Northfield (19 page)

Ink-slingers had arrived, too, and, although I desired to go home as quickly as I could, Sheriff Glispin asked me if I would attend his interrogation of Cole Younger.

Dr. Cooley said he had removed buckshot from Cole Younger’s left shoulder, arm, and armpit. One bullet had lodged in his jaw, although he had faired much better than his brother Jim, whose mouth wound had rendered his speech to little more than mumbles and groans. An older wound, one likely received at Northfield, had lodged in Cole Younger’s left hip, and other bullets and shot had torn into his body.

“I’ve never seen a man with such a constitution,” Cooley told us. “I’m not even sure a hangman’s noose will kill him.”

“We shall see, Doctor,” I replied, and took a seat beside Cole Younger’s bed. Sheriff Glispin remained standing.

“Special trains will be running, Mister Younger, on the Saint Paul and Sioux City Railroad, bringing all types of visitors, newspaper editors, and lawmen.”

“I’m right popular,” Younger said.

“When the doctors say ye can travel, sir, ye, too, shall find yeself on a train. And ye brothers.”

“To Missouri, I hope.”

“Nay. Faribault. Rice County seat. There ye shall face charges. It might go easy on ye, lad, if ye were to tell us of your comrades. The man killed at Hanska Slough, for starters?”

“Charlie Pitts. Other two men we lost at North-field was called Chadwell and Miller. That’s all there was.”

“No, Mister Younger. Reports say eight or nine men took part in the raid. What happened to the others? They abandoned ye, left ye for dead.”

Younger said nothing.

“They were the James brothers, we know. Jesse and Frank. Maybe another man. Come, now, lad, be a good man and ease ye conscience.”

“I know Frank and Jesse. Frank has been a friend of mine, but Jesse and I ain’t been on speaking terms for a spell now. And despite all you read in the papers, I never robbed no banks or trains with Frank and Jesse, and I’m right sure Frank and Jesse never robbed no trains, neither. We just get blamed for every crime across the country.”

“Aye. No man ever hanged or imprisoned has ever been guilty.”

“My brothers and me never robbed nothing, never tried to rob nothing, but the law kept hunting us so we decided, if we’re gonna be branded outlaws, we might as well take up the profession. Northfield was our first go at it.”

“A mighty poor performance,” I said.

“Yeah. Well, that’s the truth. We wanted Silver Spoons Butler’s money, wanted to hurt Governor Ames. We joined up with two drifters. Not the James brothers.”

“’Twas the Jameses!” Sheriff Glispin yelled, slapping his black hat across his legs. “Admit it!”

“Don’t believe all them blood and thunder stories you read, Sheriff. It was a fellow named of Wood and another man called Howard. Them was the two with us in Northfield.”

The sheriff sighed. “And where might we find Mister Wood and Mister Howard? Where be ye pals?”

“Hell if I know, Sheriff.”

Other than the identity of the three slain desperadoes, that might have been the only truthful statement Cole Younger made in my and Sheriff Glispin’s presence.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-T
WO
D
R.
S
IDNEY
M
OSHER

Your perspective changes when staring down the barrel of a Schofield revolver held by a man with murderous blue eyes.

Moments earlier, I had been dreading the task before me: a twenty-mile ride, one way, on a small bay mare I had rented from Mr. Broadbent to perform a goiter operation on Robert Mann’s wife. The ride would leave my backside and thighs chaffed for a week, longer if I winded up getting lost on my way to the small Iowa settlement of Kingsley Not only did I loathe removing goiters, which I had done several times since entering practice in Sioux City, but the Manns were opprobrious welshers and I would have to put up with the incessant chattering of their entire brood.

Now, I merely longed to live to see Mrs. Mann’s goiter.

“Hands up!” the man instructed me, and fleetly I complied.

Moments earlier, I had espied the two men, riding sagging gray horses, and called out to the men’s broad backs, asking if I were traveling the right way to reach Kingsley. They rode on ahead, as if they hadn’t heard, so I urged the bay forward and hurriedly intercepted them. That is when they reined their horses around and the smallest one planted the Schofield barrel, unwavering, inches from my forehead.

“Well?” the gunman demanded.

Well…what? Oh, he wants to know my intentions. I wish I knew his.

“My name is Sidney Mosher,” I said, attempting to effect a casual tone. “I am a physician residing in Sioux City on my way to see a patient in Kingsley It is an emergency.” A stretch, perhaps, but not for Bob Mann, hoping to hush the complaints of that ill-mannered witch he had wed.

“You are a damned liar,” the man said. “You are one of those damned detectives from Saint Paul, chasing the robbers.”

The robbers. Of course.

Of those bandits I knew. Why, just that morning outside Mr. Broadbent’s, I had readily joined in on the gossip about the pursuit of those killers who had robbed the bank in Northfield, Minnesota earlier that month.
The Democrat
had reported the capture of three of the bad men near Madelia, but at least two were still eluding the law, and rumors had them having crossed the border into Dakota Territory. Maybe they’ll come to Iowa on their return to those hide-outs in Missouri, we had said in jest, dreaming of how we would splurge on Minnesota Governor John Pillsbury’s reward should those last bandits wander into our hands.

Well, here they are, Sid, how do you plan on spending that gold?

“I am no detective, gentlemen. Nor am I either robber or hunter of robbers. I am Sidney Mosher, doctor, from Sioux City.”

“I think I shall kill this damned detective now,” the killer said, and I caught my breath, trying to remain cool while fearing for my life.

“Listen, if you don’t believe me,” I said, my throat suddenly dry, my voice strained, “ride back to the farm a quarter of a mile toward town, ask that owner to describe Doctor Sidney Mosher. The farmer’s name is Wither spoon, and I set his youngest son’s broken leg last spring. Ask him. To a The’ll describe me.”

“Maybe I’ll do just that,” the gunman said, but he didn’t move, just stared, never lowering the Schofield one inch.

“Step down off that hoss, Doc,” the taller, bearded man ordered, and we both dismounted, both stiffly. His filthy, rough hands turned my pockets inside and out, which I found bothersome as I had just spent $15 on this suit.

“I am unarmed,” I informed them. “And carry less than five dollars in cash.”

“Then what’s this, Doc?” the taller man asked.

“A lancet,” I answered at the surgical instrument he dangled under my nose. Don’t tell me you fear that as a Bowie knife, as Mrs. Mann would certainly see it!

He pitched the lancet aside, thought better of it, and stepped back, bent over with a groan, and retrieved it. His mud-stained, ripped trousers leg had been wrapped tightly with strips from his shredded duster, and I surmised that a bullet wound troubled him. He resumed his search, finding my coin purse and medicine case in my inside coat pocket.

“Where’s your bag, Doc?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Bag. Back home, doctors on an emergency call always brought along their black bag. Where is it…if you’re a doctor?”

I nodded at the lancet and small case, which caused both men to break out in wild cackles, the likes of which I had never heard, except from coyotes. The shorter one spit out tobacco juice and, to my gratitude, holstered his revolver. He carried, I noticed, more than the Schofield belted around his waist, although one holster was empty.

“Just what kind of operation are you rushing off to perform, Doc?” the tall man asked, devilment in his blue eyes.

They laughed again. Well, I have been told in the past I am the worst poker player ever born.

“It’s…a goiter.”

Now, they howled, and spoke in unison, as if Thespians treading the boards: “‘Physician, heal thyself.’”

When the laughter had subsided, the shorter man dismounted, handing me his reins. “Cutting off a struma can wait, Doc. You’ll join us for a spell, but take my horse. I like the looks of yours.”

Certainly, for Mr. Broadbent’s bay could catch this wheezing gray steed should I attempt an escape.

After they helped me back in the saddle, the tall man spoke. “We’ve be wont of company, Doc. So you’ll ride along with us a ways, provide us with stimulating conversation. Don’t worry, we sha’n’t kill you…unless you make us.”

Conversation. No, they just need a hostage. At least, I hope it’s a hostage. If they seek a guide, then they are fools and we’ll all be lost before sundown.

“Nice horse, Doc,” the shorter one said when we had all mounted.

“Try not to jump any canons,” the other one said.

“You don’t believe I did that, do you, Frank?”

“You said you done it, and you wound up on my side of the river somehow.”

“You should have seen it.” He laughed. “Hell, I wish I had seen it.”

“Pretty soon, it’ll be clear as a tintype, and that canon in Dakota will be fifty feet wide ’stead of five.”

“Fifteen. And these mounts got us to Iowa.”

“Iowa ain’t exactly Eden.”

The banter ceased abruptly and we picked up the pace for a few miles in a bone-jarring trot.

“You know who we are?” the taller man said as the gray pounded my backbone and rattled my intestines.

Well, the killer called you, Frank, so I assume you are Frank James, and the other man your notorious brother. I am not a fool, sir. Everyone in America knows your names, and everyone in Dakota and Minnesota, and now Iowa, has been talking of you since September 7
^th
.

“We haven’t had formal introductions,” I replied.

“True. My name is Woodson. This is Mister Huddleson. We live in Baltimore.”

Liars. Poor ones, too.
“What brings you to Iowa?”

“Heading up to the gold fields in the Black Hills.”

You’re traveling the wrong way.

“I
see.”

“I’m sure you do, Doc. No, we have no interest in joining Wild Bill in that bone yard. We just desire to see home. You can tell your grandchildren you rode with the outlaws that pulled the daring bank robbery in Northfield. What all did you hear about Northfield?”

I informed them of the stories I had picked up from the newspapers, including the capture of three assassins in arms a few days prior. That caused them to rein in their mounts, and I cursed my stupidity.

They’ll kill you, Sid!

“Captured!” the man I presumed to be Jesse James roared. “The hell you say, Doc!”

“Alive?” the tall man inquired urgently.

Be honest.
“Three were shot gravely, a fourth killed. The last I heard is that the survivors were Cole Younger and his brethren.”

“God have mercy on their souls,” the shorter one said. “God spare them. I thought the laws might follow us, lead them away from Bob and….” His head shook. “Well, at least they’re alive.”

“Yeah,” Frank said in disgust. “Facing a rope.”

I welcomed the silence, but it didn’t last long for Mr. Huddleson—or should I say, Jesse James— started up another conversation, his mood surprisingly light.

“I rode with Bloody Bill in the war, Doc. Who did you ride with, or were you too yellow to serve?”

“I was a surgeon with the Army of the Cumberland.”

“Reckon we never met up in battle, then. You hear tell of Bloody Bill?”

“I heard.” I heard he was a monster, one of the biggest fiends America has ever fathered. I am glad they killed this murderer, glad they decapitated him.

I said nothing to offend Jesse—thought it, yes, but spoke not one inflammatory word—yet the killer reined in the bay, and snapped at me: “Damn you, Doc. I’ll kill you yet.”

“Temper, temper, temper,” my mother used to scold. A violent, uncontrolled temper. Perhaps I should just remain silent.

“There’s a code amongst bushwhackers, Doc,” said the tall man, Frank James, alias Mr. Woodson. “Fight to the death. Fight for family and friend. You keep silent, even on the gallows, and you die game. You demand respect, and kill if your honor is slighted. Can you savvy all that?”

Your ethics are queer.
“I suppose,” I lied.

“Take no quarter,” Frank James continued, “for you shall receive none. ‘Nothing emboldens sin so much as mercy’”

“Timon of Athens,” I said, and quoted my own bit of Shakespeare:

The quality of mercy is not strain’d.
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice bless’d;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.

“The Merchant of Venice.”
Frank James smiled warmly. “I’m glad we didn’t blow your head off, Doc.”

“Yet,” interjected Jesse, still sour.

A mile down the road, as Jesse stood in his stirrups to look at a puff of dust (from a dust devil, it turned out), his left stirrup strap broke, and he swore heavily.

“Damn, Doc, this is the worst dodd-dingus saddle I ever sat.”

Fear not, Mister James. I shall take the matter up personally with Mister Broadbent upon my return to Sioux City.

Like a great Thespian, like Barnett or Booth, he turned his mood around as he rode to the next farm, switching our horses, putting me on the bay, leaving his brother in the road to watch for lawmen or errant travelers. The farmer exited his sod-die as we eased our mounts toward his watering trough. Jesse did all the talking. Thinking of the armory this assassin carried about his waist, I prayed the farmer would not suspect anything.

“I’m on my way with Doctor Mosher to the Mann farm, and his stirrup strap busted on him,” the outlaw lied. “It’s an emergency, mister, and we need to borrow a saddle off you. So the doc can save poor Missus Mann’s life.”

The farmer studied me, then Jesse, and I held my breath. “There’s a Morgan in my barn,” he said. “Fetch it yourself and don’t forget to bring it back.”

Our next stop, around 6 o’clock for supper, proved a tad more hospitable, as we ate cornbread and soup before departing, paying 40¢ cents for the meal, making our way three more miles before reining in to bed down, I hoped, for the night.

“Doc,” Frank James said wearily, “I must ask if you’d be kind enough to help me down off this horse.”

I’m no horseman, sir. My legs are stiff as a fence post.

“Sure,” I said, and coaxed the tall man out of his saddle, let him lean against me as we walked a few rods away and sat on the ground. Without a word, Frank James returned the lancet and medicine case, and I understood.

“Remove your pants, sir,” I instructed him.

The bullet had carved a wicked gash a few inches above the knee joint, and how it had eluded infection might be an entry for the medical journals. As I examined the gash more closely, I found it amazing that this man had not bled to death. The wound, I was informed, had been received during the robbery. More than two weeks had passed, and I estimated the distance must be 250 miles, if not more, from Northfield to Sioux City—and they had fled west first, to Dakota Territory, and southeast, traveling hard, on horseback and ankle express, through the elements, fighting their way out of one scrap after another, covering much, much more than 250 miles.

What day is it? September 25
^th
. Great Scott! And…what is this dark substance, remnants on the side of the wound and in the scabs?

I eyed Frank James with a mixture of curiosity and amazement.

“Gunpowder,” he said. “Emptied it from the casings. Pounded it with the butt of my Remington, till it was fine as I could get it, then poured it over the gash, wrapped it with whatever I had handy. You learn to use what you have on hand, Doc, and, during the war, we figured how gunpowder can be a pretty good….” He could not find the word.

“Styptic,” I said.

“Well, I’m still kicking.” Again he revealed an infectious smile. “Just not kicking so high lately.”

You learn to use what you have on hand. How true. During the war, I stitched saber wounds with anything from thread and horsehair to fishing line and fiddle strings.

I cleaned Frank James’s ugly gash as best I could, using the bandage I had intended for Mrs. Mann’s neck on his thigh and offering him a tincture of opium to relieve the pain. Upon completion, I told him he could put his pants back on, only to find myself staring into his revolver.

“I reckon not, Doc. Mister Huddleson borrowed your horse. Now I’m going to swap my clothes for yours.”

They won’t fit, you fool. You have five inches on me.

The hammer of the .44
clicked.

I undressed.

Frank James’s rags looked horrible on me, especially with the sleeves and pant legs rolled up, but the outlaw looked even more ridiculous in my ill-fitting $15 suit. The moon was rising by then, and a horse snorted behind me. To my surprise, during my examination of Frank James, his brother had sneaked off to a nearby farm and returned with a blue roan mare. The two grays were gone, but my bay—or should I say, Mr. Broadbent’s, saddled still with the farmer’s Morgan—stood ready at Jesse’s side.