CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.
A.O. SORBEL.
Boy howdy, you never seen such a commotion as what grabbed hold of Minnesota-folks riding here and there, to and fro, searching barns, guarding bridges and crossroads, chasing each other most of the time, it seemed to me. I even heard tell that some Dutchy congregation around Millers-burg had gathered at some farm, scared out of their wits, and fired the one shotgun amongst them on the hour to frighten away those border ruffians. Outlaws Outlaws was on the lips of every man, woman, and child. There was a right heap of a reward put up for the capture of the raiders who had robbed the bank and killed two people in Northfield. The newspapers and preachers all said the culprits was Jesse and Frank James and Cole Younger and his brothers. was on the lips of every man, woman, and child. There was a right heap of a reward put up for the capture of the raiders who had robbed the bank and killed two people in Northfield. The newspapers and preachers all said the culprits was Jesse and Frank James and Cole Younger and his brothers.
About two weeks had passed, and things still hadn't settled down.
Some of our cows wandered off, wandering being in their nature, especially after all that rain we'd had. I had to go round them up and herd them back home, and, when I come over the bridge on the Madelia road, I spotted two men hiding in the woods.
"What are you fellows doin' yonder?" I called out, because Ma says I'm as curious as a cat, while Pa says I can be as forgetful as a turkey. Guess I was both on that day, because it never occurred to me that those two fellows could have been outlaws.
"Go on with your cows, son," one of the men said.
"Well, what are you doin' there? It's a poor place for huntin'."
"Depends on the game, perhaps," said one of them, and he stuck his head up so I could better see him. He carried a big rifle, and I spied a little pistol shoved in his waistband. He had a big, black mustache and a bowler hat, dressed in store-bought duds, too nice to be hunting and hiding in the wet woods. "Do you know who I am?"
My head bobbed. "I think I've seen you in Madelia a time or two."
"I am Colonel Thomas Vought, son," he said. "I own the Flanders Hotel. Now, be gone."
"Not till you tell me why you're hidin' in them woods. For all I know you might plan on robbin' some traveler."
"Quite the opposite. We hope to bag some robbers."
The colonel-wonder if he was a real colonel- went on to say that a while back, before the big shooting match in Northfield, two men had visited his hotel. He'd thought nothing of it until after the bank robbery, then when he read descriptions of the men who had escaped, he began to wonder about those visitors. They'd said they had been looking for farms to purchase, but no farmers had since been approached, and those strangers had been quite inquisitive about the lay of the land, especially around here.
"If those two men were a party to that crime," Colonel Vought said, "I think they might be headed this way"
"Fits," said the other fellow, who hadn't given his name or gotten up so I could get a good look at him. "They were last seen crossing the Blue Earth River at Mankato and, perhaps, at the Lake Crystal bridge."
Said the colonel: "So, that is our purpose. Now move your cows along, son, so you do not reveal our hiding place or agenda to those desperadoes."
"Outlaws!" Now this really excited me. "Gee! I'd love to take a shot at those fellows with Dad's old gun."
The colonel grinned before sinking back behind the brush, and I hurried away to catch up with my cows, but he called out after me, and I turned around.
"Keep your eyes and ears open, son," he said.
I sure planned on doing that.
I had turned seventeen that March, all of those years spent in Brown County, most of 'em on Pa's farm near Lake Linden. All those years, nothing like this had ever happened. Oh, sure, the war came, but that had been fought down South, when I was just a kid, and the Santee Sioux rose up in Minnesota during that time-they hanged a slew of them in Mankato-but I couldn't remember a thing about that.
Outlaws, and not just outlaws and murderers and bank robbers, but, boy howdy, Jesse James and his gang. Now that was something. To me, anyway. When I told Pa about the men I'd spied in the woods, about what they had planned and how they had warned me, he just let out a grunt and reminded me of the chores to be done. Ma, she didn't have any interest in Jesse James or Colonel Vought, either. Pa and Ma hailed from Norway, came to Minnesota to farm. Nothing interested them much, excepting the weather and the cows and the corn.
Next day, I got up before the sun rose, pulled on my britches, boots, and homespun shirt, and walked outside to start my day. I found the cows in the road, but that's where they were supposed to be. For the past two weeks it had done nothing but rain, and the mud in the pens would have sucked down all the cows, and me, too, into the bowels of the earth had we left them there.
Pa had woke me up, as was his nature, and he stood by the gate, considering the cows while tamping tobacco down in his pipe, marveling at what a sight it was to behold, seeing that sun and nary a cloud in the sky, and finally stuck his pipe, unlit, in his shirt pocket, picked up the pail, and went to milking Henrietta.
As I walked toward him, two men came down the road, and I stopped, startled, then resumed, never taking my eyes off them fellows.
"Good morning," one of them said, and, remembering Colonel Vought's instructions, I hurried to the gate, and looked the two men over. Just two. I'd heard there was something like forty men who had robbed the Northfield bank. They stood on either side of Pa, the cow between them.
Well, those fellows didn't look like forty men, and sure didn't look like robbers. Looked like nothing, if you were to ask me, but the most miserable varmints that ever walked on two legs. Both stood fairly tall, one with a thick mustache and several days of stubble over the rest of his face, along with an under-lip beard, the kind Ma despised on a man. The other was much slimmer, almost pale, with big ears, shorter hair and several days' growth of beard, lighter hair, down his cheeks and chin, though not much for a mustache. Maybe he couldn't grow a mustache. I couldn't, and I'd been trying for five years.
"Good morning," Pa answered, looking up, still milking. "I'd say a great morning. Looks to be a fine day in the making."
"Appears like," said the slimmer one.
He kept petting Henrietta's back, but, while he addressed Pa, he was looking at me, though only briefly. He took in our house, the road, the barn, and pens, wet his lips, and winced. His eyes were blue, also sickly looking, and he walked away, calling at us to have a nice day, gently rubbing his shoulder, followed by the bigger, darker man. Man alive, their clothes were ruined, nothing more than rags, and with me being downwind of those two, they both stank to high heaven. Suspicious, I watched them go, but they kept walking, disappeared around the bend, and I told Pa: "That was the robbers."
"No," Pa said as he rose, his knees popping. "They was nice men. Said 'good morning' and all. Nice men."
Well, good manners didn't convince me of anything, so I dodged the cows and walked till I found some good footprints those strangers had left in the muddy road. "I'll show you how nice the men was," I said, squatting by the tracks.
Now, the Army isn't going to come knocking at my door and asking me to join up as a civilian scout and go after those Sioux and Cheyennes causing a stir in Montana, but I know a thing or two about reading sign. You spend a healthy portion of your years chasing heifers that had wandered all over the tarnal county you'll learn to track some, too. Those men's boots had been so worn, I pressed my fingers slightly on toe prints in the mud.
"Come here, Pa," I said, loud enough for him to hear but not so loud as those two men might.
"Never mind that," Pa told me. "Come finish the milking. I'll see about breakfast."
I let out a little sigh of disgust, not loud enough so that Pa would hear, and walked back to Henrietta and got to choring. The milk sprayed in the pail, and I tried to concentrate, but, well, it got hard because my excitement kept building, and so did the notion that those worn-out skeletons were outlaws on the run.
Henrietta ridded herself of gas, and that just about made up my mind for me. I glanced over my shoulder, couldn't see Pa, set the milk pail on the other side of the gate, and went following the tracks the two strangers had left. It was just my luck, though, that Pa came outside and spotted me before I had reached the turn.
"Asle Oscar Sorbel!" he called out, but I hurried my steps. "If they is outlaws, boy, they'll shoot you!"
I didn't turn back, couldn't. I just had to learn for myself. My figuring was that I was too old and too big for Pa to hide any more, and I'd milked the cow, could go without breakfast, and catch up on my chores when I got back home.
If the outlaws don't shoot me, that is.
About eighty rods up the road, after the curve, they had cut into the timber, and then I told myself...they got to be outlaws! I didn't see them, but I could tell from the tracks that they had crossed the creek. This being Mads Ouren's property, I paid him a visit, but he hadn't seen a thing, and I couldn't find any tracks. Next I went over to Gutterson Grove's place, and Mrs. Grove let me climb up on her roof to get a good look-see, but I didn't glimpse a thing there, either. It looked like those outlaws had vanished, if they were outlaws. I ran up the hill, a mighty good perch to keep an eye on the Madelia, Lockstock, and New Ulm roads, only to find those roads empty as my heart.
My convincement had started to fade a mite.
So I went home.
Pa was in the barn, and now I had worked up an appetite and started regretting that perhaps I had missed a chance at breakfast-Ma being a real fine cook-so I went inside, pulled off my boots, and called out to my mother.
"We didn't know where you took off to, A.O.," she said.
"Can I eat?" I asked.
"You're lucky." Her head tilted toward a platter of eggs and bacon. "Some hunters passed by while you were gone, asked if they could buy breakfast, but it wasn't ready yet, and they said they couldn't wait, so I just gave them yesterday's bread and a bit of butter. Next time you'll...."
"What hunters?" My convincement had returned.
"Two strangers," she said.
"Same fellows who come here earlier?"
Pa had just walked inside, and he answered: "No, two other men. One man on a cane. The other had his right arm hanging in a bandanna sling. I doesn't think they was hunters."
"The robbers!" I no longer felt so hungry.
"I suspect you're right, Son," Pa said, and it felt mighty good to see him come around to my way of thinking. "They walked down the road, same way those other two men had gone."
"I'd best go tell Mister Ouren and the others. Tell 'em there are four outlaws, not just two."
Pa shook his head. "No, A.O. They'll kill you if they're them men from Northfield."
"Well, we got to warn 'em, Pa!"
Ma agreed, and we sent my sister, figuring the outlaws wouldn't suspect her, and even if they did, they weren't likely to harm a girl.
"Can I take the horse, Pa?" I begged. "Ride to town. Give the warnin' that the outlaws is around?"
"No. You might be hurt."
"Pa! These are outlaws. The men who killed them two fellows in Northfield."
"And we won't have them killing you, Son," Ma said.
"But, Ma, Pa, we got to give the warnin'. There's a reward out for those men, and we got to let that colonel and the others in Madelia know."
Pa found his pipe, tapped it nervously on the kitchen table, and at last he nodded. "But," he said as I leaped toward the door, "you take the east road, so them fellows won't see you. And you ride to Madelia, tell the sheriff, then you stay put!"
I was halfway out the door before he finished.
Pa had hitched the horses to the wagon, but I took off the harness, tossed a blanket over Nutmeg's back-we didn't have a saddle-fixed a hack-amore up, and leaped aboard, riding through our muddy fields and down the little game trail to the woods, then took off down the little woods road, keeping the timber between me and the main road. It was seven miles to Madelia, and I held Nutmeg at a good lope.
It was some ride, and I felt like a bona-fide hero till Nutmeg slipped in the mud and sent me over his neck and into a puddle. Luckily nobody saw my wreck, and Nutmeg wasn't the type of horse who would wander off without me. I caught up with him, wanted to cuss him, but just wiped the thick slime off my face and hands, pulled myself back onto the buckskin's back. Two miles later, I struck town, pulling the hackamore to stop my horse in front of the first man I saw.
"Robbers!" I cried out. "I've seen the Northfield robbers!"
The townsman looked at me from underneath his spectacles, chewing on a toothpick. Guess I didn't meet his expectations of a real sentry, what with me on a farm horse, muddy blanket for a saddle, hackamore instead of headstall, bit, and reins, and me in my farm clothes now caked with mud.
"Boy, I got no time for your foolishness." He turned to go, but I yelled that I was telling the truth.
"How many?" he asked, still unconvinced.
"Four," I said.
"Newspapers and Sheriff Glispin say eight or nine men are on the dodge."
"Well, all I saw was four."
"If you're fibbing, I'll whup you even before your pa does."
"I ain't lyin'!"
"You know anybody in town? Anybody who can vouch for you?"
"John Owen knows my Pa," I told him.
"You wait here," he said, but took his time making his way to Mr. Owen's store.
That's when I spied the Flanders Hotel, and, remembering Colonel Vought, I kicked a worn-out Nutmeg into a walk down Buck Street, slid off the blanket, and tethered my horse to one of the skinny trees in front of the porch. The way my luck had started to turn, I figured the colonel would still be hiding in the woods by the bridge over toward our farm, but my heart about leaped into my throat when I saw him eating breakfast with another man.
I ran up to his table. "I found them bandits!" I cried out.
He looked up, chewing his ham, winked at his companion, and said to me: "What did you do with them?"
He didn't believe me, neither, darn him. "They're still there. Four of 'em. Came by my house this mornin'."
"That's a big haul." He winked again, which I found mighty bothersome, and reached for his coffee. "Have you had breakfast, son?"
CHAPTER NINETEEN.
SHERIFF J JAMES G GLISPIN.
To me way of thinking, the James and Younger boys, or whoever had robbed the Northfield bank, had escaped. Sweet Mary, but I hoped they had, or at least out of Watowan County they'd stay The year 1876 found me in me third term as county sheriff, and in me jurisdiction, I liked things quiet. A six-shooter I carried, the county bought me a couple of shotguns, a Henry .44 and Spencer carbine, and above the door at me home hung the Springfield rifle I'd shouldered during the war. But I didn't want to use them in the line of duty, not ever.
In the war, I'd seen enough killing, wholesale slaughter. Death eats at a man's soul, and a horrible amount I'd seen during those awful four years, seen me friends die by the score, and had lost count of the number of brave Southern boys who'd fallen at me hand.
Enough I'd seen in the East, so West I came, settling here in Watowan County. 'Tis quieter than Massachusetts. Nothing but lads of the soil and real nice colleens. As a lawman, I'd have to break up fisticuffs once in a blue moon, but most of me such noble duties involved hauling off dead animals and collecting taxes. That changed after the 7th of September. of September.
For two weeks, I'd ridden all over the county, chasing rumors and fairies, chasing the wind, looking for those desperate men who'd robbed the Northfield bank. For two weeks, I'd ridden in the rain till a tadpole I felt I'd become. Now that the sun had come out, I hoped to dry out and rest, prayed those bad men were long past me county.
'Twas the 21st of September, and I'd just finished breakfast and started making me way down the boardwalk to the livery by the Flanders Hotel, when Colonel Vought stepped outside, holding his rifle, followed by a corn-fed boy covered in dried mud. of September, and I'd just finished breakfast and started making me way down the boardwalk to the livery by the Flanders Hotel, when Colonel Vought stepped outside, holding his rifle, followed by a corn-fed boy covered in dried mud.
"Jim," the colonel said, "this boy says four men came by his farm this morning. He thinks they're the Northfield bandits."
A good look-see I gave the child. "What's ye name, boy?"
"A.O. Sorbel. Well, Asle Oscar, but most folks call me A.O."
"Ye be Ole and Guri's boy, aren't ye?"