Northfield by Johnny D. Boggs

believed, somewhere around Watowan County.
    “The hell with this,” Jesse said. “Let’s do Mankato and be done with this damyankee state.”
    So we rode to Mankato, meeting up at last with Cole and Charlie.
    It was September 2 nd .
    City was a-bustle when we came riding in from the South Bend Road. After breakfast, I inspected the hardware stores, then watched as Frank entered the First National Bank to change a $20 bill and get the lay of the bank, the vault. I snuck a few swallows from my flask, hating the prospects. Like I said, folks had packed into the city, and the bank looked no better than the three in Red Wing. It was a frame building, and about a half dozen carpenters were already at work.
    “Banking business is good,” said Stiles, who had walked up to me. “They’re adding on. Need more room for all that money we’re about to withdraw.”
    And he was sober, the damned fool.
    Ask me, the First National Bank of Mankato was a deathtrap. But nobody asked me.
    “I think the teller suspicioned me,” Frank said later that day when we met in a patch of woods by the Minnesota River to talk things over. “He kept staring at me while counting out the change he made me. I think he saw me looking at the vault and the windows.”
    “Most of those windows are boarded up,” Clell Miller said. “That could be a problem.”
    “You two have become cautious old women,” Jesse said. “Boarded up windows.” He snorted. “Nobody could see in.”
    “We couldn’t see out, either,” Frank fired back.
    I had another drink.
    “Town was crowded,” Cole said.
    “Shouldn’t be so bad tomorrow,” said Stiles.
    Our debate carried an edge, more so than usual. Even Frank sounded a tad raw, and I’d never ridden with a man as cool in the heat of battle as Frank James. Frank and Cole, only Cole just frowned.
    Tense, things were. Yet maybe, I thought, Jesse was right. Get the damned thing over with. Get out of this damyankee state.
    Jesse and Bob checked into the Clifton House on Front Street, while Clell and Stiles got a room at the Gates House. Cole and Charlie bunked at this place on Washington Street, and Frank and me rode over to Kasota and paid some farmer for a night’s lodging. Didn’t want everyone in town, you see. That was another way we operated.
    “Might I ask your name?” the farmer asked.
    “No questions asked,” Frank said, his words somewhat slurred. “No lies told.”
    Next morning, we decided to make our play
    Things went to hell in a hurry.
    “By god, Jesse James!”
    Jesse and Bob were mounting their horses, when this gent shouted at them, or rather, Jesse, from across the street.
    “You’ve sprouted some chin whiskers since I last saw you, old hoss. How the hell are…?”
    Jesse made no reply, didn’t even look at the man, just rode toward the river, followed quickly by Bob to the river bottoms, where they stopped to fix coffee, awaiting the rest of us.
    I emptied my flask as Jesse told us the story. Wasn’t much rye left in it, anyway.
    “Fellow in town recognized me,” Jesse announced after we had finished our coffee.
    Frank chuckled, and I suspicion that he had been drinking more than was his custom, too. His tone didn’t have the sharpness of last night, and his eyes shone like a drunkard’s, like mine.
    “You are ubiquitous, Dingus,” he said.
    I don’t think Frank believed Jesse. I know damned well Cole didn’t, could tell by the scowl on his face, but I’m not sure. Bob wouldn’t lie to me, and Jesse had no reason to tell some stretcher, though his vanity often got the better of him. ’Course, Bob used to listen to his brothers.
    “Price of fame,” Jesse said, far too casual for my liking, but he turned serious. “I didn’t reply, just rode out with Jim. But this puts us at a crossroads, boys. If we ride into Mankato, it could be a trap.”
    “I’m betting we’ll be safe,” Stiles said. “Man in southern Minnesota cries out…‘I’ve seen Jesse