Reuben's Revenge Page 4

  Bending his legs back towards his bound hands, he tried to reach his right boot, hoping against hope that the small throwing knife he always carried was still there.

  His fingertips reached the top of his boot, and straining, the rope cutting into his wrists, he stretched an inch further and felt the shaft of the handle.

  Gripping with just two fingers, he slowly began to pull.

  He’d raised it by about an inch and was finally able to use his thumb and forefinger to pull the knife clear of his boot.

  Reuben relaxed, a firm grip on the knife. The effort had made him sweat and he felt it running down his face.

  Now for the hard part.

  Gripping the elk horn handle tightly, Reuben began to saw at the ropes binding him.

  The sweat was pouring off him by now; he felt it running down his chest, back, face and arms, although he wasn’t sure whether the sweat on his hands was blood as his numb hand continued sawing.

  He felt the rope loosen slightly, but didn’t know if it was wishful thinking. It wasn’t. He pulled his wrists apart as hard as he could. The pain was excruciating, but the rope suddenly went slack.

  His hands were free and he felt the blood rushing through his veins as pins and needles took over. He’d have to wait a while before he could undo the rope holding his legs together.

  Breathing deeply and slowly, he calmed his body as the pins and needles faded and feeling came back into his hands.

  His wrists were a bloody mess from both the rope and where he’d caught his flesh with the knife. He untied his bandanna and ripped it in half, wrapping each half round his wrists. It would have to do until he could see a doc.

  He leant forward and untied the ropes binding his legs, then reached for his holster.

  It was empty.

  He replaced the knife in his boot and stood on weak legs, again, pins and needles as the blood rushed through.

  He surveyed his surroundings. It was pitch black and he could make little out. So he began to feel round the walls. There had to be a door.

  His hip felt something: a handle. He knew it would be locked, but he turned it any way. To his surprise, the door opened; light flooded in, blinding him temporarily.

  He looked back inside the room and saw a table and two chairs. His gun was on the table.

  Now armed, he stepped outside.

  He scanned the horizon and saw the town, at least three or four miles away. Reuben then walked round the small shack.

  He couldn’t believe his eyes. His horse was ground tethered!

  These boys are pure amateurs, he thought to himself. Either that or they thought he stood no chance of escaping.

  Cautiously he surveyed the terrain. The land was flat, no trees or rocky hills to hide behind.

  Reuben was puzzled. He had no idea who had bushwhacked him – or why. He still had his horse, his weapons and, lifting the flap of his saddlebags, could see that nothing had been taken from it.

  He mounted up, hoping there would be some tracks to follow, but the ground was hard. There were one or two hoof prints, but little else to follow. Seemed like he’d never know who’d hit him.

  Deciding not to go back to his room at Molly’s place, he headed north.

  Northfield couldn’t be that far away now.

  Perhaps the answers were there.

  Chapter Six

  By pure coincidence, just as Cole Younger and Bill Chadwell left Northfield, Reuben Chisholm arrived.

  Reuben’s first port of call was to find a hotel, and that didn’t take long. Crossing the iron bridge he saw a sign for a hotel called the Dampier House, situated in the Scriver Block. He walked his horse to the hotel and tied him to the hitch rail. He removed his saddlebag and entered the hotel.

  There was no one in the foyer, or at the reception desk, but a small bell and two wooden signs. One said: Henry Potter manager. The other said: Please ring for attention.

  So he did.

  Within a minute a portly, middle-aged man appeared, smiling and sliding a pair of spectacles onto his nose.

  ‘Sir, how may I help you?’ he asked.

  ‘You got a room?’

  ‘Certainly, sir. They start at five dollars a night, or we have one fifteen-dollar room available.’

  ‘The five-dollar room will suffice,’ Reuben said. ‘Is there a livery nearby?’

  ‘We can handle that for you, sir, one dollar for the stall, seventy-five cents for feed and grooming, although most folks tip the young ostler if they think he’s a done a good job.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Reuben agreed.

  ‘The room you pay in advance, the livery when you leave. How long you planning on staying?’

  ‘Ain’t too sure. Maybe two or three nights, but I’ll pay for tonight first. That OK?’

  ‘That will be fine, Mr Er—?’

  ‘Chisholm. Reuben Chisholm.’

  ‘Mr Chisholm, if you’d like to sign the register. . . .’

  Reuben signed then asked, ‘Where’s a good place to eat, hereabouts?’

  ‘Well, there’s J.G. Jefts, just across the bridge yonder. They do a pretty good steak,’ the receptionist said.

  Handing over the five dollars, Reuben took the key to his room from Potter.

  ‘Number seven, it’s on the first floor, last door on the right. Enjoy your stay, Mr Chisholm.’

  Reuben tipped his hat, slung his saddlebag over his shoulder and headed for the stairs at the far end of the foyer.

  Reaching room number seven, he found the door unlocked. No surprise, he guessed, the room was empty. Entering, he took a look round to see what his five dollars had paid for.

  On the far wall facing the door was a three-quarter size bed. Two white pillows and a thick eiderdown cover. Now that, I’m looking forward to, he thought. To the right of the bed was a three-drawer dresser with a wash bowl, water jug, a hand towel and a small tablet of soap. To the left of the bed, a small rug and a window, the drapes closed. Reuben opened them to reveal a back alley in near darkness. He closed them again.

  Placing his saddlebag on the bed, he took off his Stetson then poured some water into the bowl. He took off his shirt and washed his hands and face thoroughly; drying himself off, he reached into his saddlebag and took out a fresh shirt.

  Feeling more human now, the hunger in his belly surfaced so he made his way over to the eating-house, eager to taste that steak.

  Cole Younger and Bill Chadwell rode at a leisurely pace to the inn to meet up with the rest of the gang. Chadwell, in particular, was all for robbing the First National bank in Northfield. It would be like taking candy from a baby.

  He smiled at that thought, then reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a cheroot. Reining in, he struck a Lucifer with his thumb and inhaled the acrid smoke deeply. Then coughed just as deeply.

  After this raid, he thought, nothing but the finest Cuban cigars, not these horse-shit cheroots. But he continued to smoke it anyway. In his mind he could see a bevy of beautiful women at his beck and call. Fine French brandy, real Scotch whisky. What more could a man desire?

  ‘You gonna sit there all night with that stupid grin on your face?’ Cole said.

  ‘Just daydreaming, boy. Just daydreaming. Come on, let’s ride.’ Chadwell gripped the cheroot with his teeth and dug his spurs in.

  Cole didn’t follow straight away. He sighed, shook his head from side to side then just said, ‘Giddup,’ to his horse. He was beginning to distrust Chadwell and his judgement.

  It was thirty minutes later that they reached the inn. It all seemed quiet – too quiet. No raucous laughter: no honky-tonk piano, nothing.

  Cole and Chadwell dismounted and tethered their animals. Cole already had his Peacemaker in his hand. Both men were cautious as they approached the batwings of the inn.

  Cole went to the right and Chadwell to the left and slowly both men leant forwards to take a looksee, their guns cocked and ready to fire.

  What they saw made both men feel a little embarrassed.
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  The inn was practically deserted, the James-Younger gang being the only patrons, and they were drinking coffee.

  Cole and Chadwell holstered their weapons and walked in.

  The metallic click when the two men released the hammer on their guns was enough for both Frank and Jesse to draw their pistols ready to shoot.

  Another second and they would have, but in the dim light they saw who had entered.

  ‘About time you two got here,’ Frank said.

  ‘How’s it lookin’?’ Jesse asked. ‘Do we take it or move on out?’

  ‘It’s looking good, Jesse. The bank’s main entrance is in Division Street, and there’s a back entrance that leads to the square. In the same building, it’s called the Scriver Block, there’s a couple of small businesses, nothing to worry about. Here, I drew this map.’ And he handed it to Jesse.

  Jesse was keen on this raid, but the rest of the gang had their reservations.

  ‘Opposite the main entrance to the bank there’s a small hotel, a drugstore and a row of small commercial buildings again, nothing to worry about there.’ Chadwell waited to hear what Frank and Jesse had to say and beckoned the bartender. ‘Whiskey,’ he said.

  ‘Just the one, Bill, we all need to keep a clear head,’ Frank said.

  ‘I’ll take one too then,’ Cole said, and pulled a chair up to the table.

  ‘OK, here’s what I figure. Tomorrow at around noon, me, Charlie and Bob will ride into Northfield and do a recce, see how many folks there are around, get the lie of the land and make sure there are no potential hazards that weren’t there today.

  ‘Now, if all looks to be OK, we’ll hitch our horses outside the main entrance to the bank. That’s when we create a diversion.’

  ‘How’re we gonna do that, fer Chris’sakes?’ It was Clell Miller who spoke out, instantly regretting it.

  Jesse gave him a cold, hard look but didn’t answer straight away.

  ‘I want you, Frank, Bill and Cole, to come into Northfield at exactly two o’clock, across the iron bridge, a-whoopin’ and a-hollerin’. Then Jim and Clell, you do the same but down Division Street so we’s got cover and backup, while me, Charlie and Bob rob the bank.’

  He paused.

  ‘Me, Charlie and Bob will head for the bank; there should be enough chaos outside to hide what we’re doin’ inside the bank.’ Jesse looked at each man in turn.

  ‘Is that clear?’

  They all nodded.

  ‘When you see us leave the bank,’ Jesse went on, ‘you leave town the same way you came in. There’s no organized law in Northfield, so it’ll take ’em a while to get a posse together. Ride south to Willow Creek, you stay there till me, Charlie and Bob get there. We’ll divvy up and head west.

  ‘Me and Frank will ride together, the rest of you split up so’s we don’t draw attention to ourselves. Now let’s get some shuteye, it’s gonna be a long day tomorrow.’

  Jesse being spotted in Mankato by pure chance was just one example of a situation you couldn’t plan for, and when that happened, he had the sense to cut and run. Jesse and Frank’s planning had always been meticulous: trying to cover any eventuality. Of course, it wasn’t always perfect, but both brothers tried to expect the unexpected. There’d be other banks and other towns – they were in no hurry as they had plenty of greenbacks from previous exploits; despite losing two hundred dollars at the tables in St Paul, they acted as if it was peanuts, and had enough money to buy the best horses, bridles, saddles and bits available.

  At the general store, they loaded up with vittles and left town, heading north.

  Reuben followed his nose to JG Jeft’s restaurant. The aroma of steak being cooked over a charcoal pit made his mouth water even more than it was already.

  Entering the restaurant, Reuben spotted a table in the far corner that was empty. He made for it and sat down where he could see all the restaurant and the entry door.

  It paid to be careful when you were a bounty hunter. He was also aware that whoever had tried to kill him could already be in Northfield.

  No sooner had he sat down when a portly waiter, Reuben assumed it to be J.G. Jeft himself, flashed a beaming smile, showing a gold front tooth. He wore pin-stripe trousers, a white shirt with a bootlace tie and a bright-red, silk waistcoat that shimmered in the lantern light.

  ‘Good evening to you, sir,’ the waiter said. ‘What can I interest you in tonight?’

  ‘That steak sure smells good,’ Reuben replied.

  ‘Best in the state,’ the waiter said. ‘How’d you like it cooked?’

  ‘Bloodier the better,’ Reuben said, almost dribbling.

  ‘Eggs, gravy and taters?’ the waiter asked.

  ‘You bet,’ Reuben said, ‘and plenty of coffee.’

  ‘Be right with you,’ the waiter said and hurried off to the kitchen.

  Reuben leaned back in his chair and glanced around the restaurant. Three tables were occupied, all by what Reuben thought were husband and wife.

  For a moment he envied them, sighed, then took out his makings and rolled a cigarette. Maybe one day, he thought to himself.

  ‘One ribeye, two eggs and taters,’ the waiter said, a beaming smile on his face. ‘Coffee’ll be right here.’

  The steak was so big it overlapped the plate, two over-easy eggs on top and mashed potato in every available space on the plate.

  ‘Sure is a handsome steak,’ Reuben said, already cutting into the meat.

  ‘Enjoy,’ the waiter said, and scurried back to the kitchen.

  Reuben’s mouth was too busy chomping to reply.

  Two minutes later the waiter returned with a pot of steaming coffee and a ceramic mug. ‘How’s the steak?’ he asked.

  ‘Best I ever had,’ Reuben enthused. ‘Sure is a quiet town you got here.’

  ‘That’s the way we like it, never any bother in Northfield. Shall I pour some coffee?’

  ‘No, it’s OK, I’ll have the coffee when I’ve finished the steak,’ Reuben answered.

  ‘As you wish, sir,’ the waiter almost gave a bow.

  ‘I ain’t no “sir”. Name’s Reuben.’

  ‘Well – Reuben – most folks call me JG. Pleasure to meet you.’

  Reuben was sipping coffee thinking life couldn’t get much better. ‘A mighty fine meal,’ he said, feeling full and satisfied.

  ‘Got some apple pie, if’n you can take it,’ JG said.

  ‘Couldn’t eat another thing, but I’ll bear that in mind next time I’m in.’

  ‘That’ll be two dollars and fifty cents,’ JG said as he cleared the table.

  ‘Worth every cent, too,’ Reuben said and laid three dollars on the table. ‘Be seeing you.’

  ‘Sleep well,’ JG said as he scooped up the money and headed back to the kitchen.

  Little did Reuben know that this night would be his last peaceful one for many weeks.

  Chapter Seven

  It was a mild September morning that greeted the James-Younger gang as they rode at a leisurely pace towards Northfield.

  Dressed in linen dusters traditionally worn by cattlemen, the dusters also covered their weapons so to all appearances they were simply cowpokes.

  Jesse rode his white-legged sorrel and Charlie Pitts and Bob Younger were mounted on handsome bays. These three were the first to reach Northfield and, reining in, the men dismounted in Mill Square at the foot of the iron bridge that spanned Cannon River.

  Jesse took a careful look at the surroundings, making sure that Chadwell and Younger had not overlooked any potential hazards. Satisfied that all was peaceful and that Chadwell’s report had been accurate, they mounted up.

  ‘We got time for some chow,’ Jesse said, and headed towards J.G. Jeft’s restaurant across the bridge.

  JG was wary of the three cowpokes; not his usual jovial self, he didn’t know why, but there was something about the three men that made him want them to leave as soon as possible.

  ‘What can I do for you, gents?’ JG asked.

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nbsp; Jesse answered for them all: ‘Ham and four eggs over easy, that’s four eggs each. You got any pie?’

  ‘Sure have, finest apple pie there is,’ JG said.

  ‘Then three pies and two pots of coffee,’ Jesse ordered.

  ‘Coming right up,’ JG said, and hurried back to the kitchen.

  Within minutes, the coffee and mugs were served and, no more than five minutes later, the three plates of eggs and ham, along with chunks of fresh bread, were taken to the table.

  The three men grabbed their cutlery and began eating. ‘Enjoy,’ JG said and was only answered with grunts, so he beat a hasty retreat to the relative safety of his kitchen.

  The men ate at a leisurely pace, not seeming in much of a hurry. JG kept his eye on them, ready to clear the table and serve up the apple pie as soon as the men had finished.

  And finish they did.

  JG tried not to show his nervousness, but the sheen of sweat that covered his face was noticed by the ever-astute Jesse.

  ‘You seem a tad uneasy there, friend,’ he said to JG.

  With slightly trembling hands, JG was in the process of clearing the table. He stopped and gave a weak smile. ‘No, no, not at all. It’s hot in the kitchen is all.’

  Jesse stared hard at the man, but didn’t comment further.

  JG disappeared and returned almost immediately with the apple pie and a jug of fresh custard. He hastily set them down on the table and said: ‘Anything else I can get you, gents?’

  ‘A spoon would be handy,’ Charlie said and laughed.

  If the ground could have opened and swallowed JG, he would have said thank you!

  ‘So sorry, gents, I’ll get them straight away.’ He almost ran back to the kitchen returning with the implements. ‘Pie’s on the house,’ he said in a placatory manner.

  ‘Mighty neighbourly,’ Charlie said, spooning a chunk of pie and custard into his mouth.

  It took the three less than four minutes to clean the plates, then Jesse stood, threw some folding money on the table and, without a word, headed towards the door. He stopped and checked his Hunter.

  ‘Five minutes to go,’ was all he said and was joined by Charlie and Bob at the door.