The Woman Who Loved Jesse James (28 page)

The papers were filled these days with stories about an outlaw in California who called himself Black Bart. He chiefly robbed stagecoaches, and left behind poems boasting of his deeds. He fascinated Tim, who every day pleaded, “Read me a story about Black Bart.”

Jesse grudgingly read about the robber described as the most dashing, daring and chivalrous of robbers, known for his gracious manner and sense of humor. “He has taken to leaving poems at the scene of his crimes,” Jesse read one morning. “One of which is quoted here.

“
Here I lay me down to sleep To wait the coming morrow, Perhaps success, perhaps defeat, And everlasting sorrow. Let come what will, I’ll try it on, My condition can’t be worse; And if there’s money in that box ’Tis munny in my purse.”

Black Bart, PO8

Jesse slapped the paper down in disgust. “Of all the hogwash,” he said.

“Why do you say that, Papa?” Tim asked.

“I say it because this Black Bart character is just a small-time, penny-ante thief compared to a real outlaw like Jesse James.”

“Who is Jesse James?” Tim asked.

Jesse smiled. “A writer named John Newman Edwards said that Jesse James was ‘diabolically daring and had a contempt of fear.’ And that ‘all the annals of romantic crime’ could ‘furnish no parallel’ to Jesse’s exploits.”

“What happened to Jesse James, Papa?” Tim asked.

Jesse stroked his beard and looked thoughtful. “No one knows, son. He’s disappeared. But they’re all wondering. And the lawmen are still looking for him. But they’ll never catch him.”

“Why won’t they catch him?”

I stilled, waiting for the answer as well.

“Because Jesse James will never be taken alive,” Jesse said.

I shuddered at these words, and looked down at my plate. “Eat your breakfast, Tim,” I said. “Dear, your coffee’s getting cold.”

While Frank was content to farm
and hire himself out as a wagon driver and general roustabout, Jesse looked to make his living in easier ways. “I always figured a man was better off using his brains instead of his brawn to get by,” he said.

So he increased his activities speculating in wheat and corn. “What exactly
is
speculating?” I asked him once.

“I buy grain in the field now at one price, speculating that the price will go up when it’s harvested in the fall,” he explained. “In the fall, I sell the crop for more than I paid—or rather, I sell my interest in the crop—and pocket the profit.”

“So it’s another form of gambling,” I said. Jesse’s chief flaw was a love of any wager, to the point of recklessness. He regularly indulged in the more common pursuits of betting on cards and horse races, but he would also wager on the arrival time of a train or the amount of weight a draft horse could pull. When he won, he celebrated by placing another bet, and when he lost, he increased his wagers in hopes of gaining back the money he’d already spent.

“Speculating is a legitimate business,” he said. “Though it has a few things in common with gambling. Which makes it perfect for someone like me.”

Then Jesse argued with a man named Steve Johnson over money Jesse felt was owed him from the sale of a corn crop. Jesse’s pen practically scorched the page as he sent several scathing letters demanding payment, all of which were ignored.

“I’m going to sue,” he declared. “We’ll see how Johnson feels when he’s hauled into court.”

“Jesse, are you sure about this?” I asked, alarmed. “Hiring a lawyer? Facing a judge? What if someone recognizes you?”

“Why should they see me as anyone but J.D. Howard? It’s not as if any of those reward proclamations circulating about have my picture on them. If anything, this will help establish me as a legitimate businessman.”

“What if you run into Sheriff Endicott?”

“What if I do? I’ll greet him like an old friend.”

“An old friend who disappeared overnight. Don’t you think he’ll find that suspicious?”

“People move all the time for one reason or another. I’ll explain that your mother was ill and we had to rush to see her.”

Jesse! It’s not right for you to use my mother as an alibi when she isn’t even here to give her approval or not.”

“Then I’ll use my mother. It doesn’t matter. Everything will be fine. You’ll see.”

Over the next few months, letters and accusations flew back and forth between Jesse and Mr. Johnson and the various lawyers on either side of the argument. The trial was finally set for June, and Jesse and Frank prepared themselves. Frank, as B.J. Woodson, had agreed to testify in Jesse’s defense. Annie and I fretted, but were ignored.

Then, a letter arrived from Jesse’s lawyer, telling him that the case had come before the judge on May 30
^th
, and because Mr. Howard was not present, the ruling had gone in favor of Mr. Johnson. He would not be required to pay anything to Jesse.

Apparently the letter informing Jesse of the change of date for the trial had gone astray.

The failure hit Jesse hard. “I was robbed,” he declared. “As surely as if Johnson stuck a gun to my head.”

“It’s a legal robbery,” Frank said. “The court ruled against you, so there’s nothing you can do now.”

“I could go over there and threaten to kill Johnson if he doesn’t return my money,” Jesse said.

“Then you’d end up in jail for sure, and probably hanged,” Frank said. “And once the authorities started digging around in your business, they’d likely find out about me and arrest me as well. So if you’ve got any sense left in your head at all, you’ll forget about it and get on with your life.”

Jesse was smart enough to acknowledge the wisdom of his brother’s advice, but accepting this loss was a bitter pill that didn’t go down easily. He’d struck back at every other failure in his life. When Union militia attacked his family, he fought back by joining the bushwhackers and wreaking havoc. When the Union used his past to deny him his full citizenship rights, he retaliated by robbing banks and trains controlled by Union businessmen. Even Northfield, a grand failure for the James/Younger gang, had been a kind of personal triumph for Jesse and Frank. They’d made it safely home against impossible odds, and thumbed their noses once more at the many lawmen who pursued them.

The loss of $56 to Mr. Johnson was a less-public failure, but one that stung more than most. Jesse had tried by honest means to earn his living and provide for his family and ended up at the mercy of the law he had spent so much of his life flaunting. More than the loss of money, the blow to his pride cut deep.

He was no longer Jesse James, the famous outlaw, fleeing in a hail of bullets and living to fight another day, but Dave Howard, ordinary citizen, whose downfall was scarcely worth a mention in the local paper—a man who tomorrow would be remembered by no one.

“You don’t need to think,” I said. “Just act.” I stood on tiptoe and whispered in his ear. “It will be all right, I promise.”

If Tim wondered why we insisted he go to bed early that night, he made no protest. He’d had a busy afternoon, accompanying Jesse to the barber and the bootblack, then taking a long ride into the countryside. I wasn’t sure if Jesse was trying to tire the boy out or work off his own frustration, but never mind. The result was the same: Tim was asleep within minutes of saying his prayers and crawling under the covers, and Jesse and I retired to our bedroom and shut the door.

We moved tentatively together, almost like strangers, each fearful of giving offense. Jesse’s hands shook as he unfastened my gown, and in my hurried clumsiness I tore a button from his trousers. He turned the lamp low and we crawled beneath the sheets, and for a long moment merely held each other, catching our breaths, letting some of the urgency recede, enjoying the feel of being in each other’s arms once more.

Jesse was usually the impatient one when it came to our lovemaking, but this night he waited for me to make the first overture. I began to kiss his neck, tasting the salt of his sweat and the sweetness of the talcum powder the barber had used. I traced my tongue along the hollow of his collar bone, and down to the twin indentations on his chest, where bullets had long ago marked him, one still buried within his body.

He smoothed his hands down my back, and twined his fingers in my hair as I continued to map his body with my mouth, laying a trail down his ribs and along the ridged muscle of his abdomen, delving into the indentation of his navel.

Before I could go further, he grasped my arms and dragged me up his body, silencing my half-hearted protests with a long, quenching kiss. I clung to him, savoring the return of a passion I’d feared lost.

His hands roamed my body, soothing and stroking, tracing each curve and hollow as if reassuring himself everything was as he remembered. He cupped my bottom, then gently squeezed, his smile as wicked and devilish as any he had flashed at me in his younger years. “Are you ready to go for a ride, sweetheart?” he asked.

“I’ll ride with you anywhere, darling. You know that.”

Then he lifted my hips until I was straddling him, his erection hard against my entrance. “You set the pace,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t hurt me,” I said, and proved it by spearing myself over him. The sensation of him inside me after so many months’ absence was enough to bring joyful tears to my eyes. I tightened around him and was rewarded by the dazed look that came over him, and the smile that curved his lips.

Then I began to move, rising above him, then sinking into him once more. He grasped my hips and fixed his gaze on my face, his blue eyes almost violet in the dim light. I began to feel a little self-conscious, with him watching me so intently, and closed my own eyes in order to shut out his stare.

He moved his hands to my breasts, hefting them in his palms, toying with the nipples. Any semblance of self-control I had left vanished with these movements, and I came with a loud cry.

Jesse grasped my hips firmly, and began to thrust more strongly beneath me. I realized he must have been waiting for me, and it made me wonder how he’d dealt with his needs in the months we’d been apart.

But these thoughts vanished as his climax shuddered through us both. He bucked hard beneath me, and I tightened my thighs around him to keep from being thrown off the bed. Then he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close, crushing me against his chest until I could scarcely breathe. “God, Zee, I’ve missed you,” he whispered, his voice roughened, as if by tears. “I’ve been so alone without you.”

I had scarcely left his side in all these bitter months, but I knew exactly what he meant. Grief and pain had wrapped us each in dark cloaks, shutting out each other and everyone else. Not even our love for each other had been able to penetrate those veils. But tonight I felt them rip asunder. Jesse had come back to me, and I would never let him leave me again.

By November I was certain
I was pregnant again. My joy was restrained by fear, and I saw the same uncertainty in Jesse’s eyes. While I dealt with my doubts by praying and endeavoring to focus on each positive sign of a normal pregnancy, Jesse coped by ignoring my condition altogether. He never spoke of the baby or my approaching confinement, and went about his business as if nothing at all had changed.

During this time, he spent much of his time at tracks around the country, indulging his passion for horse racing. He owned several racehorses either outright or in part, and they had won races at Hot Springs, Arkansas; Monegaw Springs, Missouri; Saratoga Spring, New York; and Long Branch, New Jersey. He and Frank regularly visited with breeders in Kentucky and Virginia, appraising new stock.

Newspaper reports about the James Gang often commented on the horses they rode. The fine thoroughbreds stood out amongst the work-worn nags and plow-horses more commonly seen. The sheriff’s deputies and civilian posses who pursued the gang after a robbery were never able to keep up with Jesse and his men’s swifter mounts.