Shot in the Back

by William W. Johnstone, J.A. Johnstone

Genres: Action & Adventure; Westerns; Historical Thrillers

Synopsis

THE GREATEST WESTERN WRITERS OF THE 21ST CENTURY From the greatest western storytellers of our time comes a new twist on the legend of notorious outlaw Jesse James—who just might not have died on that fateful April 3, 1882. 1942—Granbury, Texas. A ninety-five-year-old man walks into a recruiting office with the crazy idea to enlist—and an even crazier story. He claims to be the one and only Jesse James, the infamous bank robber allegedly shot by Robert Ford sixty years earlier. Using another man’s corpse to collect the reward, Ford allowed James to slip away and start a new life. Changing his name to Dalton, Jesse worked as a cattle broker in Fort Worth and fathered a pair of twins named Bill and Frank. But when one of the boys turns out to be a chip off the old block—a young outlaw in the making—Jesse has no choice but to school the lad in the fine art of bank robbing so he doesn’t get his fool head blown off. Problem is, once Jesse’s son gets a taste of the outlaw life, he decides it isn’t for him after all. Father Jesse, on the other hand, misses it… So begins the wildest story the West has never known, proving that some legends are bigger than life—and a lot harder to kill…

Release date: June 1, 2015

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 431

Sample

J. Frank Alexander limped into the living room, turned on the cathedral radio, and tuned it to a program of music. Sitting in a nearby rocking chair, he began eating the bowl of chocolate pudding he had brought with him while tapping his foot to the music. To the casual observer he might look like a very old man sitting in a rocking chair, but in his mind he was twenty-five years old and dancing with “the prettiest girl in Clay County, Missouri.”

Suddenly the music stopped and Alexander glanced toward the radio, aggravated that the melody had been interrupted. From time to time the radio did that, and he could generally bring it back by giving it a hard slap on the arched top. He was about to do that when the sound returned. It wasn’t music, though; it was an announcer’s voice.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we interrupt this musical program with a news bulletin from NBC News in New York. President Roosevelt said, today, that the Japanese have attacked Pearl Harbor from the air.”

“Where the hell is Pearl Harbor?” Alexander asked.

As if responding to Alexander’s question, the announcer continued.

“Pearl Harbor is a U.S. Navy base in the American islands of Hawaii. After attacking the ships in the harbor and setting several of them on fire, the Japanese planes, hundreds of them, then attacked the army air corps at Hickam Field and army troops at Fort Shafter. Continuing on, the Japanese planes bombed and machine-gunned civilians in Honolulu.

“The loss of life is said to be very heavy, but no numbers are yet available. It is believed that a state of war will be declared between the United States and Japan.

“Again, Japanese planes have attacked the United States in Hawaii. We will have more information for you as it comes available. And now, back to our regularly scheduled programming.”

The music returned, but Alexander was no longer listening. He had never been to Hawaii, but he knew where it was and had seen pictures of it. He knew that it was a very beautiful place, and for a while he had even contemplated going there after his first “retirement.”

“You Japanese sons of bitches have stepped in it now.”

Alexander parked his 1937 Ford convertible on Crockett Street, two blocks north of the post office, which was the closest parking space he could find. He put a nickel into the parking meter.

“Good morning, Mr. Alexander.”

“Mornin’, Clem,” Alexander replied.

Clem had called out to him from inside a sidewalk newsstand, on which were spread newspapers and magazines. Alexander stepped up to glance at the headlines.

“Looks to me like we’re already givin’ those Jap bastards a good lickin’,” Clem said.

“Yeah, but we’re a long way from whippin’ ’em yet, I’d say.”

“People from all over are joinin’ up to go fight ’em,” Clem said. “I’m fifty-eight years old, but if I was younger, I’d be one of the first in line. I was too old for the first world war, and too young to go off ’n fight agin’ the Spanish. I was only sixteen then, but I tried.”

Alexander bought a newspaper, then with a wave good-bye continued on.

The recruiting office was just inside the post office, and there were two recruiting posters on the wall, one on either side of the door.

One had a picture of a muscular, shirtless sailor, wearing a sailor’s cap and shoving an artillery shell into a big gun.

On the other side of the door was an army recruiting poster, featuring a uniformed soldier who was blowing a bugle as he stood in front of a furled American flag.

Inside the office there were two soldiers and two sailors. All four were sitting around a table playing cards.

“Gibson, you better watch Martell, he’s goin’ to try and shoot the moon,” one of the sailors said.

“Ha! You, don’t have to worry none about that, Calvin. You wait until somebody drops the ole bitch on ’im. Then we’ll see how he does,” Gibson said.

An army sergeant glanced up from the game and saw Alexander standing just inside the door.

“Yes, sir, something we can do for you?” the sergeant asked.

“Is this where you join the army?” Alexander asked.

“It sure is. If your grandson is looking to join, why you just bring him right on down here, old-timer, and we’ll sign him right up.”

“Come on, Sergeant Kilbride, you know that boy isn’t going to want anything to do with the army. Tell you what, mister, you bring him here, the navy will treat him right,” Calvin, who was a navy chief petty officer, said.

“No, sir, it’s the army I’m interested in.”

Corporal Martell, who put his cards on the table facedown when Alexander walked in, laughed. “Ha! What do you think about that? He knows what’s good for his grandson.”

“No, sir, I’m not askin’ about my grandson. I’m askin’ about me.”

Sergeant Kilbride got a confused look on his face. “I don’t understand. What do you mean, asking about you?”

“Joinin’ up,” Alexander said. “I want to join the army.”

The sergeant laughed. “You want to fight for Uncle Sam, do you?”

“You’re damn right I do. And I’ll fight as hard for the Yankee government this time as I once fought against it.”

“As you once fought against it?” Seaman Gibson asked. “What do you mean, you fought against the government?”

“When I rode with Quantrill.”

“Holy crap! Are you telling us you were with Quantrill?”

“Damn straight I am.”

“How old are you?”

“I’m ninety-five.”

“You are ninety-five and you want to enlist in the army?” Martell asked.

“Yes.”

Sergeant Kilbride laughed. “So, you rode with Quantrill, did you? Next you’ll be telling us you’re Jesse James.”

“How did you know?”

The four men looked at him with eyes opened wide in shock.

“Wait a minute. Are you going to stand there, flat-footed, and tell us that you are Jesse James?”

“Well, if I’m going to enlist, I will need to use my real name, won’t I?”

The four recruiters laughed.

“I tell you what. The army can have him,” Calvin said, laughing out loud.

“You men don’t believe me, do you?”

“What about you, Sergeant Kilbride? Do you believe this is Jesse James?” Calvin asked.

“Mister, why don’t you leave now? You’re wasting our time,” Sergeant Kilbride said.

“But I want to join the army.”

“If you don’t leave now, I’ll call Sheriff Baker,” Kilbride said, reaching for the phone.

“Yes, sir, you do that. Call Oran; I’ll just have a seat over here and wait for him,” Alexander said.

“Tell me, old-timer, do any of your friends want to join? Billy the Kid? Doc Holliday? Bill Doolin?” Martell asked, laughing as he spoke.

“Bill Doolin?” Alexander said. He made a hacking sound of disgust deep in his throat. “Hell, Doolin wasn’t nothin’ but a joke.”

Kilbride asked the operator to get him the sheriff’s office. A moment later he said, “Sheriff Baker? This is Sergeant Kilbride down at the recruiting office.” He looked at the others and smiled. “We’ve captured a notorious outlaw, and we’d like to turn him over to you for the reward.”

The others laughed.

“Oh, yeah, we’ll hold him here for you,” Kilbride said before he hung up.

“While we’re waitin’, old-timer, would you like a cup of coffee?” Corporal Martell asked.

“Make it black,” Alexander said.

Martell poured a cup of coffee and handed it to him. “Today was the navy’s turn to make the coffee,” he said. “So I can’t guarantee this. It probably tastes like bilge water.”

“I’ve had coffee, chicory, even ground-up parched corn. I reckon I can handle your coffee,” Alexander said. He took a sip, then smiled. “This is good.”

“Well, I’ll say this for him,” Gibson said, “he likes navy coffee, and that means that he does have taste.”

A few minutes later the sheriff arrived.

“Hello, Sergeant Kilbride. You said you had someone I should meet?”

“Yes,” Kilbride replied. “I’ve got someone here who says . . .” He laughed. “Are you ready for this? He says he is Jesse James.”

“Hello, Oran,” Alexander said.

“Hello, Jesse. I thought you weren’t ever going to tell,” Sheriff Baker replied.

The gasps of the four recruiters were audible.

“Why not? What are they going to do to me now?” Alexander replied. “It’s been more’n sixty years since the last paper was out on me. And if I get one last chance to serve my country, I want to do it.”

“Wait a minute, Sheriff! Just hold on there! Are you saying this fella really is Jesse James?” Gibson asked.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“You’re putting us on, aren’t you?” Martell asked.

“My pa saw Jesse James once, and he told me about it. Ever since then I’ve been interested in Jesse James, and I reckon I’ve readjust about ever’thing that has ever been written about him, which, in a court of law, would qualify me as an expert witness.”

“But what makes you think this old man is Jesse James?” Calvin asked.

“There are seven bullet wounds on this man,” Sheriff Baker said. “That is the same number of times Jesse James is known to have been shot, and the bullet wounds are in precisely the same places. There is a scar on his neck, consistent with the same type scar that would have been left by the rope that a sixteen-year-old Jesse James had from an aborted attempt to hang him. There are also several burn marks on his feet, from where Union soldiers tortured him, trying to get him to tell them where Frank was hiding. If you notice, his left ring finger is missing below the knuckle. I don’t think someone would chop off a finger just to promote a lie. And last, but not least, I have questioned this man extensively. He knows things that only Jesse James could possibly know.”

“All right, let’s say you are Jesse James. I’m not buying that, but let’s say that you are. You’re ninety-five years old. Just what is it that you think you could do for the army?” Sergeant Kilbride asked.

“I can teach ’em how to fight behind the lines.”

“Behind the lines?”

Jesse laughed. “Sonny, I spent most of my career behind the lines, be it Yankee lines or the law. There’s a lot I could teach your soldier boys.”

“Yes, well, even if you are who you say you are, I don’t think we can actually enlist you,” the sergeant said. “But let me talk to Captain Kirby. Maybe we can find some way to use you as a civilian consultant. We’ll be in touch with you soon.”

“You’d better make it very soon. At my age, I don’t even buy milk. I might expire before the milk does,” he added, laughing at his own joke.

“Sheriff, uh, let’s say this is Jesse James. Is there still a reward out for him?” Sergeant Kilbride asked.

Baker laughed. “I don’t think so.” He turned to Jesse. “Jesse, I was going to look you up today anyway. It just so happens that there is someone in town I would like for you to meet. Would you mind coming with me?”

“Don’t mind at all.”

“Would you ring Mr. Faust’s room for me?” Sheriff Baker asked the hotel clerk.

“Yes,” the clerk replied. He made a connection on the switchboard, then pointed to a white telephone on the counter. “Pick up the courtesy phone please, Sheriff.”

“Mr. Faust? This is Sheriff Baker. You know the gentleman I told you about? I have him with me. All right, we’ll be right up.”

“Who is this man we’re meeting?” Jesse asked as they waited for the elevator.

“His name is Frederick Faust. But he writes books as Max Brand.”

“Max Brand. Yeah, I’ve heard of him.”

“I’ve read your book The Outlaw,” Jesse said a few moments later after Sheriff Baker introduced them in Faust’s room.

“Oh? What did you think of it?” Faust asked.

“Don’t know as I can say, seein’ as I never met Billy the Kid. Have you ever done one on me?”

“By ‘me,’ do you mean J. Frank Alexander? Or Jesse James?”

“Have you?”

“I’ve borrowed from the Jesse James story of course, but no, I’ve never done a book specifically about Jesse James.”

“But now you’re wantin’ to. That’s why you’re talkin’ to me.”

“It might be, Mr. Alexander, or Mr. James, whichever is your real name.”

“Actually, I’ve gone by the name Alexander a lot longer now than I went by the name of Jesse James, or Tom Howard. But I reckon you know about such things, seeing as you have two names, Frederick Faust and Max Brand. I mean, they are both your real names, wouldn’t you say?”

“I suppose you could say that.”

“Well, you may as well call me Jesse. I mean, the cat’s out of the bag. And it’s like I told Oran, there’s been no paper out on me for more’n sixty years now. Why, I’d be willin’ to bet there isn’t a dodger out on me in any sheriff’s office anywhere in the whole country.”

Faust laughed. “I’d say that’s a safe bet. But, before I start calling you Jesse, you’re going to have to convince me that you are who you say you are.”

“Ask Oran. He knows who I am.”

“I know that you have convinced him. But I’m asking you to convince me.”

“How am I supposed to convince you who I am? All I can do is tell you who I am and I reckon you’re just going to have to believe me.”

“Maybe it would help if you told me a few things that I can verify, things that have been recorded in the history books. I want to hear your version of it.”

“There’s only one problem with that,” Jesse said.

“What would that be?”

“My version and what’s written in the history books might be somewhat different. My version is always right. The history books aren’t always right.”

“I’ll take that into consideration.”

“All right, what do you want to hear about first?”

“The Northfield Raid.”

Jesse sighed and shook his head. “You would choose that.”

“I’ll admit, it wasn’t your finest hour,” Faust said.

“At least, it wasn’t the finest hour for Jesse and Frank James. But let me hear your side of the story.”

“It was the worst day of my life.”

“Why go all the way to Minnesota to rob a bank?” Frank James asked his brother.

“We’re too well known here,” Jesse said. “There’s not a bank in the state we can go into and not be recognized. Nobody in Minnesota knows us. We could pick out a town, any town in Minnesota, and walk up ’n down the street without anyone ever paying any attention to us.”

“We’ve also got friends here, Jesse,” Frank said. “We’ve got places to go to hide out. We know where those places are, and we know who to trust. Neither of us have ever even been to Minnesota. We wouldn’t even know our way around up there.”

“Bill Chadwell is from Minnesota. He knows his way around, and he swears he can get us in and out real easy.”

“Who do you have lined up to go?”

“Bill Chadwell; then there’s Bob, Jim, and Cole Younger. Also Charlie Pitts, Clell Miller, and of course you and me.”

Frank shook his head. “You can’t count me. I haven’t decided yet that I’ll go.”

“Frank, you’ve been saying you want to quit, haven’t you?”

“Yes, you know I have. Annie doesn’t like this. She doesn’t like it at all.”

“Neither does Zee. Don’t you see, Frank? We can rob that bank up in Minnesota, maybe come away with a hundred thousand dollars or more. Even splitting it up among all of us, we’d have twelve thousand, five hundred dollars apiece. Can you imagine what we could do with that much money? We’d have enough to start over anywhere we wanted. We could go to some place like Tennessee, or Kentucky, or maybe Virginia and buy a farm. I mean a good farm, with good dirt.” Jesse smiled. “We’ll buy two farms, right next to each other, and we’ll be gentleman farmers. Our kids will grow up together, and some day, we’ll just sit on the front porch and rock. What do you say, Frank?”

“I know I’m crazy for saying this,” Frank said. “But I have to admit that the idea of having enough money to buy a farm and settle down does sound good to me.”

“Then you’re in?”

“All right, Jesse, yeah, I’m in. I’ll go along with you this one last time.”

“Good!” Jesse responded enthusiastically.

“What’s the plan?”

“First, we have to raise some money, enough money to finance the operation.”

“So, what do you have in mind? Are we going to rob a bank so that we have enough money to rob a bank?”

Jesse smiled. “No. We’re going to rob a train.”

It was ten o’clock at night when Jesse and Frank James; Bob, Jim, and Cole Younger; Bill Chadwell; Charlie “Chuck” Pitts; Clell Miller; and Hobbs Kerry rode into town. Most of the townspeople were home in bed, though the saloon was still open and the splashes of light spilling through the windows were the only source of illumination in the entire town. An off-key piano was rendering some tune in discordant notes, and a man’s loud laughter could be heard.

“The rest of you, go on up to Rocky Cut and wait,” Jesse said. “Frank and I will take care of the night guard.”

Rocky Cut referred to the gash just beyond the edge of the town that had been blasted through the hill when the tracks for the Missouri Pacific Railroad had been laid.

Jesse and Frank dismounted, then went inside the depot. The night guard was sitting in one chair with his legs propped up on one another. He was reading a newspaper by lamplight, and he looked up as the two men came in. His eyes grew large when he saw they were both pointing their pistols at him.

Fifteen minutes later, with the guard tied to the chair he had been sitting on, and with one of his socks stuffed into his mouth held in place by his kerchief, Jesse and Frank joined the others at Rocky Cut. Jesse had the guard’s lantern, with a red lens, and when they heard the train coming, he lit it and stood alongside the train, swinging the red lantern back and forth as a signal to the engineer to stop.

Hearing the vented steam, then the squeak of the brakes as they were applied, Jesse knew that the engineer was complying with his signal.

“Get out of sight, boys,” Jesse said. “He’s stopping.”

Only Jesse remained alongside the track, and when the train stopped, the engineer stuck his head through the cab window.

“What’s up? What did you stop me for?”

“Why, we stopped you so we could hold up the train,” Jesse said, almost jovially.

The others came out of hiding then, and, boarding the train, held the passengers and the conductor at gunpoint while Jesse and Frank climbed into the express car. There were two safes in the car.

“Listen to me just real close, Messenger, because what you do next could mean the difference between whether you live or die. I see there are two safes. Would you please be kind enough to open them for me?”

The messenger didn’t respond right away, and Jesse pointed his pistol at the messenger’s head and pulled the hammer back.

“Because if you can’t open them, we’ll just kill you now and blast them open. But blasting is so messy, I’d rather not do that, and I know you don’t want a big mess in your car. Oh, what am I talking about? It wouldn’t make any difference to you, would it? I mean, after all, you would be dead.”

“No! I can open them, I can open them!” the messenger shouted.

“Good. I was hoping you might see it my way.”

The entire operation was over within ten minutes, and Jesse and the others were on horseback, galloping away.

The robbery netted fifteen thousand dollars, and it would have been an unmitigated success had Hobbs Kerry not been captured a month later. He gave the authorities the names of everyone who participated in the robbery. Fortunately for Jesse and the others, they were already on the train on their way to Minnesota. Jesse, Frank, Clell Miller, and Jim Younger were on one train. Bob and Cole Younger, Bill Chadwell, and Chuck Pitts were on a second train. They had shipped their horses up on the stock cars that were attached to each train.

It was the middle of August when they arrived in Minnesota, and they had no idea what bank they wanted to rob, so they split up into four pairs to scout out several small towns before finally deciding that they would rob the First National Bank of Northfield, Minnesota.

“These Yankee bastards ain’t never run in to the likes of us,” Clell Miller said. “When it goes down, they won’t know whether to scratch their ass or pick their nose.”

On the morning of September 7, the eight men met just outside Northfield.

“We’ll break up into three groups. Frank, Bob, and I will be the ones who actually go into the bank,” Jesse said as he laid out the plans. “Cole, you and Clell stay out front of the bank to stand guard. Jim, I want you, Chuck, and Bill to cover our escape route. Any questions?”

“We’re all wearin’ our guns,” Chuck Pitts said.

“Well, yeah, don’t you think we might need them?” Clell Miller asked.

“It’s just that, if you notice, there ain’t nobody in any of these towns we’ve been through that’s been wearin’ guns. Don’t you think maybe we ought to put on our dusters so as to cover them?”

“Good idea, Chuck,” Jesse said. “Yes, let’s do that.”

“All right, Frank, Bob, and I will ride into town first. We’ll have lunch and sort of scout the town over. Cole, you and Clell give us about an hour or so before you two come in. When we see you two arrive, we’ll go on into the bank. Jim, you and your group stay b. . .