Shot in the Back (6 page)

“Damn, if I had known that was all the money he got, I would have let him take it,” Jesse said to Frederick Faust. “It still bothers me that I shot him.”

“The way you're telling it, Jesse, you had no choice. He took a shot at you,” Faust said.

“I had a choice,” Jesse said. “I could have let him take the money. I should have let him take it.”

“That was a long time ago,” Faust said. “It's as I told you, I know how verbalizing all of this now can bring it back as real as if it is actually happening at this very minute. You've had to relive the Northfield Raid, leaving Zee, and now, having to kill an old friend. I've no doubt but there will be many more incidents like this, so it's up to you whether or not we go on. But I have to tell you, you've got me into the story now, so I hope that you agree to continue.”

“Yeah,” Jesse said, “well, I want someone to know. And I need to get it all out. I figure it's a little like pickin' a boil. It hurts while you're doing it, but after, it feels a lot better.”

“Picking a boil. Yes, that's a good analogy. I'm glad you feel that way,” Faust said. He stood up and walked to the edge of the porch, looking down at the Brazos River. “What kind of fish are in the river, there?” he asked.

“Buffalo, bass, bream, and catfish. Lord, I've seen catfish taken out of there that are five feet long.”

“Zane Grey was quite a fisherman, you know,” Faust said.

“I didn't know that. I've read some of his books. I like yours better. His books are a little too—”

“Mushy?” Faust asked with a chuckle.

“Yeah.”

“He was pretty sensitive about that. But there's no denying his success. He died a few years ago, and I miss him.”

“I would think that, what with the two of you bein' Western writers 'n all, that you'd not get along.”

“You mean because of competition?” Faust asked. He shook his head. “No, it doesn't work that way. There are a lot of stories to be told, and not that many of us who can write them. We're sort of a close colony because of that. Besides, our readers feed off each other. If they like reading one of us, they tend to want to read others. I see you have a boat, so do you ever go fishing?”

“Not as much as I used to.”

“Let's go fishing and see if we can catch something for supper. I'm somewhat of an amateur cook. If we catch something, I'll cook it. And the break will be good for you. You can catch up on your thoughts.”

“All right,” Jesse said. “I'm having to furnish the boat; I guess I'm going to have to furnish the tackle as well.”

“Unless you want me to drive back into town so I can buy my own.”

Jesse chuckled. “No need for you to have to do that.”

 

 

They caught two bass and three bream, and while Faust was frying the fish for their lunch the next day, Jesse read the paper.

 

From the
Hood County Herald:

“Damn, this war's going to be over before I can get in it,” Jesse said. “Why do you suppose it's taking the army so long to get back to me? I know I can teach those soldier boys a few things, if they would just let me.”

“I don't think the war is going to be over all that quickly,” Faust said.

“But look here, it says the whole Jap fleet was wiped out.”

“It also says that the Japanese overran the island and seized the airport. It seems to me like the articles are being written to put a good face on things. I think that's wrong. I think the articles ought to be truthful. And they should be more personal. They should tell the stories of Seth and Tom and Bill and John, the average soldiers who are fighting this war. I think the people at home can handle the truth, and I think they should see what their sons, husbands, and brothers are doing.” Faust laughed. “Excuse me, Jesse. It would appear that I climbed up onto my soapbox there.”

“Yeah, but I think you're right. You're a writer. After you get through writing this story about me . . . why don't you go over there and write about our army?”

“You know, I just may do that,” Faust said.
¹

“Say, this fish is pretty good,” Jesse said. “You know, if this writing business doesn't work out for you, you could always be a cook. I bet there are a lot of outfits that would sign you on in a heartbeat.”

“You think so?”

“I'm sure they would.”

Faust chuckled. “I'll keep that in mind. But what do you say after we eat this fish, that we get back to work?”

“All right. I'm going to jump ahead quite a few years, though, if you don't mind.”

“That'll be fine. You're the one that's telling the story.”

The town of Wild Horse was losing population rapidly, so rapidly that Jesse was unable to find a buyer for his gun store, so he closed it down. He still had some money left, though, enough to start a farm if he could come by the land. Then he read in the paper about the Kickapoo Land Rush in Oklahoma, said by the article to be the last land rush to be held for the fertile land in Oklahoma.

That was what brought him here, just outside the town of Chandler, at five fifty-five in the morning on Thursday, May 23, 1895. The rush was due to start at six a.m. and in preparation for that, Jesse and his twelve-year-old twins were all three mounted on horses. Molly was driving a wagon, loaded with the things they would need to start their new home. Each person, sixteen and older, could claim one hundred and twenty acres of land. Jesse, Billy, and Frank were each going to make a claim. They planned to get around the age limit, if anyone questioned them, by saying that their father had claimed the land and they were just holding it for him while he went back to get their mother and their belongings.

“Remember, we have to have the land next to each other or it won't work,” Jesse explained.

At one minute until six o'clock, a soldier carrying a bugle came out of the Chandler land office. He raised his pocket watch, examined it until just the right moment, then he lifted the bugle to his lips and played
“
Charge,” the notes rising loud and clear in the quiet morning air.

By the time the last note was sounded, the morning air was no longer quiet. It was filled with the thunder of hoofbeats, and the squeak, creak, and rattle of rapidly pulled wagons, buckboards, surreys, and buggies.
Hurrahs
and shouts came from hundreds of voices, and within seconds nothing could be seen but a towering cloud of red dust.

Billy was a better rider than Frank Jr., and because he was lighter than Jesse, he started out ahead.

“Billy!” Jesse called out to him. “Hold on there; we can't get separated! If we do, our plan won't work!”

“Well, Pa, tell Frank to hurry up! He's holdin' us back!”

Jesse had been in this part of Oklahoma before, and he knew the perfect spot for a land claim. It was on Warwick Creek, and last night he had drawn a map for Billy and Frank, showing them where to go. Knowing exactly where to go gave them an advantage over ninety percent of the rushers, because most of the people who were participating were from all over the nation, some even from other countries, and they had no idea what they were looking for.

It took less than half an hour for them to reach the creek. Once there, Billy went west, Frank went east, and Jesse staked out the land in between. All three of them pitched tents, then settled down to make their claim.

Shortly after Billy pitched his tent he threw out a blanket and sat down on it to wait. Half an hour later, a rider came up to him. He had a scraggly beard, a dirty face, a scar that pulled his mouth to one side, and a cleft upper lip. He rode up to Billy, then spit a wad of tobacco onto Billy's tent.

“You spit on my tent,” Billy said. “What did you do that for?”

The man wiped his mouth with the sleeve. “Get on your way, boy,” he said. “I'm a' claimin' this here land.”

“You can't claim it,” Billy said. “I'm already here.”

“That don't mean nothin'. Now get on your way, like I told you to.”

Billy shook his head. “Like I told you, I'm already here.”

“Boy, are you tryin' to tell me you're sixteen? 'Cause I know damn well you ain't.”

“It don't matter how old I am,” Billy said. “I'm holdin' it for my pa. You don't have to be any certain age to hold it for your pa.”

“If you don't get offen this land right now, I'm goin' to throw you off,” the man said, dismounting and starting toward Billy. “You can't be a' holdin' it for your pa, or anyone else. If you ain't old enough to claim the land, then you ain't old enough to hold it for nobody, neither. You ain't old enough for nothin'.”

Billy pulled a pistol from under the blanket and pointed it at the man, cocking it as he did so.

“How old do I have to be to kill you?” he asked, his voice amazingly calm, considering his age and the circumstances.

“What?” the bearded man asked, throwing his arms out in front of him. “Hold on here, boy! You better put that gun down now, I'm tellin' you.”

“I'll put the gun down as soon as you ride away from here,” Billy said.

Startled, and clearly frightened by the turn of events, the bearded man remounted.

“All right, all right, I'm a' goin',” he said. “I doubt this land would raise much more'n rocks anyway.”

Billy kept the pistol out until the man was out of sight.

 

 

One week later Jesse went into the land office in Chandler, where he filed on all three claims, showing receipts where he had bought the two adjoining claims to his property. There, too, he bought the lumber, glass, and roof tiling he would need to build a house, and he hired some carpenters. Within two months they had a three-bedroom house, a barn, a machine shed, and an outhouse.

Jesse didn't get a crop in until next spring. Frank developed quickly into a very good farmer, but Billy clearly had no interest in it. He found every excuse he could to avoid work, and while Jesse and Frank could plow an acre and a half in one day, it was all Billy could do to bring in half an acre.

“I wish Billy could be more help to you,” Molly said as the two of them lay in bed one night. “I feel bad about you and Frank working so hard while Billy is doing so little.”

Jesse chuckled. “Don't be too hard on him, Molly. Farming isn't for everybody. The truth is, he reminds me a lot of myself when I was his age, back in Missouri.”

“Missouri? I thought you were from Kentucky.”

“We moved to Kentucky after my pa died and my ma remarried,” Jesse said, recovering quickly.

“Frank Alexander, we've been married for more than thirteen years, and this is the first time I've ever heard you say that you were from Missouri.”

“I never told you that?”

“No, you never did.”

“Didn't I? Well, my memories of Missouri aren't all that good. Like I said, my pa died there, and my ma tried to make a go of the farm. That's what I meant when I said it reminded me of the time I was in Missouri, no more than a boy, trying to make a living on a piece of worthless dirt.”

“Where in Missouri did you live?”

“Ke . . .” Jesse started to say Kearney, but that was where Jesse James was from, and he wanted to keep Molly as far away from that as he could. “Kennett,” he said.

“Kennett?”

“It's a little town down in southeast Missouri, in an area they call the Bootheel.” Jesse had ridden through Kennett once and remembered how much like Kearney it was. “You can't blame me for never mentioning it to you before. Like I said, when I think of it, all I can remember is dirt and hard work.”

“If your memory of farming is all that bad, why did you want to come here to farm?”

“What else were we going to do, Molly? Wild Horse was a dying town. I wouldn't be surprised if it would just go away within another few years.”

“I hate to think that. Ken was so proud of that town. Now he, and several others, lie buried back there in a graveyard that nobody will ever tend or visit.”
²

“You really loved that town, didn't you?”

“I loved it while it was a town. Everyone knew each other; it was almost like we were one big family. I think it was coldhearted of the railroad to kill the town the way they did.”

“I'll take you back there one of these days, Molly,” Jesse said.

“You aren't just telling me that, are you, Frank? I know there's nothing left there, but I would like to go back someday.”

“I'll take you back. I promise,” Jesse said.

“Did you ever take her back to Wild Horse?” Faust asked.

“Yes, I took her back.”

“I'm sure she appreciated it.”

“I'm sure she would have.”

“Would have?”

“I'm sorry to say that I never got around to taking her back until after she died,” Jesse added.

“Oh, I'm sorry.”

“Thank you. That was forty years ago. I lost both of my wives that year.”

“You married again?”

“No. I'm talking about Zee.”