On Monday morning, the First National Bank opened at the usual time. Fred Wilcox, the president and chief stockholder, arrived a minute or so before eight. Waiting for him were the bank tellers, Joseph Heywood and Alan Bunker. He unlocked the front door and the men filed inside. A moment later the shade snapped up on the wide plateglass window fronting the square.
Starbuck was seated on the veranda of the hotel. He pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. The marshal had told him Wilcox was a punctual man, and he noted the window shade went up almost precisely on the stroke of eight. Around the square, following the banker’s example, tradesmen began opening their doors. Northfield stirred and slowly came to life. To all appearances it was a typical Monday morning, unremarkable in any respect. The townspeople, suspecting nothing, went about the routine of another business day.
A cigar jutting from his mouth, Starbuck lazed back in the cane-bottomed rocker. His legs were outstretched, heels planted atop the veranda railing, and the derby was tipped low over his forehead. To passersby, he looked like a slothful drummer, sunning himself after a heavy
breakfast. In truth, he was alert and observant, his eyes moving hawklike around the square. He set the rocker in motion, ticking off a mental checklist item by item.
The three men selected by Marshal Wallace Murphy were already in position. Their weapons were secreted, but close at hand, and there was nothing about them to draw undue attention. One, Arthur Manning, operated a dry-goods store, located two doors north of the bank. Another, Elias Stacey, was proprietor of the town pharmacy. His shop was on the southeast corner of the square, directly across Division Street from the bank. The third man, Dr. Henry Wheeler, was stationed in Starbuck’s second-floor hotel room. A crack shot, widely known for his marksmanship, Doc Wheeler was armed with a breech-loading target rifle. The marshal, whose office was kitty-corner from the bank, kept a lookout from his window. His instructions were to stay off the street and out of sight.
Early Saturday morning, the three men had been summoned to the marshal’s office. There, he had introduced them to Starbuck and briefed them on the forthcoming holdup attempt. The men had listened with dismay and shock, somewhat incredulous. Yet all three were veterans of the Civil War, and no strangers to bloodshed. Nor were they overawed that they were being asked to take arms against the James-Younger gang. They were, instead, filled with a sort of righteous indignation. Jesse James was vilified as a murderous blackguard, and each of them looked upon the defence of their town and their neighbours as a civic duty. To a man, they eagerly volunteered their services.
Starbuck had first sworn them to an oath of silence. He impressed on them the need for absolute secrecy, which included wives and friends and business acquaintances. Jesse James, he noted, would be on guard for
anything out of the ordinary; it was entirely likely a member of the gang would reconnoitre the town one last time before the robbery. With the point made, Starbuck then went on to the ambush itself. Their primary objective was the group of robbers—four or five in number—who would assemble outside the bank. These men were to be killed on the spot, before they had time to react and turn the square into a battleground. The men at the bridge, so long as they made no attempt to cross the square, were secondary. By concentrating on the bank, a dual goal would be served. The majority of the gang would be wiped out and the robbery would be aborted on the instant.
From there, Starbuck had proceeded to the matter of individual assignments. Manning and Stacey, whose stores were in direct proximity to the bank, were to arm themselves with shotguns. Caught between them, the robbers would be neatly sandwiched in a crossfire; their shotguns would sweep the sidewalk immediately outside the bank with a barrage of lead. The marshal, armed with a repeating rifle, would fire from the doorway of his office. His principal concern would be the outside team of robbers; once the firing became general, however, he would be free to select targets of opportunity. Doc Wheeler, whose target rifle was equipped with peep sights, would be responsible for the bridge. The gang members there were to be killed or pinned down, and thus neutralised. In that manner, they would be effectively eliminated from the larger fight.
Starbuck next outlined his own role in the ambush. Several of the gang members—notably Frank James and the three Younger brothers—were known to him on sight. The odds dictated that one or more of these men would be part of the outside team, the first contingent to approach the bank. Upon spotting them, he would leave
the hotel veranda and cross to the south side of the square. His movement would alert Manning, Stacey, and Doc Wheeler that the holdup attempt was under way. Once. across the square, he would then turn east and stroll towards the corner. By timing it properly, he would arrive at the corner as the second contingent rode up to the bank. One of these men was certain to be Jesse James, and along with the inside team he would dismount at the hitch rack. The moment they were on the sidewalk, and moving towards the door of the bank, Starbuck would open fire. His shot would be the signal for Marshal Murphy and the others to cut loose. With luck, the whole affair would be concluded in a matter of seconds.
Summing up, Starbuck had stressed the importance of a dispassionate attitude. He reminded the men that the James-Younger gang was a band of cold-blooded murderers, prone to acts of savagery. He urged them to shoot to kill, and to continue firing until the last outlaw had been taken out of action. Any hesitation, any show of mercy, would only endanger innocent bystanders. To save the lives of friends and neighbours required that they kill quickly and efficiently. And with no regard for the aftermath.
Arthur Manning, perhaps having second thoughts, had then raised the issue of bystanders. In the event passersby happened along at the last moment or innocent parties got in the line of fire, he wondered if it might not be prudent to hold off, and let the gang rob the bank. At that point, he observed, when they were once again mounted and moving across the square, they could be ambushed in a relatively open area. Starbuck assured him that such a plan would result in random gunfire, and imperil the lives of everyone on the square. By containing the shooting to a limited zone—the front of the
bank—there was less chance of someone catching a stray bullet. Doc Wheeler, whose usual business was saving lives, forcefully agreed. He advised Manning to leave tactics to Starbuck. The ambush, as laid out, was in his opinion their best hope. The others voiced assent, and the meeting had concluded on that note. Starbuck’s plan would be followed to the letter.
To bolster their confidence, Starbuck had arranged a dry run later that afternoon. He waited until the farmers and their families began the trek homeward; with their departure, the Saturday crowds thinned out and the sidewalks became passable. Walking to the southwest corner of the square, he stopped and turned to face the bank. From there, he was in plain view of Doc Wheeler and the two tradesmen. He gave them the high sign, indicating he was satisfied with the arrangement. Then, cutting across the intersection on an oblique angle, he stepped off the distance to the bank entrance. By his stride, it was fourteen paces, roughly fifteen yards. He considered it an easy shot. One Jesse James would never hear.
Yet now, seated in the rocker, he wondered if today would be the day. Where Jesse James was concerned, there were few certainties, and a good deal of guesswork. Still, if a bank was to be robbed, then Monday was the ideal time. All morning, a steady stream of merchants and shopkeepers had trooped into the bank. Their receipts from Saturday’s trade were heavy, and they were clearly anxious to get the money out of the stores and on deposit. Which made the bank a tempting target indeed. The vault would be stuffed with cash—and standing wide open.
As the noon hour approached, Starbuck experienced a moment of concern. If today was not the day, he knew he could expect problems with his squad of volunteers.
Wallace was a peace officer, and therefore somewhat accustomed to the vagaries of manhunting. The others, despite their wartime service, were newcomers to the game. A professional soon learned that patience and determination were essential in any match of wits with outlaws. Amateurs, on the other hand, were quick to lose their taste for killing. The excitement—that initial surge of blood lust—was short-lived. The longer the wait, the more time they had to think. And given enough time, most men would talk themselves out of the notion. Unless the gang struck today, that might easily happen in Northfield. For the three townsmen, the act of cold and premeditated killing would begin to weigh heavily. Tomorrow or the next day—
All at once Starbuck alerted. His pulse quickened as he spotted Cole Younger and the man named Clell Miller ride over the bridge. Unhurried, holding their horses to a walk, they proceeded on a direct line across the square. Their eyes moved constantly, searching the stores and the faces of people on the street. Anything out of the ordinary—empty stores or too few people abroad—would immediately put them on guard. For the job to go off as planned, the town had to appear normal, nothing unusual or out of kilter. Otherwise they would simply turn and ride back across the bridge.
Starbuck sat perfectly still. From beneath the brim of his derby, he watched them ride past and plod on in the direction of the bank. He casually stood, stretching himself, and yawned a wide, jaw-cracking yawn. Then he bit off the tip of a fresh cigar and lit it with the air of a man savouring a good smoke. Stuffing the cigar in his mouth, he went down the hotel steps and meandered across the square. On the sidewalk, he turned and strolled aimlessly towards the corner. Ahead, he saw the two outlaws rein to a halt before the bank and dismount.
Cole stooped down and pretended to tighten the saddle girth on his horse. Miller circled the hitch rack and stepped onto the sidewalk. With a look of bored indifference, he stood gazing out at the square.
Approaching the corner, Starbuck slowed his pace. Directly ahead, he spotted Stacey watching him through the window of the pharmacy. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Manning leaning idly in the doorway of the dry-goods store. He stopped before a clothing emporium, playing for time, and made a show of peering at the window display. The hotel, now diagonally behind him, was mirrored in the reflection of the glass. He studied the window of his room, noting the lower pane was raised; through the gauzy curtains, the outline of Doc Wheeler was faintly visible. The men were in place and ready to act the instant he gave the signal. All that remained was for Jesse James to put in an appearance.
Starbuck puffed his cigar and bent closer to the window. He checked the bank in the reflection, troubled by what seemed an abnormal lapse of time. Cole and Clell Miller, still loafing outside the bank, were staring in the direction of the bridge. Starbuck turned his head slightly, and took a quick peek. His expression darkened, oddly bemused. Jim Younger, accompanied by two men unknown to him, cleared the east end of the bridge and reined their horses off to one side. They dismounted, reins gripped firmly, and stood as though waiting. Their eyes were fixed on the bank.
A sudden chill settled over Starbuck. Something about the setup was wrong, all turned around. The way he’d figured it, occupying the bridge was to have been the last step. Before then, both the outside team and the inside team should have been in position. Yet the rear guard had now taken control of the bridge and there were
no more riders in sight. No sign of the inside team! .
Then, suddenly, a tight fist of apprehension gripped his stomach. He wheeled away from the store window and froze, turned to stone. Frank James and Bob Younger, led by a third man, rounded the corner of Division Street and entered the bank. The man in the lead, like Frank, wore a beard, and carried himself with austere assurance. His identity was all too apparent.
Starbuck spat a low. curse and flung his cigar into the gutter. He saw their horses tied to the hitch rack on Division Street, and too late he realised his mistake. While he was watching the bridge, he’d been outsmarted and outmanoeuvred. Jesse James, foxy to the end, had circled Northfield and entered town from the east. A clever ruse, wholly unexpected, and timed precisely when it was least expected. The trademark of an old guerrilla fighter—and brilliantly executed.
Before Starbuck could react, the situation went from bad to worse. The proprietor of a hardware store next to the bank boldly approached Cole Younger and Clell Miller. He looked them over, openly curious, then walked on towards the bank entrance. Miller drew a gun and brusquely ordered him to move along. The store owner obeyed, rounding the corner onto Division Street. Then he took off running, shouting at the top of his lungs.
“Bank robbers! The bank’s being robbed!”
With the element of surprise gone, the gang moved swiftly. Cole fired a shot to alert the men at the bridge. In turn, they began winging shots across the square, warning passersby off the street. A townsman, seemingly befuddled by the commotion, was too slow to move, and a bullet dropped him where he stood. Starbuck, with lead whizzing all around him, jerked his Colt and hurried to the corner. There he ducked behind a lamppost and waited. His pistol was trained on the bank entrance.
From the pharmacy, Stacey fired a shotgun blast across the street. Birdshot peppered Miller’s face just as he started to mount his horse. At the same instant, the marshal cut loose from his office window and drilled a slug through Cole’s thigh. Then, from the opposite direction, Manning stepped out the door of the dry-goods store and triggered both barrels on his shotgun. The impact of a double-load struck Miller in the chest, and knocked him raglike off his feet. He dropped dead in the street.
Doc Wheeler, firing from the hotel window, quickly routed the rear guard. His first shot, slightly low, killed a horse and sent the rider tumbling to the ground. His next shot went high and struck the bridge, exploding splinters directly over Jim Younger’s head. On the third shot, the physician found the range. The remaining outlaw took a bullet through the heart, and pitched headlong off his horse.
A shot sounded from within the bank and one of the tellers stumbled through the door. He lost his footing and fell face first on the sidewalk. On his heels, the three inside men burst out the door and ran for their horses. Frank was in the lead, followed by Jesse, and last in line was Bob Younger. Bunched together, they dodged and weaved, snapping off wild shots as they headed for the hitch rack. The marshal and Elias Stacey opened up on them in a rolling barrage. The bank window shattered and bullets pocked the wall of the building all around them. Younger’s horse reared backward and toppled dead as he grabbed for the reins. Beside him, still in the middle, Jesse bent low under the hitch rack.
Starbuck, tracking them in his sights, had not yet fired. From the moment they darted out of the bank, he’d waited for a clear shot. His concentration was on Jesse, but the other men were in the way, spoiling his aim.
Then, as Younger’s horse fell dead, he saw an opening. He touched off the trigger as Jesse rose from beneath the hitch rack. Bob Younger, scrambling away from his plunging horse, stepped into the line of fire. The slug plowed through his arm from hand to elbow. Jesse vaulted into the saddle, and Starbuck fired a hurried shot. The slug, only inches off target, blew the saddlehorn apart.
Out of nowhere, Cole galloped into the mêlée and swung Bob aboard his own horse. Once again Starbuck was blocked, and he waited as they turned and thundered in a tight phalanx through the intersection. Standing, he moved from behind the lamppost and brought the Colt to shoulder level. He was vaguely aware of the marshal halting at the corner, and distantly he heard the boom of shotguns. Yet he closed his mind to all else, his attention zeroed on a lone figure within the pack of horsemen. He was determined to make the shot count.
The riders hurtled past him and his arm traversed in a smooth arc. From the rear, the horses were separated by wider gaps, and his sights locked on the bearded figure. The Colt roared and he saw Jesse’s hat float skyward. He quickly thumbed the hammer back and once more brought the sights into line. Then, on the verge of firing, the horsemen drifted together in a jumbled wedge and he lost his target. There was no time for a last shot.
The outlaws pounded across the bridge and turned south along the Dundas road. A moment slipped past, then they disappeared from view on the opposite side of the river. A pall of eerie silence descended on Northfield.
Starbuck cursed savagely and slowly lowered the hammer on the Colt. His eyes were rimmed with disgust.