Free Northfield by Johnny D. Boggs Page A

lacked the courage to tell Hester of my doubts. I found myself glad these two men had decided to stay in town, at the Flanders Hotel. My reading of their strong faces had not been in error.
    “What about the war?” Mr. Ladd asked, his voice a hard drawl. “You got any notion how the South lost? They had the best generals, best soldiers.”
    “Overconfidence,” I said perhaps too quickly. “Lee came to Gettysburg thinking he could not lose. I think history may tell us this is also what happened to General Custer in that battle this past summer against the Sioux. It happened to Napoleon. And to many of your kings in your Bible, Mister King.”
    “You weren’t at Gettysburg,” Mr. Ladd snapped, “and you damn’ sure wasn’t with Custer.”
    “And you were?” My own voice had turned angry
    Mr. Ladd’s face flushed, but Mr. King slapped his thigh and pushed himself back in his rocker. “Over-confidence, eh? That’s an interesting theory.”
    “Custer,” I said, “won his laurels at this place in the Indian Territory…I disremember the name…but from reports I have read, he never faced real Indian warriors, not until June of this year. Remember, Minnesota had its run-in against hostile Sioux during the late war. Many were hanged just over in Mankato. I have neighbors who fought against the Indians. Many more of my friends and neighbors served in the late war. We have all seen the elephant. Certainly Lee had been tested against valiant soldiers, but he never should have ordered that charge. The war was lost then and there, if not before. Overconfidence. Seeking glory. That has killed more good men than anything.”
    The next morning, to my sadness, the newcomers checked out, paying their bill and shaking my hand. I handed Mr. King a list of farmers who might entertain purchase offers and wished them luck. The stable boy brought their horses, and they mounted up.
    “I wish you success,” I told them.
    Mr. King nodded. “May the God of peace be with you,” he said, and trotted his fine horse out of town.
    Peace. Well, that I would not find, not for a while, my mind suddenly stoked with images from Tennessee, Mississippi, and Alabama, with nightmares brought about from childhood memories of Bible stories, of vengeful nuns and stern priests. Later, I would smell the brimstone, taste the sulphur, feel the heat of battle, my last campaign. I would come to think that a merciful God saved me in that battle, a matter I would eventually discuss with Mr. J.C. King.
    Only then, approximately three weeks after our first meeting, I would address him as Cole Younger.

C HAPTER S EVEN
J IM Y OUNGER
    Never turn your back on family. That’s the most important thing. At least, it’s the way we Youngers have always been raised. Only, Bob, my kid brother, he forgot, just wouldn’t listen. Not to Cole. Not to me. Not to anyone. Nobody but Jesse, and Jesse wasn’t family. Land’s sake, Charlie Pitts was closer to blood than Dingus. Only the way Bob, who ordinarily didn’t act so damned mule-headed, talked, Jesse James had the most brilliant mind since Mephistopheles, and we’d make a big haul in Minnesota, where nobody would be expecting the Jameses and Youngers to raid, and we’d avenge our father’s murder. We’d make the Yankees pay for all the torment they caused our family. We’d come away wealthy men.
    I didn’t buy a word of it, but I came to Minnesota. Had to, since Bob wouldn’t turn back, wouldn’t listen to reason.
    Family.
    After a little respite in St. Paul and Minneapolis, we parted company. Cole and Charlie Pitts rode one way, Bob and Bill Stiles went another, and I stuck with Frank and Jesse and Clell Miller. Stiles had suggested we rob the bank in Mankato, so Cole and Charlie agreed to scout the land out west of there, but Frank had the notion that maybe Red Wing would be easier, so we eased our way in that direction.
    From the beginning, I knew Red Wing wouldn’t work. Oh, the banks were mighty