Reuben's Revenge Page 5

  It was a good job they didn’t see the relief on JG’s face.

  Reuben had had the best sleep in a long time. Waking at noon, something he hadn’t done in years, he stretched and got out of bed.

  He pulled the drapes open and looked out onto the alleyway that led to the main street of Northfield.

  He was surprised at the amount of activity. The street was teeming with wagons, carts, horsemen and people walking from store to store. Reuben was not used to town living and felt more comfortable out on the range. Nevertheless, it was a peaceful scene, people smiling at friends and acquaintances as they went about their chores.

  Reuben washed, sand still encrusted in parts of his hair. Taking his time to dress he made sure his gun was loaded – just in case – and the safety catch was on. Pulling on his Stetson, he made his way to the main street and breathed deeply of the warm air. He walked across the street and looked in some of the stores’ windows, amazed at the variety of goods on display. Then he thought of JG Jeft’s restaurant; he was ready to eat, maybe another steak.

  He never got that far.

  At exactly 2 p.m., Jesse James, Charlie Pitts and Bob Younger hitched their mounts outside the First National Bank. The three men stood at the door of the bank for a few moments until they heard the whooping and shooting of three of the gang, clattering over the bridge and through Mill Square and on to Division Street, firing into the air as they rounded the corner. Then, from the opposite end of Division Street, two more members of the gang came in at full gallop, scattering terrified bystanders.

  That was the signal for Jesse, Charlie and Bob to enter the bank.

  With bandannas covering their faces and weapons drawn, they rushed the counter, shouting at the top of their voices for everyone to put their hands up.

  The cashier, Mr Heywood, and the two clerks, Bunker and Wilcox, looked on horrified as they saw the three men jumping up onto the counter, pistols in their hands.

  Heywood was the first to react; he ran towards the vault, but Charlie beat him to it but still Heywood tried to slam the vault door closed to trap Pitts inside. Jesse got there just in time to stop him.

  Jesse then noticed the safe inside the vault. ‘Open it up,’ he ordered.

  ‘I can’t,’ Heywood almost cried, ‘it’s on a time lock.’

  ‘That’s a damned lie,’ Jesse yelled at the man and pistol-whipped him to the floor.

  On the other side of the bank, Bob Younger ordered the two clerks to their knees and demanded to know where the cash drawer was. It was Bunker who pointed to the top drawer of the counter.

  As Younger rummaged through the coins and loose notes, Bunker made a run for it, aiming for the back door. Charlie Pitts saw him try for it and loosed off a shot.

  He missed, but ran forwards and fired again, this time winging Bunker as he tried to escape to the back alley.

  If things were not going well inside the bank, they were even worse outside.

  Far from it being, as Charlie Pitts had thought, ‘Easy as taking candy from a baby’, it seemed the townsfolk of Northfield weren’t a pushover after all.

  The five gang members keeping watch outside the bank were under siege.

  Despite the lack of weaponry, people had commandeered what handguns and rifles were available in the two hardware stores and were putting up a stiff fight.

  Reuben Chisholm, as surprised as anyone, had dived for cover as three of the gang had ridden through, yelling and screaming and firing their guns into the air. All around him panic ensued: screams of women and children as they scurried out of the path of the galloping riders, men yelling, wondering what in hell was going on, and across the square, a horse bolted, towing a small buggy.

  At first, most people thought they were just drunk cowpokes and would ride straight through town. It didn’t take long for them to realize that was not the case.

  They didn’t ride on. They reined in outside the bank, weapons drawn, guarding the entrance.

  There was an unnatural silence as the townsfolk realized what was going down. The James-Younger gang outside the bank were getting nervous, their mounts jittery.

  Then from inside the bank a shot was fired.

  Suddenly, people were running everywhere taking cover and then the shooting started.

  Reuben, Colt already drawn, took aim at the riders as a fusillade of shots began to echo throughout the square. Elias Stacy, a shopkeeper, ran to Division Street and took aim at Clell Miller, but in his haste to grab a weapon, he’d loaded it with bird shot. The blast knocked Miller off his horse, his face taking most of the shot and was bleeding profusely, yet he managed to remount, despite the heavy fall, and charged towards Stacy.

  It seemed that Stacy’s time was up.

  Chapter Eight

  Inside the bank, Jesse was getting more and more angry and frustrated. Nothing was going to plan and so far, all they had to show for their efforts were a few measly dollars, and it seemed that was all they were going to get.

  ‘Let’s get outta here, pronto,’ he called to Charlie and Bob.

  ‘What about the safe?’ Charlie said.

  ‘Ain’t no way we can get into that sonuver,’ Jesse said. ‘Best quit and vamoose.’

  The three men made for the front door of the bank, then Jesse stopped, his anger overriding every thought in his head. He looked down at the still-dazed cashier, and without a thought, put his Colt to the man’s temple and blew his brains out. He had to vent his anger on something, and in this case, someone!

  Little did he know then what the outcome of that single shot would be.

  It didn’t take Jesse long to find out, though.

  As they reached the door of the bank, it seemed the whole of Northfield was just one loud explosion of rifle, scattergun and pistol fire.

  For the first time in his life, Jesse stood stock-still in both surprise and horror. He watched as Clell got a face-full of buck-shot that knocked him off his mount, then remount and charge towards the shooter. What he didn’t expect was what happened next.

  Henry Wheeler, a medical student on vacation from the University of Michigan, was in his father’s drugstore when the shooting started. He suddenly remembered the old army carbine that he hoped was still in the baggage room of the Dampier House next door.

  His luck was in as the carbine was still there. He grabbed it and dashed to an upstairs front room.

  He had a clear view of Miller charging down on the helpless Stacy. Breathing deeply then holding his breath, Henry brought up the carbine, sighted down the barrel and gently squeezed the trigger.

  Clell Miller was knocked back with such force that he hit the dirt twenty feet from his horse. Cole Younger was the first to reach him. He dismounted and yelled: ‘Clell! You OK?’

  Miller tried to get up, but he couldn’t, and wouldn’t do again. He rolled over and died on the spot.

  Younger, showing no sign of emotion at all, took off Clell’s cartridge belt and pistols and got back on his horse.

  The air was thick with gun-smoke, the acrid fumes almost reaching choking level; the sound of the various weapons was deafening and the thundering sound of hoofs as the outlaws tried every means to escape. It was like a scene straight out of hell.

  Amidst the chaos, a newly-arrived Swedish immigrant was making his way down Division Street towards the bank. Despite frantic calls for him to get out the road he kept walking. No one knew the man could speak no English.

  And now, he never would. A single slug took out the back of his skull; it seemed that his head just exploded, and the man crumpled to the ground.

  The townsmen were more organized now. The frenzied shooting was deliberate and careful. Stacy had run up an outside staircase at the corner of the Scriver Block, clambered inside and, from a window facing Division Street, continued to blast away with his bird shot at the robbers.

  The hardware merchant, Manning, levelled his Remington repeating rifle and took careful aim at Bill Chadwell as he rode down the street. The bullet went
straight through his heart and Chadwell was catapulted from the saddle. He was dead before he hit the ground.

  Manning took aim again, this time hitting Cole Younger in the shoulder.

  The townsfolk got better coordinated as more and more people joined in the fight, so the outlaws’ chances of escaping grew slimmer.

  Frank James was hit in the leg, and Jim Younger in the face, blood gushing uncontrollably from his mouth. Yet the gang continued to ride up and down the street shooting at anything that moved and through doors and windows.

  Suddenly, Bob Younger leapt from his horse and used it as a shield then aimed his six-gun at Manning who was still on the Scriver Block stairway. But Manning fired first, hitting the bay in the neck. Younger managed to dodge the falling horse and sought shelter behind a stack of boxes.

  He didn’t realize that Henry Wheeler could see him clearly from the upstairs window of the Dampier House. Wheeler fired and caught Bob Younger in the right thigh.

  Reuben couldn’t be sure if he’d hit anyone or not. In the confusion, noise and the number of weapons being fired, it was hard to tell, but he did think he’d caught Frank James.

  It was the Younger Brothers that Reuben was after. He was sure that both Clarke and Adams were in cahoots with them back in the Quantrill days. Frank and Jesse were an obvious bonus, not that he had any hopes now of claiming bounty on any of them as it seemed that every man in Northfield had participated in foiling the bank raid by the James-Younger gang.

  There came a moment of silence, a silence that was as deafening as the gunfire had been.

  In that few seconds of quiet, a voice rang out.

  ‘We’re beat! Let’s get outta here!’

  At that moment, Bob Younger limped into the middle of the street and called out: ‘Hold on, don’t leave me, I’m shot!’

  Cole Younger turned his mount and headed towards his brother. At that moment another Northfield man let loose with a scattergun and the buckshot shattered Bob’s right elbow. Nevertheless, Cole managed to lift his brother onto his horse and together they raced off after the rest of the gang, the metal-shod hoofs rattling as they crossed the Cannon River bridge.

  Chapter Nine

  In just over twenty minutes, the fighting in Northfield came to an abrupt halt.

  Gradually, people began to emerge from their homes, shops and offices to survey the scene. Bodies littered the street, along with a dead horse.

  Of the eight gang members, six had escaped alive, albeit with four of them wounded. Bill Chadwell and Clell Miller were dead, as were three townsmen.

  Reuben was one of the first to hit the main street. He checked the two dead outlaws, he didn’t want any unwelcome surprises. He’d seen men play possum too many times to take anything for granted. Satisfied they were dead, Reuben holstered his gun, tilted his Stetson back, wiped his brow with a bandanna and took a deep breath.

  Seasoned as he was, the full horror of that twenty minutes sent a cold shiver down his spine.

  But it wasn’t over yet – not by a long shot.

  The two men he was after were not among the dead.

  Reuben glanced around the town square, the shattered windows and bullet-hole riddled buildings; the smell of black powder still thick in the air and small groups of people just standing and staring, shock written all over their faces.

  Down by the Cannon River bridge, Reuben saw a group of five or six men having an animated discussion. They all wore long, black, frock-coats, string ties and bowler hats. Town elders, Reuben thought, God save us from committees.

  Reuben edged closer, trying to hear the discussion. Some were suggesting a posse should be formed straight away; others that the gang would get their comeuppance soon enough and there was no point in putting any more lives at risk.

  But the town elders had made a quick decision to call the Pinkerton Agency to get help.

  It was also decided to send telegrams to alert the whole state, and soon hundreds of Minnesotans set out to finish the job Northfield had started.

  A posse was quickly formed, and they set off after the remaining members of the gang.

  Reuben immediately ran to the livery, saddled up and rode hell for leather.

  The tracks were fresh and easy to follow. He still had three Younger brothers to capture – dead or alive. Four riders had headed north, the other two south. Reuben decided to head north.

  He wasn’t a hundred per cent sure they were the men who’d killed his wife, but he was sure that of the six riders that had escaped, he’d find them, and the Youngers had a huge bounty on their heads, but more importantly, they might know the identity of the two men he wanted.

  Reuben rode on for another twenty minutes, then reined in sharply.

  The tracks split.

  Dismounting, Reuben knelt and studied the hoof prints in the soft earth. A tracker of long experience, it didn’t take him long to see that the riders had separated. Three had taken the right-hand trail and one the left. Reuben made a quick decision to follow the left-hand trail.

  The trail was still easy to follow. The rain had softened the earth, making it impossible to hide the tracks of a galloping horse.

  What Reuben didn’t know was that he, too, was being trailed.

  The two other riders had a change of heart, thinking if the Youngers had headed north, then they should too.

  Bypassing Northfield, they quickly joined the northern trail and it didn’t take them long to discover five sets of hoof prints in the soft earth.

  Chapter Ten

  The tracks Reuben was following had ceased to show a galloping horse. It was obvious the rider he was chasing felt safe and had slowed his animal down so as not to tire it too much.

  Reuben reined in slightly, he didn’t want the rider ahead to see or hear him – yet.

  After another ten minutes, Reuben caught sight of a small dust cloud on the trail ahead. The sun was beginning to dry the damp earth. He was near.

  He slowed down more and kept the dust cloud in view, hoping the rider didn’t turn around and see him.

  Meanwhile, the three riders were rapidly catching up. They had already reached the fork in the trail and, halting, one of the men dismounted and studied the ground.

  ‘Three headed right, the other one left,’ he said.

  ‘I reckon whoever is trailing the Youngers, went left.’

  He remounted, and the three men set off down the left- hand trail.

  By now, Reuben was down to a gentle trot as he kept pace with the man he was chasing. He knew that the man was riding towards a secret hideaway, probably pre-arranged. He also assumed the other Younger brother would join him there by a different route.

  Cunning, but not that cunning.

  The three riders could see their quarry, he was within rifle shot, but shooting from a galloping horse and hitting the target was only a slim chance. They waited till they got nearer, reined in, and one of the men took aim.

  Although he didn’t have the benefit of the scope that sat atop Reuben’s Winchester, he was a good shot.

  A split second after he heard the crack of the rifle shot, Reuben was thrown from his horse as the slug hit him high on the left shoulder.

  The fall, rather than the slug, rendered him unconscious.

  ‘Who the hell is he?’ asked one of the men.

  ‘Never seen him afore,’ came an answer.

  ‘Git him tied up, we’ll take him with us, find out who he is.’

  Slowly, Reuben regained consciousness. He could see nothing.

  At first he thought he’d been blindfolded but could feel nothing on his face. Then he realized he was in a dark room. Everything was just black, even the window had been boarded up.

  He tried to sit up, but he’d been hog-tied. His hands behind his back and the rope extended to his ankles, he was tied to a rickety chair and gagged. Who the hell were these men, he thought to himself. They must be chancers. Out to get whatever they could, by fair means or foul.

  Reuben gathered his
thoughts together. There must be some way of getting out of this mess.

  He tried pulling on the ropes, but they were tight, too tight. His fingers and feet were beginning to feel numb.

  There was no way he could use his throwing knife this time, he tried to move his legs to see if he could feel it, but his legs couldn’t or wouldn’t move.

  Straining as hard as he could, the pain in his left shoulder agonizing, he began to rock the chair from side to side. Eventually he fell sideways as the chair collapsed. He landed heavily on his bad shoulder. It took all his strength not to scream out in pain.

  Stretching as far as he could, the pain intense in his left shoulder, he managed to slide free the rope that bound his hands to the now broken chair.

  Reuben relaxed, sweat seeming to seep out of every pore in his body and his breathing laboured from the exertion. When he felt he was ready, he started to pull at the slackened ropes, now free of the chair; gradually, his right hand was free enough to tackle the left hand that was still tied tightly. He relaxed again, breathing deeply, conserving his energy and fighting the intense pain as if his life depended on it. He grinned: his life did depend on it, he was sure of that.

  Now came the hard part.

  With both hands now free of the ropes he still had his left arm trapped under his body, he tried to roll on to his back and free his arm so he could tackle the ropes that bound his legs to the chair.

  Looking down, Reuben saw that not only had his boots been stolen, but his knife as well. There was no easy way out this time. He would have to unpick the knots. From its thickness, Reuben knew it was a lariat, tougher than other ropes, and it was tightly bound.

  He began to pick at the nearest knot, breaking his fingernails as he fought the tough hemp, his wrists on fire with pain from the effort. He wasn’t sure if the moisture he felt dripping from his fingers was sweat or blood.

  He rather thought it was the latter.

  It seemed to take hours before the last strand began to loosen and he felt blood course through his right leg and he had to rest. Pins and needles took hold, as the blood rushed eagerly into his leg. The pain in his hands was excruciating but he had to ignore it as best he could as he still had his left leg to free.