Starbuck stood on the veranda of the Dampier House Hotel. A cigar was wedged in the corner of his mouth and his hands were locked behind his back. Under a noonday sun, he puffed thick clouds of smoke and stared out across the square. His gaze was fixed on the First National Bank.
Only an hour before, upon arriving in town, Starbuck had checked into the hotel. He was posing as a sundries drummer, whose territory had recently been broadened to include Minnesota. Apart from the ubiquitous cigar, his attire was the uniform of virtually all travelling salesmen. He wore a derby hat and a snappy checkered suit with vest to match. A gold watch chain was draped across the vest, and a flashy diamond ring sparkled on his pinky. His physical appearance was unchanged, with the exception of an old standby.
A gold sleeve, crafted with uncanny workmanship, was fitted over his left front tooth. The overall effect, as with any subtle disguise, was principally one of misdirection. When he smiled, which was a drummer’s stock in trade, people seldom saw his face. Their recollection was of a gold tooth and a steamy cigar. The man who
called himself Homer Croydon was otherwise lost to memory.
Today, eyes squinted in concentration, Starbuck was performing a feat of mental gymnastics. A manhunter who survived soon acquired the knack of looking at things from an outlaw’s perspective. Long ago, the trick had become second nature, and he was now able to step into the other fellow’s boots almost at will. Visualising himself to be Jesse James, he pondered on a foolproof way to rob the bank.
Based on all he’d learned, Starbuck knew it would be a mistake to think in conventional terms. Jesse James, unlike most bank robbers, approached each job as though it were a military operation. The Pinkerton file rather conclusively demonstrated that the James-Younger gang was organised along the lines of a guerrilla band. Without exception, their holdups had been executed with a certain flair for hit-and-run. Surprise, as in any guerrilla raid, was the key element. Every step was orchestrated—planned with an eye to detail—and the gang generally made good their escape before anyone realised a robbery had occurred. That, too, indicated the meticulous preparation characteristic of each job. The retreat, and subsequent escape, was engineered with no less forethought than the holdup itself. And therein lay the mark of Jesse James’ overall genius. In seventeen years, he had never been outfoxed. His trademark was a cold trail … leading nowhere.
Yet Northfield presented a unique tactical problem. Brooding on it, Starbuck slowly became aware that the situation was fraught with imponderables. The layout of the town did not lend itself to a hit-and-run raid. The square was open and broad, affording little in the way of concealment. On all sides, stores fronted the square; tradesmen and shopkeepers had a perfect view of the
bank; any unusual activity would immediately draw their attention. The chances of discovery—before the job was completed—were therefore increased manyfold. In that event the odds also multiplied that the gang would be forced to fight its way out of Northfield. Because the river bisected the town, however, there were only two logical lines of retreat. One led eastward, along Division Street, which began on the corner where the bank was located. Yet, while Division Street was the quickest route of escape, any flight eastward would merely extend the line of retreat. Headed in the wrong direction, the gang would at some point be compelled to double back on a south-westernly course. For in the end, there was no question they would make a run for Indian Territory.
The other escape hole was- westward, across the bridge. There, too, the tactical problem was apparent. To reach the bridge, the gang would have to traverse the entire length of the square. Should trouble arise, and the townspeople take arms, the outlaws would be forced to run a gauntlet of gunfire. At first glance, the hazards entailed seemed to rule out the bridge. Still, apart from surprise, the chief attribute of an experienced guerrilla leader was to do the unexpected when it was least expected. A calculated risk at best, the bridge might nonetheless offer the lesser of two evils. It led westward, the ultimate direction of escape, and it shortened the line of retreat by perhaps thirty or forty miles. On balance, then, the advantages might very well outweigh the hazards. No one would expect a gang of bank robbers to take the hard way out of town. Nor would they anticipate that the gang leader might deliberately—
Starbuck was rocked by a sudden premonition. He stepped off the veranda and crossed the block-long expanse of the square. At the bridge, he halted and stared for a moment at the houses on the opposite side of the
river. Then, on the verge of turning, his eyes were drawn to the line of telegraph poles running north. His gaze shifted south—no telegraph poles!—and any vestige of doubt disappeared. Facing about, he subjected the square to cold scrutiny. From a tactical outlook, the bridge instantly became a key vantage point. The entire square, from end to end, was commanded by an unobstructed field of fire. There was, moreover, the element of the unexpected from where it was least expected. In the event fighting broke out, the townspeople would be looking towards the bank, not the bridge. And the outcome was easy to visualise.
Starbuck walked back to the hotel. Whether by deductive reasoning or swift-felt instinct, he knew he’d doped out the plan. Some inner certainty told him the holdup would proceed along the lines he’d envisioned. All that remained was to decide his own course of action. As he saw it, there were two options, both of which held merit. The critical factor was yet another of those imponderables.
To kill Jesse James all he had to do was bide his time. His room, which was on the second floor, fronted the hotel and directly overlooked the square. The range, from his window to the door of the bank, was roughly forty yards. No easy shot with a pistol, it was nonetheless one he had made many times before. By placing his gun hand on the windowsill—and holding high with the sights—he felt entirely confident of a kill shot. When the gang exited the bank, his shot was certain to go unnoticed in the ensuing gunfire.
Then, still posing as a drummer, he need only check out of the hotel and be on his way. Homer Croydon would be remembered by no one. Nor would anyone associate him with the death of Jesse James.
The alternative was to contact the town marshal.
However, that route would require discretion and an oath of silence. Should the marshal prove the talkative sort—and word of an impending robbery spread through Northfield—then any hope of trapping the gang would be gravely jeopardised. The risk was compounded by the fact that others, by necessity, would be drawn into the scheme. Quite properly, the marshal would insist on alerting some of the townsmen. Extra guns, and men willing to use them, would be needed against a band of killers. Still, by stressing the need for secrecy, there was every reason to believe the plan would work. The welfare of Northfield and its citizens would be at stake. And trustworthy men, committed to the common good, could be persuaded to hold their silence.
In the end, Starbuck’s decision had little to do with Northfield. He was concerned for the lives of innocent bystanders, and he had no wish to see the square turned into a battleground. Yet, for all that, his decision was a matter of personal integrity. While he had killed many men, he was no assassin. To hide, and shoot down a man from his hotel window, somehow went against the grain. His code in such matters was simple and pragmatic. He always gave the other man a chance, but he tried never to give him the first shot.
On reflection, it was the way he preferred to kill Jesse James. No stealth or potshots from hotel windows. He would do it openly, face to face—on the street.
Shortly after the noon hour, Starbuck left the hotel and crossed the square. Opposite the bank, he rounded the comrner and walked towards the marshal’s office, which was one door down. Northfield appeared to be a peaceful town, with nothing more serious than an occasional fistfight or a rowdy drunk. Other than the marshal, he thought it unlikely the town would employ any full-time officers. When he entered the office, his judgement
was confirmed. All the cell doors stood open, and except for the marshal, the place was deserted. Seated behind a battered desk, the lawman was idly cleaning his fingernails with a penknife.
“Afternoon.”
“Yessir.” The marshal gave his gold tooth and snappy outfit a quick once-over. “Do something for you?”
“Are you Marshal Wallace Murphy?”
“I am.” Murphy closed the penknife and stuck it in his pocket. “What’s the problem?”
“No problem, Marshal. I was instructed to call on you when I got into town.”
“Don’t say?” Murphy looked flattered. “Who by?”
“Mr. Otis Tilford,” Starbuck lied. “President of the International Bankers Association.”
“Oh, yeah! Now that you mention it, the name rings a bell. Formed not too long ago, wasn’t it?”
“Last summer,” Starbuck said with a note of pride. “We’re headquartered in St. Louis.”
“I take it you work for the association?”
“In a manner of speaking. I’m a private detective, Marshal.” Starbuck grinned and tipped his derby. “This drummer’s getup is strictly window dressing. I was hired as an undercover operative by Mr. Tilford.”
“I don’t believe I caught your name?”
“Luke Starbuck. Course, that’s just between you and me. I’m registered at the hotel under the name of Homer Croydon.”
Murphy was heavily built, with a square, thick-jowled face and a ruddy complexion. The chair squeaked under his weight as he leaned forward, elbows on the desk. He suddenly appeared attentive.
“Why all the secrecy?”
“Like I told you, I’m working undercover.”
“So you did.” Murphy eyed him with a puzzled frown. “What brings you to Northfield?”
“Well …” Starbuck let him hang a moment. “I need your word everything will be kept in the strictest confidence, Marshal. Otherwise I’m not at liberty to divulge the details of my assignment.”
“I dunno.” Murphy sounded uncertain. “If it’s got to do with Northfield, that could put me in an awkward position.”
Starbuck flashed his gold tooth. “I’d say it’s more likely to make you the town hero. Hear me out and I think you’ll agree I’m right.”
Murphy nodded, digesting the thought. “Okay, fire away. Only I warn you—I won’t be a party to anything that’s not in the best interests of Northfield.”
“Fair enough.” Starbuck’s expression turned solemn. “Sometime within the next week, the First National Bank will be robbed.”
“Robbed!” Murphy stared at him, dumbstruck. “How the hell would you know a thing like that?”
“How I know isn’t important—”
“Says you!” Murphy cut him short. “You walk in off the street and tell me the bank’s about to be robbed? I’ll have an explanation, mister. And I’ll have it damned quick.”
“Suit yourself.” Starbuck read a certain disbelief in his face, and decided to embellish the truth. “I was hired to infiltrate a gang of bank robbers. I located their hangout—a whorehouse—and I managed to get on chummy terms with them. Three nights ago, one of them got drunk and spilled the beans. So I checked with Mr. Tilford and he ordered me to contact you on the double. Here I am.”
Murphy looked at him with narrow suspicion. “How do I know you’re on the level?”
“If you don’t believe me,” Starbuck said lightly, “then just hide and watch. They’re on their way to Northfield right now.”
“Who’s they?”
“Jesse James and the Youngers.”
Murphy’s mouth popped open. “Did you say Jesse James—the Jesse James?”
“The one and only.”
“That’s impossible!” Murphy shook his head wildly. “Why would Jesse James come all the way to Minnesota to rob a bank? It doesn’t make sense!”
“Pay close attention, Marshal.” Starbuck’s eyes went cold and impersonal. “I don’t have time to waste arguing with you. They’re headed in your direction and that’s a rock-solid fact. Now, I can show you how to stop them from robbing the bank, not to mention covering yourself with glory.” He paused, jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Or I can walk out that door and leave you with egg on your face. I reckon it all depends on how much you like wearing a marshal’s badge.”
“What the hell do you mean by that?”
“Why, it’s pretty simple,” Starbuck said without expression. “The town fathers wouldn’t look too kindly on a man who let Jesse James ride in here and empty out the bank. All the more so once they heard Mr. Otis Tilford sent a special representative to warn you in advance.”
There was a stark silence. Wallace Murphy stared down at his hands, tight-lipped. He seemed to be struggling within himself, and several moments passed before he looked up. Then he dipped his head in affirmation.
“Go ahead, say your piece. I’m listening.”
On impulse, Starbuck pressed the advantage. “One more thing. I call the shots from here on out. You can
take all the credit, but I won’t let you monkey with my plan. Understood?”
“Understood,” Murphy agreed gingerly. “Only you better come up with something damn good.”
“I already have,” Starbuck said with an odd smile. “You see, Marshal—I know how they intend to pull the job.”
“Big deal!” Murphy laughed uneasily. “What’s to robbing a bank? You just walk in and pull a gun.”
“Not Jesse James,” Starbuck countered. “Him and his boys are old guerrilla fighters. So we’re in for a military operation from start to finish.”
“Would you care to spell that out?”
“For openers, a couple of the gang will post themselves somewhere near the bank door. They’re the outside men, and their job is to keep the street clear. That way, there’s less chance of trouble when it comes time for the getaway.”
“In other words, they’re the ones that’ll show first?” Starbuck nodded. “Once they’re in position then Jesse and a couple more of the gang will enter the bank. We can depend on that. Jesse always handles the inside work himself.”
“What’s so unusual about that? Sounds fairly routine to me.”
“There’s an added touch,” Starbuck said soberly. “At least two men, maybe more, will take control of the bridge. If trouble develops during the holdup, they’ll keep everyone on the square pinned down with gunfire. Afterwards, they’ll cover the withdrawal when the bunch at the bank starts back across the square. Their last job is to act as a rear guard; fight a holding action at the bridge. Once the others are across the river and in the clear, then they’ll take off like scalded ducks.”
“Damn!” Murphy suddenly grasped it. “That means
anybody who tangles with them would be caught in a crossfire. It’d be suicide to set foot on the square!”
“We’ll let Jesse and his boys go right on thinking that. Meantime, we’ll arrange a little surprise of our own.”
“An ambush!” Murphy’s eyes brightened. “By God, I like your style, Starbuck! How long you figure we’ve got?”
“Well, let’s see.” Starbuck pulled at his ear. “Tomorrow’s Saturday, and they wouldn’t risk it with the farm crowd in town. So I’d say the early part of the week, probably Monday.”
“With seven or eight of them, we’ll need some help with this ambush of yours.”
“Not too many,” Starbuck cautioned him. “The fewer involved, the less chance of word leaking out. Do you know three or four men who can be trusted to keep their mouths shut?”
“Oh, hell, yes!” Murphy chortled. “Half the men in Northfield would give their left nut for a crack at Jesse James.”
“Hold it to three,” Starbuck said firmly. “That’s plenty for what I have in mind. And don’t let the cat out of the bag! Arrange to get them together sometime tomorrow, and I’ll explain the setup myself. I already know where I want them spotted.”
“I guess that only leaves Fred Wilcox. He’s the president of the bank. When do we give him the good news?”
“We don’t.”
“What?” Murphy went slack-jawed with amazement. “Fred’s got to be warned! You can’t let that gang of murderers walk in there cold!”
“I don’t aim to.” Starbuck regarded him with a level gaze. “But we can’t risk a bunch of nervous Nellies tipping our hand. We’ll hit the minute Jesse steps down
out of the saddle. So don’t work yourself into a sweat. He’ll never make it inside the bank—I guarantee it.”
“Kill him dead!” Murphy cackled. “Shoot him down like a mad dog! That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?”
Starbuck smiled. “If a man’s worth shooting, then I reckon he’s worth killing.”
“Like I said, Starbuck.” Murphy chuckled heartily. “I admire your style.”
“One last thing,” Starbuck advised him. “I fire the first shot. That’ll be the signal for you and your men to cut loose; but I don’t want anybody to get overeager. Agreed?”
“Agreed! You’ve got my word on it.”
Wallace Murphy was tempted, but he let the question go unasked. He already knew the answer, and counted it no great surprise. Starbuck’s presence in Northfield was explanation enough.
The first shot would be for Jesse James.