“Throw your hands high, for I am Jesse James and I have come to rob your bank!”
Bang! Crack! The roar of pistol fire filled the bank lobby.
“Do not holler,” continued the outlaw. “There are 40 men outside. It will do you no glory to upset them; for, if you do, you will surely lose your life, and your household will lose its head.”
A woman holding a bawling infant collapsed from the horrible excitement of the moment. Cole Younger, with the coiled steel reflexes of a catamount, strode forward and caught the fair damsel and the poor terrified babe, saving them from a disastrous appointment with the unyielding oak floor.
The distressed lady, awakened from Morpheus’ spell by the scent of gunpowder, gazed into Younger’s eyes …
BAM! The depot master’s office door slammed open. Charlie tumbled from his clerk’s post, his dime novel Jesse James Tales of Adventure skid across the floor to the newly shined shoes of Ichabod O’Hannon, the depot master himself.
“That’ll teach you to read children’s stories on the railroad’s time,” chided Ichabod. “You’ll never become a man if that’s how you carry on. Why, in General Grant’s army, you’d have been bucked and gagged before you could spit out your own name.”
“Aw, Mr. O’Hannon, how can I be a man when you won’t give me any responsibility? Let me run the telegraph. I can do it. I’ll show you.”
“First show me you can act like a man instead of a child, then I’ll trust you with more responsibility. To start with, you can shine your shoes. A railroad employee must dress smart.”
Charlie looked down at his muddy work boots. He had to admit, they did not look smart like Ichabod’s.
“I’m sorry. It’s just with all the rain and all I can’t seem to keep ‘em clean.” True enough. It had been raining hard for two weeks––since September 7th to be exact. Streams and lakes were swelled to their rims and it was a rare patch of land right at the moment that wasn’t a foot trap of mud. “Anyway, them stories are harmless. It’s just a little adventure. Days get so dreadful tiresome round here.”
“Gracious,” said Ichabod. “Civil War, grasshopper plagues, Indian wars. Shoot, those Indians rode their ponies right through here after that business at Lake Shetek. How much adventure does a boy need?” He kicked Charlie’s book into a corner. “And your Jesse James, young sapling, is a traitor to the Union, and don’t you forget it. I don’t care how dull life gets to seeming, I won’t excuse some Johnny Reb bushwhacker just because his deeds are colorful. And I especially don’t excuse him murdering and stealing the money of decent farm folk just because they happen to live too far north for his dubious esteem. Seems like the world would be a lot better off with a good long stretch of boredom if you ask me.”
“Well, I wasn’t even ten when most of that stuff happened. Don’t recollect any of it except Aunt Emma knitting socks for her cousins in the army. And picking up grasshoppers for 75 cents a bushel ain’t my idea of excitement––not like ridin’ horses and shootin’ guns and catchin’ faintin’ ladies.”
Normally, this would be the time when Ichabod would correct Charlie’s grammar and remind him to pronounce his g’s. Charlie’s grammar was improving under his boss’s tutelage. He was just on the cusp of saying words right the first time, but waiting for Ichabod to correct him had become a habit, maybe a hobby. It was no wonder Ichabod didn’t think of Charlie as a man. But Ichabod did not correct Charlie this time. Instead, he stared out the window and thought about catching fainting ladies himself––one in particular, the Widow Stevens. Ichabod picked up the dime novel from the corner and, much to Charlie’s surprise, returned it to him, then wandered back into his office, dreamy and silent. He left the door open and the heat from the potbellied stove wandered into Charlie’s area along with the aroma of coffee from the speckled blue pot atop it.
The depot was comprised of just two rooms. The west room with its south facing door was Ichabod’s office and the home of his desk and the telegraph that he proudly supervised having been trained in its operation during his Civil War service. The east room with its north door was a makeshift lobby, storage area, and the location of Charlie’s high stool, ledge and mop. The two rooms shared a door. This door was closed when Ichabod desired solitude and open when Charlie required oversight.
Charlie looked out his south window. It was a better view than the north window. Out the north window, if you squinted and used your imagination, all you could see was the lonesome schoolhouse stranded amongst the flat fields and grassland. Out the south window, however, was Pell Creek stretching the entire view east to west. The water itself was hidden, but the continuous conspicuous line of trees belied its presence. To the west was the creamery, just south was Aunt Emma’s hotel, where Charlie lived, and east, well you could only see trees, rocks and ravines, but behind those were the Steinle and Stevens farms. At the Stevens farm lived the lovely Widow Stevens.
The Widow Stevens was generally considered to be a doomed creature. She wasn’t an actual widow, but she was respected enough by local folk to be granted the title which was generally thought to be more acceptable than the truth. Her husband had deserted her, leaving behind two small children only old enough to cry into their mother’s skirts and trail behind her in the fields. Soon after the husband scarpered, the Widow’s ox died. Talk of the region was that there was no possible hope she could improve the land well enough in the next year to meet the requirements of the Homestead Act––not without an ox or a set of broad shoulders to help her. Some lesser folk craned their necks as they drove their wagons past the Stevens farm, to see if the destitution had advanced. If she couldn’t improve the land, she had the option to buy it at the price of $1.25 an acre, but that was about as unlikely as her clearing all those rocks and trees with her soft dainty hands.
To keep her children fed, the Widow Stevens worked as a hired girl for her neighbors, the Steinles. The Steinles lived in a dugout, close quarters for two adults and even closer with their large number of children. They couldn’t pay the Widow much, but they could share their food and keep shoes on her poor babies’ feet. She also baked bread for a small but loyal clientele that included Charlie’s Aunt Emma and old Ichabod.
Old Ichabod––well, he was old to Charlie––had asked for the Widow’s hand in marriage three times. Unfortunately, his proposals were always couched in forecasts of how she was soon likely to lose her homestead. A life with a depot agent and telegraph operator, he maintained, while not luxurious, would be far more secure and convenient for her and the wee ones than the one of eventual destitution she faced on her farm. Of course, Ichabod looked and often acted like he’d been weaned on lemons, so maybe it was expecting too much of him to pursue a more romantic approach to courtship. The Widow Stevens denied his proposals explaining that Ichabod’s rented room was far too small for a family. Thus, Ichabod held out hope for a successful fourth proposal if he could devise a means of improving his living quarters. Charlie’s Aunt Emma broke Ichabod’s reverie by entering the depot through his south door.
“Morning, Mr. O’Hannon,” she greeted. She closed her umbrella and frowned at the watery mess it delivered to the floor.
“Good morning, Miss Root,” replied Ichabod. “Don’t mind that. Charlie can easily mop it up. Meeting Mrs. Stevens here today?”
“Oh, no,” said Aunt Emma. “She’ll have more bread than I care to tote back to the hotel. Just taking in some morning air.”
“Pretty soggy air today,” said Ichabod.
“Well, sure,” said Emma. “Enough for a fine baptism.” She chuckled. Her laughter warmed the room faster and better than Ichabod’s potbellied stove. If Charlie wasn’t mistaken, it even warmed Ichabod, for he smiled in a most gracious and natural way––far more easy and relaxed than Charlie ever saw him when the Widow Stevens was around. Aunt Emma was the opposite of almost everything there was to see about Ichabod. She was sturdy where he was a stoop shouldered bean pole. She was calm while he was prickly. Ichabod came back from the war a lot shakier and less robust than he was when he set out for it. Aunt Emma was always healthy and steady as a rock. Charlie thought they balanced each other out. He wished they’d take to one another. It would be nice to think they each had someone if Charlie ever decided to strike out on his own one day.
Charlie’s quick ear awakened him to the click click clicking of the telegraph sounder.
“Excuse me, Miss Root,” said Ichabod. He offered a slight bow. Aunt Emma smiled just a tiny sweet bit when he did. She moved through Ichabod’s office door into Charlie’s domain. She raised her eyebrows to her nephew as she knew he could interpret Morse code.
“Can you hear it?” she asked. Charlie gave a quick nod. He followed the dots and dashes and pauses to their conclusion. Aunt Emma’s eyes widened as she recognized the excitement in Charlie’s.
“It’s the James Brothers!” murmured Charlie. The sheriff is sending out a bulletin to keep a look out for ‘em. They were first sighted on the Mankato to Good Thunder Road, then Lake Crystal … Loon Lake. Sheriff figures their Minnesota scout’s one of the fellows killed in Northfield and the James boys don’t know their way around without him.” He paused to listen further. “All tallied up, there’s a $2,000 bounty on each robber’s head.”
Aunt Emma gasped. Flickers of both excitement and worry played across her face.
“I best get back to the hotel. You keep an eye out son. Tell the Widow Stevens she’s welcome to stay at the hotel tonight. She shouldn’t drive her wagon back to the Steinles alone.”
“Someone should warn the Steinles!” said Charlie.
Aunt Emma paused to think. She didn’t want her nephew out alone amongst criminals on the loose.
“I reckon they travel at night,” said Charlie. “I can stay with the Steinles and return in the morning.”
Aunt Emma studied him. He had grown up while her head was turned elsewhere. Nevertheless …
“That dugout’s already full to bursting with Steinles, son. I doubt they’ve got room to spare for even just one young fella’ such as yourself. I’m proud of your gallantry though––real proud. Tell Mrs. Stevens to stay at the hotel tonight, and you come join us when your work’s done.”
Aunt Emma departed out Charlie’s north door. She’d have to walk around the depot, but she was still regretting the rain she’d brought to Ichabod’s office floor and didn’t want to distract him any more from his duties.
Charlie finished mopping up the puddle from Aunt Emma’s bumbershoot and stored the tool upright in a bucket by his stool. None other than the highly anticipated Widow Stevens paddy pawed in through the north door, her straw-colored basket with its blanket of gingham hanging from a delicate arm. Seeing Ichabod was still in his office, she quick marched up to Charlie and slipped a napkin-wrapped biscuit and cookie into his hand. The Widow had always been kind to Charlie, ever since he told her how his ma deposited him on his Aunt Emma’s braided parlor rug after his pa disappeared and Charlie’s ma went off to find work. He never saw her again. He remembered the rug and the tear in his ma’s eye, and that was about it for his childhood. He had a more vivid memory of the large pearl of a tear that rolled down the Widow’s lovely cheek when he told her the story. She’d been sweet to him ever since.
Charlie withdrew his dime novel from his back pocket, tapped the cover, and whispered a soft warning to the Widow about the James Boys being in the vicinity. Her heart missed a beat. Her eyes darted to Ichabod at his desk then out the north window. Charlie followed her gaze.
“The school!” said Charlie. “The school mistress should know. We can deliver the children to their homes.” Charlie hung his head. “It should be me. Miss Libby was always kind to me. I know I was her favorite back then––well, up until she asked me to fill the coal scuttle and load the stove. I figured out if you filled the thing with coal dust, it tamped the fire. When it lit again, it blew up with such a bang. I did it more’n once. Thought I was real clever. John Hoffrogge had coal duties after that.” Charlie’s head hung lower. “I’d like to atone for that.”
The Widow patted his arm.
“You were a child then,” she said.
Ichabod entered from his office.
“Mrs. Stevens, you’d best get back to the Steinles. I’ve had a telegram from the sheriff about Frank and Jesse James. They might be in our area, or headed this way.”
“Oh dear,” said the Widow.
“They’ve been seen––or folks are saying they’ve seen them––all over the area. Jumping the gorge over at Red Rock Falls, sleeping in barns, hiding in haystacks down by Currie. Somebody even saw them eating the potatoes folks have been planting over around Lake Louisa ever since the drought.”
“You mean Lake Liza?” asked Charlie?
“Its proper name is Lake Louisa,” said Ichabod.
“Aunt Emma calls it Lake Liza,” said Charlie. “If she says it, that’s proper enough for me.”
Ichabod respected Aunt Emma so he let it go. He cast his gaze down to his polished shoes and traced his toe along a newly nailed-in floorboard.
“Of course,” said Ichabod, “if those James Boys were half as clever as those storybooks claim, they’d have cut the telegraph wires back in Northfield. They’d be in Missouri now if they had. Instead, soon as they left the bank, the law was on the line sending warnings out to every town in the area.”
The telegraph sounder, as if aware of its high regard, announced an incoming message. Ichabod heeded the call and went to his desk to perform his duty. Charlie and the Widow Stevens kept quiet as the dots and dashes marched through the wires.
“Railroad’s sending Ichabod the money he requested for the addition,” said Charlie. “Should arrive on the 2:15 today. This James Gang excitement seems to have reinforced their desire for a round-the-clock telegraph operator. Old Ichabod will be able to live here then. Bigger space than that room he rents in Mrs. Crouse’s cottage.” Charlie and the Widow looked into each other’s eyes.
“Oh, Charlie.” The Widow put a gentle hand on his arm. “Frank and Jesse were at the Steinle farm. I was there. They were asking directions for a fast route to Garretson and looking for food. Christena gave them loaves of bread. I’d just taken them out of the oven. They ate the bread near as soon as it left Christena’s hand. They gave her $20 for it.” Charlie chuckled.
“That’s just how good your bread is.”
“Or they were just that hungry,” said the Widow. Her eyes fell to her hand on his sleeve then rose back up, searching Charlie’s own eyes. “I did a dreadful thing yesterday, maybe a crime.” She looked again to his sleeve. “Jesse had a great tear in his duster. I sewed it up for him.” She raised her chin. “Oh, Charlie, they were just so exhausted and miserable from living rough. Jesse was riding with one foot out of the stirrup. He was shot in the leg. They were bleeding, both of them. It seemed a greater crime to let them go hungry and with tears in their coats than to feed them and mend their clothes and let them go free––what with all this hard rain and the bullets still lodged in their bodies. They both had such desperate looks in their eyes.”
Charlie knew that look. He’d seen it in his own reflection when he looked in the mirror––and he was seeing it now in the Widow’s lovely green eyes that were sometimes blue and sometimes grey, but always with the little flecks of gold in them. It was at just that moment that Charlie realized the widow was not all that much older than he was.
The spell was broken by Ichabod’s gleeful chortle in the next room. He clapped his hands. His chair scraped backwards followed by sprightlier than usual footfalls.
The Widow Stevens removed her tender hand from Charlie’s arm and stepped back.
Ichabod entered the room rubbing his palms together and not from the cold. They all three exchanged chit chat. The Widow declined escort to the school or to the Steinles. She maintained travel was safe during the day. Frank and Jesse were gentlemen, she said, and had never nor never would harm a woman. Even if she did meet with them, though the Steinle horse and wagon that she used to deliver her bread was fleet enough for most locals, it would be no temptation to horse enthusiasts such as the James Boys.
Ichabod was uneasy letting her go, but he was commanded by the railroad to stay at the depot. He urged Charlie to attend her, but they both eventually acquiesced to her adamant refusal of service. She gave Ichabod a biscuit, refused payment and left for the school.
Despite his worry over the Widow’s endangerment, Ichabod was a jolly enough fellow for the remainder of the morning and on into the afternoon due to his anticipation of the railroad addition funds and the Widow’s kind gift of a biscuit. He closed his office door after she left, however, and Charlie’s area soon grew dismal and cold.
Sheltered from Ichabod’s judgment, Charlie resumed his connection with his dime novel. So engrossed was he in the rollicking tales that the boisterous blast of the incoming train whistle knocked him off his stool for the second time that day. The 2:15 was right on time. Charlie loved the thrilling charging trains and how their monstrous thunder cancelled all other noise.
Ichabod sprang from his office, taking care to close its door, preserving the precious heat. Charlie and Ichabod went out the north door to greet the freight handler Del.
It took several trips for the men to tote in all the goods. Ichabod himself carried in the two treasured bags of railroad cash for the addition. Del stayed and jawed with Ichabod whilst Charlie wrote up the inventory. It took quite a while as many of the local residents, including Aunt Emma, were putting in stores for the coming winter. There was flour for the Dahls, oats for Mr. Beck, bolts of cloth and sewing supplies for Mrs. Medrud. On and on it went, when suddenly–
BANG! POW!
“Murder!” cried Del. “The James Boys have blown up my train and killed poor Billy McConnell!”
“Fool!” spat Ichabod. “Gather your wits, man. Surely they’ve blown up your safe, not the train.”
The three men flew out the north door as one. If the James Boys were indeed robbing the train, they could have certainly shot them all dead, one, two, three. Thankfully, the train was intact and snug on the track. Billy stuck his head out from the engine wondering likewise what the explosion had been. He had not left his post in search of a bullet.
Del ran up to one of the cars, pulled up its latch and heaved open the door. The strongbox nestled safe as a hen on its nest. Charlie saw relief wash over Del’s face. He then saw the blood drain from Ichabod’s. A tremor worried the man’s hands. He shot back inside the depot. Charlie and Del followed. They found Ichabod quite still standing over the inventory. It was all there, wasn’t it? The bolts of cloth, the oats, the flour, the tools … But the two bags of money were gone.
“There!” shouted Del, pointing at the south window. “I told you it was the James Gang! That’s one of ‘em riding south, wearing a duster, sure as I’m born.” Through the window could be seen a rider in the signature white linen duster favored by the James Gang, heading for Pell Creek.
Ichabod was a dutiful man, a loyal man, but not a foolhardy man. He knew his limitations when it came to acts of strength and swiftness. He knew he was not an able shot at that distance with the depot’s Remington. He also knew he could not raise a posse in time to catch up with the bandit who was already now hidden by the sheltering trees on the banks of the creek. His best recourse was to telegraph the sheriff and surrounding railroad stations. He strode as calmly and purposefully as he could manage into his office to do so. Soon after, Charlie and Del heard a wail of disgust and remorse. They ran into the office. Old Ichabod was braced against the wall. The telegraph’s severed lines hung like a noose. Next to the desk, the potbellied stove’s open gate was coated in coal soot as was the floor just before it. The south door to Ichabod’s office stood open, framing the unforgiving sheets of rain outside like the saddest prairie painting Charlie could imagine.
Ichabod trod to his desk, removed the depot keys from their hook on the wall, and handed them to Charlie.
“I’m going with Del on the train to Walnut Grove. Best thing we can do now is telegraph from there. After you’ve secured the depot, go back to the hotel and protect your aunt.”
Solemn as a funeral, Ichabod and Del departed.
Charlie watched them go. His heart was heavy for Ichabod. He hoped the seeds of Spring might be sown in the depot master’s soul over the coming winter months. Perhaps an evening or two by a warm fire with a cup of tea or a glass of cordial would revive him.
Charlie then saw a slip of paper peeping out from his dime novel. He didn’t remember leaving a bookmark of any sort in it. He opened the book and read what was indeed not a bookmark at all but a note. His heart was unburdened and a smile o’ertook his face. Perhaps the Widow would have a new ox this spring, and seed for crops, … and maybe, if he was lucky, a set of broad shoulders to help her improve the land. He popped the note into his mouth, chewed as well as he might, and swallowed.
Destroying evidence? No. He was just that hungry.
© DMS Fick 2019