, with a further five thousand going to anyone who could bring in Frank or Jesse James.
Jesse organized the September 7th robbery of the Chicago and Alton Railroad at Blue Cut to “spit in the governor’s eye,” and again the James gang got away with it, and Jesse brought Frank and Clarence Hite and two Ray County boys named Ford to the bungalow in Kansas City. And it seemed to Zee it could go on and on like that, with Jesse going off for days and weeks and then coming back with the jolly good cheer of a man given money and youth. It upset her but she didn’t complain; instead she looked for messages in the green tea leaves and made herself giggle when that seemed the right thing and then she stayed with her knitting like an indulgent mother until Jesse limped into the room and whispered, “You go to sleep.”
Then she was awake again and the tattercrossed quilt was under her chin and the grandfather clock had chimed three. She closed a robe around herself and huddled a little at the bedroom door and saw Jesse in a ladder chair next to the side window. He sucked on a lump of chewing tobacco and seemed to contemplate the moon. Raindrops tracked reeds on the misted glass and wind disarranged the trees. His night thoughts seemed to walk the room. His eyes were on the street. A cocked revolver was across his knee but he lent it no more notice than a smoker would a cigarette.
Zee
watched Jesse sit there for several minutes and didn’t say a word, and then she felt someone watching her and saw in a corner of the room the boy who called himself Bob Ford. He looked at her spitefully, and then he receded into darkness and she heard the screen door latch shut.
Part Two
NIGHTHAWKS
3
SEPTEMBER–DECEMBER 1881
They were not the ordinary rough-shod highwaymen typical in the Western country, but were more of the nature of modern Robin Hoods, who robbed the rich and gave to the poor; who took human life only when they deemed it necessary for the protection of their own and their liberty; who were addicted to none of the ordinary vices of the bad men; who used liquor, tobacco or bad language sparingly, and who, in many particulars and traits, would have been model men had their vocations been honest and their lives unmarred by bloodshed and robbery.
EDGAR JAMES
The Lives and Adventures, Daring Hold-ups, Train and Bank Robberies of the World’s Most Desperate Bandits and Highwaymen—The Notorious James Brothers
ANNIE RALSTON JAMES INVENTED an alibi for Frank by visiting Sonora, California, with their three-year-old son, Rob (who was being dressed as a girl then, and was being called Mary), and by writing letters to her parents that depicted the sights she and Frank were viewing out West. But following the Blue Cut robbery, she journeyed back to Kansas City and signed the registration book in the St. James Hotel, and on September 14th she and their “daughter” were in a phaeton carriage as Frank said goodbye to Zee in the kitchen of the bungalow. Jesse sat in a backyard rocking chair, ignoring their flight to the East, but Zee was getting mailing addresses in Chattanooga and Baltimore and young Ford was giving the glum man whatever intelligence about the coastal cities he could recall from his reading. He said Salem, North Carolina, was overrun with diphtheria owing to the sewers not being up to snuff. And Raleigh was a dead town with no sizable manufacturing establishment in it. And he’d heard tell that Richmond, Virginia, was all yellow-flagged because of an epidemic of small-pox. Frank simply circled his hat in his lump-knuckled hands and said, “I guess I’ll know who to come to the next time I plan a trip.”
Bob poured another cup of coffee and in a pout replied, “I was only trying to be helpful.”
Zee went outside to hug Annie and to grasp Rob to her bosom and then Frank received her kiss like medicine, glaring once to the backyard to see that his younger brother was angrily looking away. He said, “I’d better get to the depot,” and soon after that the Frank James family was gone.
Bob peered out from the kitchen window to see the phaeton pull away, then dropped his coffee cup in dishwater and moseyed toward the clothesline pole where Jesse was sitting in a rocker that was submerged to its seat in straw grass and weeds. Bob thought he could say something about getting a goat to chew the yard down a little, but before he could get the sentence together, Jesse said, “My brother and me, we’re not on speaking terms these days. I can remember years at a time when we were scarcely civil to each other. I’ll get lonely though and invite him back and old Buck’ll be in the neighborhood before the week is out. You might say we’ve got an arrangement.” He glanced up at Bob and rubbed about in his chair. “That’s why I didn’t say goodbye.”
“I wasn’t going to mention it.”
Jesse reached under the rocker and into a tin cake closet from which he hauled up two writhing garden snakes. “You scared?” he asked.
“Just surprised a little.”
The snakes flicked their forked tongues out and the heads roamed the air from side to side as if searching for relatives in a crowd. Jesse said, “These aren’t as succulent as I like and they’re the devil to clean but if a man skins and fries them in garlic and oil—mercy, it’s good eating.”
“I’ve never been that hungry.”
Jesse allowed the snakes to crawl his sleeves and nose his vest and slide down to the bunched wool of his trousers. He unfolded a four-inch knife and lifted the head of the browner snake on the blade, but it glided onto his thigh. “Must have at least twelve of these critters in the yard. Sometimes of an evening I’ll sneak out here barefoot and listen to them slither over to where they don’t think I can catch them. Then I snag them with my toes just to prove there’s no getting away from Jesse.” He crooked a snake head around with his knife and read its cruel face before it ducked under the steel and veered to his elbow. “I give them names.”
“Such as?”
“Such as enemies. I give them the names of enemies.” He then carefully laid the snakes on the wooden arm of the rocking chair and sawed off their heads with his knife. The bodies curled and thrashed over his wrist. He flicked their heads into the straw grass. “Go tell Clarence and Charley to get their gatherings together.”
“Me too?” Bob asked.
Jesse glanced at him sharply but then changed and said, “You can stay.”
The suggestion to leave struck Clarence Hite hard and he bickered with Bob about it when Bob nudged him from his nap. “I’m his cousin!” he said. “My momma was his daddy’s—?”
“Sister,” said Bob.
