The coroner’s inquest began the next morning.
News of Jesse James’ death had created a national sensation. Accounts of the killing rated banner headlines from New York to Los Angeles. The stories, based on hearsay and preliminary reports, were sparse on details. Yet the overall theme of the stories reflected a universal sentiment. The Robin Hood of American outlaws had been laid low by a hired assassin.
The hearing room was packed with an overflow crowd. Newspaper reporters from as far away as Kansas City and St. Louis were seated down front. Behind them, wedged together in a solid mass, was a throng of spectators. The majority, citizens of St. Joseph, were drawn by morbid curiosity. Farmers and people from outlying towns were drawn by grief, and a compelling sense of outrage. They were there to look upon the man who was already being labelled “the dirty little coward.”
Starbuck was seated in the front row. Outwardly composed, he was still in the guise of the Bible salesman, Joshua Thayer. Underneath, however, he was filled with a strange ambivalence. Jesse James was dead, and whether by his hand or that of Bob Ford, the result was
the same. Yet he felt oddly cheated, almost bitter. Once again, as though some capricious power were at work, he had been thwarted at the very last moment. After months of investigation, added to the strain of operating undercover, the letdown was overwhelming By his reasoning, he’d been robbed of a hard-won victory.
Still, for all that, his assignment was not yet completed. There was widespread speculation that Frank James would appear—at the risk of his own life—and take vengeance on his brother’s killer. Starbuck considered it an improbable notion. Frank James, in his view, was too smart for such a dumb play. On the outside chance he was wrong, however, he waited. One day more hardly seemed to matter.
The inquest, thus far, had produced no startling revelations. Zee James, who was eight months pregnant, and reportedly still in a state of shock, had not been called to testify. Sheriff John Timberlake, summoned from Clay County, had earlier viewed the body in the town mortuary. Based on long personal acquaintance, he positively identified the dead man as Jesse James. Dick Liddil, collared at the last moment by Sheriff Timberlake, had been hauled along to St. Joseph. In corroborating the identification, he noted the deceased was missing a finger on the left hand. The outlaw leader was known to have suffered a similar loss during the Civil War.
Horace Heddens, the coroner, conducted. the inquest like a ringmaster working a three-ring circus. He was on the sundown side of fifty, with thin hair and watery brown eyes. Yet his reedy voice was clipped with authority, and he brooked no nonsense from the spectators. When he called Bob Ford to the witness chair, the hearing room erupted in a gruff buzz of conversation. Heddens
took up a gavel and quickly hammered the crowd into silence.
Starbuck, with clinical interest, studied the witness while he was being sworn. He thought he’d never seen a more unlikely looking killer. Under different circumstances, Bob Ford might have been a stage idol. He was painfully handsome, in his early twenties, with chiselled features and dark wavy hair. Only his eyes gave him away. He looked unsufferably taken with himself, somehow haughty. His demeanour was that of a celebrity.
The witness chair was centred between Heddens’ desk and the jury box. As the coroner went through the preliminary questions, the jurors watched Ford with rapt attention. The effect was somewhat like people mesmerised by the snake rather than the snake charmer.
“Now, Mr. Ford.” Heddens held up a long-barrelled revolver. “I direct your attention to this Smith & Wesson forty-four-calibre pistol. Do you recognise it?”
“I do,” Ford said without hesitation. “It’s the gun I used to kill Jesse James.”
“For the record,” Heddens said, placing the revolver on the desk. “You shot the deceased yesterday—April 3, 1882—at approximately nine o’clock in the morning. Is that correct?”
“Yessir,” Ford smirked. “Shot him deader’n a doornail.”
Heddens laced his fingers together. “For the benefit of the jurors, would you elaborate as to your motive?”
“The reward,” Ford said simply. “I did it for the money—ten thousand dollars.”
“Were you acting on your own, or at the behest of someone else?”
“Oh, it was official,” Ford assured him. “I went to Sheriff Timberlake a couple of weeks ago. Told him I had a once-in-a-lifetime chance to get Jesse.”
“Exactly how did this ‘chance’ come about?”
“Well, like I said, it started a couple of weeks ago. Jesse’s gang was all broke up, and he come to Clay County lookin’ for new men. I’d known him off and on, and he’d always treated me decent. So I told him me and Charley—that’s my brother—wanted to join up and be outlaws. He took to the idea right off, and said I’d get instructions where to meet him. Course, he never had no idea we’d play him false.”
“What happened next?”
“That’s when I contacted Sheriff Timberlake.” Ford’s mouth lifted in a sly smile. “Told him I’d deliver Jesse for the reward and a promise of immunity. He went to see the governor, and by the end of the week we had ourselves a deal.”
“Thomas Crittenden?” Heddens prompted. “The governor of Missouri?”
“The one and only,” Ford said smugly. “He authorised me to go ahead and do it the best way I saw fit.”
“There was never any question of taking Jesse James alive? The plan, as sanctioned by Governor Crittenden, was to kill him in the most expedient manner. Is that essentially correct?”
“Naturally.” Ford grinned, and wagged his head. “Only a fool would try to take him prisoner. It was either kill him or chuck the whole idea.”
“Proceed,” Heddens said sternly. “What next transpired?”
“Jesse brought me and Charley here to St. Joe. He had a bank job lined up, and we was to stay with him till the time come. So we moved in with him.”
“You refer to the deceased’s place of residence, on Lafayette Street?”
“That’s right.”
“Continue.”
“Well, it was touch and go for a while. Jesse was always on guard, real leery. Never once saw him go out of the house during the day. After dark he’d go downtown and get the newspapers, ’specially the Kansas City Times. But mostly that just put him in a bad frame of mind, and spoiled our chances all the more.”
“Are you saying the newspapers affected his mood?”
“Yeah.” Ford gestured with his hands. “A few days ago there was a piece in the Times. It went on about how he was all washed up, called him a has-been outlaw. He got awful mad, and said he’d show ’em Jesse James wasn’t done yet. Things like that kept him edgy, and just made it harder for us.”
“Harder in what way?”
“He always went armed, even in the house. Carried two guns, a Colt and a Smith & Wesson, both forty-fives. Wore ’em in shoulder holsters he’d had made special. So we just never had a chance to get the drop on him. Not till yesterday anyway.”
Heddens addressed him directly. “Why was yesterday any different than normal?”
“Jesse was all fired up,” Ford replied. “He’d decided to pull the bank job next Monday, and that put him in high spirits. After breakfast, me and Charley followed him into the parlour. He spotted some dust on a picture hanging by the front window, and darned if he didn’t go get himself a feather duster.”
“He was still armed at that point?”
“Yeah, he was.” Ford’s expression turned to mild wonder. “Then he says something about how the neighbours might spot him through the window, wearing them guns. So I’m blessed if he don’t slip out of the shoulder rig and lay it across a divan. I like to swallowed my tongue.”
“So he was then completely disarmed?”
“That’s the size of it.” Ford nervously licked his lips. “Next thing I know, he stepped up on a straight-backed chair and commenced to dust the picture. Charley and me looked at each other, and we figured it was now or never.”
“For the record,” Heddens asked with a note of asperity, “Jesse James was standing on a chair—with his back to you—and he was unarmed. Is that your testimony?”
“Yessir, it is.”
“Proceed.”
A vein pulsed in Ford’s forehead. “Well, it all happened pretty quick. Charley and me pulled our guns, and I cocked mine. Jesse must’ve heard it, because he turned his head like lightning. I fired and the ball struck him square in the left eye. Not one of us ever spoke a word. I just fired and he dropped dead at Charley’s feet.”
The hearing room went deathly still. The jurors were immobile, staring at Ford with open revulsion. A woman’s sob, muffled by a handkerchief, was the only sound from the spectators. At length, with a look of utter contempt, Heddens spoke to the witness.
“What were your actions immediately following the shooting?”
“We cleared out,” Ford muttered, lowering his eyes. “We went down to the telegraph office, and I wired Governor Crittenden and Sheriff Timberlake what we’d done. Then we turned ourselves over to the St. Joe police. That was it.”
“Indeed?” Heddens’ nostrils flared. “And what was the gist of your message to the governor and Sheriff Timberlake?”
“Five words.” Ford looked oddly crestfallen. “I have got my man. Wasn’t no question what I meant.”
“I daresay.” Heddens was glaring at him now, face
masked by anger. “Allow me to summarise, Mr. Ford. You capitalised on a man’s trust in order to profit by his death. He took you into his home—under the same roof with his wife and family—and by your own admission, he treated you fairly. In return, you waited until he was defenceless, and then—with premeditation and in cold blood—you shot him down. In short, you are nothing more than a common assassin.” He paused, drew a deep, unsteady breath. “Have you anything further to add to the record, Mr. Ford?”
“No, nothing,” Ford said in a shaky voice. “Except I ain’t ashamed of what I done. Somebody had to kill—”
Heddens banged his gavel. “Witness is dismissed!”
Bob Ford rose from the witness chair and darted a hangdog look at the jurors. Then two city policemen stepped forward and led him out by a rear door. There was a protracted interval of silence in the hearing room, and all eyes seemed fixed on Heddens. Finally, with a measure of composure, he consulted a list of names at his elbow. He looked up, searching the front row.
“Joshua Thayer?”
Starbuck jumped. “Here!”
“Please take the witness chair.”
Somewhat astounded, Starbuck stood and walked forward. Following the shooting, he had stayed with Zee James and the children until the police arrived. Later, after he’d made a statement at police headquarters, he learned the Ford brothers had voluntarily surrendered. With the killer in custody and the unsavoury details already leaked to the press, it never occurred to Starbuck that he would be called to testify. Now, while the oath was being administered, he prepared himself to continue the charade. Any disclosure of his true identity would merely serve to alert Frank James. And vastly complicate his own life.
“Mr. Thayer.” Heddens began, reading from an official document, “I have here your statement to the police. In it, you identify yourself as a Bible salesman. Is that correct?”
“Commissioned agent.” Starbuck amended with an engaging smile. “The Holy Writ Foundation doesn’t employ salesmen. The Good Book sells itself.”
“I stand corrected,” Heddens said with strained patience. “Nevertheless, while going about your duties, you were in the vicinity of the deceased’s residence early yesterday morning. Would you please tell the jurors what you witnessed at that time?”
“A truly dreadful thing,” Starbuck said with soft wonder. “I heard a gunshot, and then two men ran from the house and hurried off towards town. A woman was sobbing—most pitifully, I might add—so I took it upon myself to enter the house. I found a lady crouched over the man who had been shot. He was quite dead.”
“At that time, you were unaware that the deceased was in fact Jesse James?”
“Oh, my, yes!” Starbuck’s eyes widened in feigned astonishment. “I merely attempted to play the Good Samaritan.”
“Very commendable,” Heddens said dryly. “For the record, however, I wish to establish eyewitness identification. Do you now state that the men who ran from the house were in fact Charles and Robert Ford?”
“I do indeed,” Starbuck affirmed. “Not one iota of doubt. I saw their faces quite clearly.”
Heddens eyed him, considering. “One last question, Mr. Thayer. Did you attempt to stop these men from fleeing the scene?”
“Good heavens, no!”
“Did you order them to halt—call out for help from the neighbours—anything?”
“I would hardly have done that.”
“Why not?”
“‘A living dog is better than a dead lion.’”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Ecclesiastes.” Starbuck smiled in mock piety. “Chapter nine, Verse four.”
“I see.” Heddens frowned. “So you failed to act out of fear for your life. Is that it, Mr. Thayer?”
Starbuck gave him a sheepish look. “I am not a man of violence. ‘Blessed are the meek; for they shall inherit—’”
“Very well, Mr. Thayer.” Heddens rapped his gavel. “You’re dismissed.”
Starbuck nodded diffidently and returned to his seat. The inquest concluded with the testimony of Charley Ford. His story was a reprise of his brother’s statement, and added nothing to the record. Late that afternoon the coroner’s jury returned a verdict of justifiable homicide. Horace Heddens, in his closing remarks, laid the onus on Governor Thomas Crittenden. The Fords, however despicable their deed, were sanctioned by the highest authority of the state. The murder of Jesse James, he noted, was therefore a legal act. The verdict returned was the only verdict possible.
Then, ordering the Ford brothers released from custody, he adjourned the hearing. He refused all comment to reporters, and walked stiffly from the room.
The train bearing Jesse James’ body departed St. Joseph that evening. The destination was Kearney, the slain outlaw’s hometown. A short time later, Starbuck boarded a train bound for Kansas City. Upon arriving there, he immediately went through his chameleon routine. Joshua Thayer, Bible salesman, was quickly transformed into
Floyd Hunnewell, horse thief. By midnight, he was mounted and riding hard towards Clay County.
The following day he drifted into Kearney. The funeral was scheduled for late that afternoon, and by mid-morning the town was swamped with several thousand people. Some were friends and neighbours, and many were heard to proclaim they had ridden with Jesse James during the war. But the majority were strangers, travelling great distances by wagon and horseback. They were brought there by some macabre compulsion, eager to look upon the casket of a man who had titillated them in life, and now in death. To the casual observer, there was something ghoulish in their manner. They had come not to mourn but rather to stare.
Starbuck, lost in the crowd, was there on business. With no great expectation, he was playing a long shot. He thought Frank James would be a fool to come anywhere near Kearney. Yet stranger things had happened. Grief was a powerful emotion, and it sometimes got the better of a man’s judgement. He waited to see how it. would affect the last of the James brothers.
A funeral service was held in the Baptist church. Afterwards, the casket was loaded onto a wagon, with the immediate family trailing behind in buggies. The cortege then proceeded to the family farm, some four miles outside town. Not all the crowd tagged along, but hundreds of spectators went to witness the burial. Beneath a large tree in the yard, the outlaw was laid to rest. Gathered around the grave were his wife and children, his mother and sister, and several close relatives. A last word was said by the preacher, then some of the men went to work with shovels. The women retreated to the house.
Frank James was not among the mourners.
The crowd slowly dispersed. Starbuck was among the
first to leave, and he passed through Kearney without stopping. All along, he’d somehow known Frank wouldn’t show. As he rode south out of Kearney, he finally admitted what his instinct had told him in St. Joseph. Bob Ford, both at the police station and the inquest, had never mentioned the eldest James brother. And the obvious reason was at once the simplest explanation. Frank James was long gone to Texas.
By sundown, Starbuck arrived at Ma Ferguson’s. The moment he walked through the door Alvina sensed something was wrong. He bought her a drink, and they sat for a while making small talk. She asked no questions, and he offered no explanation for his curious disappearance over the past four days. She appeared somewhat resigned, almost as though she had prepared herself for the inevitable. At last, with a look of genuine regret, Starbuck took her hand.
“Wish it wasn’t so,” he said quietly, “but it’s time for me to move on.”
“I know.” She squeezed his hand. “You never was much of an actor, honeybunch. It’s written all over your face.”
Starbuck permitted himself a single ironic glance. “Guess some things are harder to hide than others.”
Alvina gave him a fetching smile. “You’re a sport, Floyd Hunnewell. I won’t forget you—not anytime soon.”
“That goes both ways.”
Starbuck kissed her lightly on the mouth. Then, with an offhand salute, he rose and walked towards the door. Outside he stepped into the saddle and reined his horse out of the yard.
His thoughts turned to tomorrow, and St. Louis. And beyond that … Texas.