Previously I had said there wasn't to be no killing, but by now I figured we'd have to kill or we'd be shot to pieces.
Bob took off running, firing his .45 Colt, and Charlie Pitts finally stuck his head out of the door. Still no sign of Frank James.
Jim rode past, and a bullet come too close to his liking, and mine. He let out a little gasp, trying to spy who had damned near killed him, and looked at me, crying: "Let's light out!"
"What the hell kept you?" I yelled at Charlie, and I seldom, if ever, rose my voice to a loyal comrade like Charlie Pitts.
"We botched things up, Capt'n," he said, and looked back inside, yelling at Frank.
Botched things up. He smelled like a walking whiskey vat. I started to curse him for being a fool, for drinking when I told him and all the boys there shouldn't be no John Barleycorn, not when we was on a case, but a gunshot roared inside the bank. Another.
Then I saw Clell Miller, leaning over, adjusting his stirrup, and straightening in the saddle, yelling out in surprise as a bullet slammed through his shoulder.
He tumbled on the ground again, his horse- damned traitor-skedaddling over to Fourth Street where some citizens was shooting at us, and I run to that gallant Missouri boy who had rode with us for so long.
"Clell!"
He pulled himself on his knees, his shoulder already drenched with blood, and tried to tell me something. "Charlie!" I shouted. "Charlie." Charlie Pitts, who had stepped into his saddle, started toward me, and I yelled one last holler at the bank: "For God's sake, Buck, come out! They're killing our men out here!"
Buck come out, cool as you please, and Charlie held up, to make sure my friend made it into the saddle. I saw him get hit-Frank James, I mean- in the leg, above the knee, but he didn't fall, just pulled himself into the saddle about the time Clell collapsed in my arms, and I laid him gently on the boardwalk.
"Clell!" Dingus yelled as he galloped past.
"He's dead," I said.
Clell Miller, sporting a few days' growth of beard stubble, no pipe around anywhere, looked at me with those pretty blue eyes of his, only he couldn't see nothing no more. Poor Clell. I unbuckled his shell belt, strapped it loosely across my duster. Grabbed his other revolvers, too, shoving one in my waistband, holstering my own, using his little .32 Moore rimfire to shoot.
"Bob!" I shouted, looking up.
Bob and that bearded fellow who had most recently laid Bill Chadwell low was playing a game of chicken, using the stairs as a sort of barricade between them. Neither could get a real good shot at one another, but that fellow who had shot at Jim moments earlier, who was perched somewhere upstairs at the hotel, he drew a clean bead on my kid brother. Same fellow, it would turn out, that had run off the streets, shouting-"Robbery! Robbery!"-same fellow that Clell was about to back-shoot, same fellow whose life I had ordered be spared.
He put a .52-caliber ball into Brother Bob's elbow.
Now, Bob, he might be the youngest, but he ain't lacking game, not one whit. No, sirree, Bob. Soon as the bullet crippled his right arm, he tossed his Colt into the air, caught it in his left hand, spun, snapped a shot at the upstairs window.
Then Brother Jim wheeled in the saddle, dropping his long-barreled Colt, grabbing his shoulder, finally the saddle horn to keep himself from being pitched into the dust.
"Ride out!" I yelled. "Save yourselves!"
"I won't leave you!"
"Ride out, damn you. You ain't leaving nobody!"
I started for my horse.
Dingus come by, jerked the reins from Jim's hands, screaming at Jim to hang on, and they thundered down Division Street. That wasn't the way we planned on lighting out, but we felt certain sure nobody would come out of here alive if we tried to cross the big bridge by the mill.
I had to take my time, keep from getting my head blowed off. Charlie and Buck were down the street, offering some covering fire. I kept one eye on my horse, the other on Brother Bob, still in the corner, by the stairs.
"For God's sake!" It's Bob who was pleading now. "Don't leave me! Don't leave me here!"
"I ain't leaving you," I told my brother.
Only now I spotted this other person, just standing in the street, looking at me. Drunk or a fool. I couldn't tell. He said something, but my ears were ringing pretty bad, and it ain't no language I could savvy no how.
Someone downstairs yelled at him. "Come down here, Nicolaus!"
But Nicolaus wasn't listening. A bullet clipped my hat, and that's when my patience was shot. Nicolaus jerked his finger at me; over the barking dogs, screaming horses, gunshots, and everything else, I heard him laughing at me. The son-of-a-bitch was laughing at me.
So I shot the bastard in the head with the .32.
He fell down the stairs, rolled down toward the basement.
Another fair-skinned face popped up from the stairs, eyes wide, and I pointed the Moore at him. "Get back down, you son-of-a-bitch, or I'll kill you, too!"
Me? Thomas Coleman Younger, the fellow who had told everyone we wouldn't shed no innocent blood. Me? I'd just shot an unarmed citizen in the head. 'Course, Clell Miller had practically died in my arms, and I'd just seen my two brothers get bad shot, seen my pard Frank Buck James take a hit in his leg. I was smarting some, too, from a big slug in my left hip. No excuse, though. I can't put the blame on anyone but me, 'cause it was me that shot that fellow. Shot him for no reason, other than he-like the rest of them Minnesotans in Northfield-just wouldn't listen to me.
Like Bob wouldn't listen back in Missouri when I told him this was a damned fool plan.
Bob was screaming again. "Cole! Cole! Don't you leave me, Cole, for God's sake, don't you leave me here alone!"
"Bud!" Frank's shouting from down the street. "Get the hell out of there, Bud!"
Rest of it, I see like a dream that just keeps on coming to you, slowly, clearly, too damned real. Just too damned real.
I shoot the Moore dry as I run, pull myself into the saddle, and ride by, shoving the empty .32 in a pocket and drawing my Russian. A bullet takes my hat off. Another clips my left rein. Quickly I draw my knife, slice the other rein close to the bit, will have to guide this gelding with my knees, but he's a good horse. Yet another shot slams into the saddle horn, shredding it loose. This is hell! Using only my legs and spurs to guide my horse, I ride hard, wheel up at the corner, fire a shot at the second-story window in the hotel and another past the bearded horse-killer's head, reach down, and grab Bob's gun belt, pull him up behind me. Hurts like hell, for both my brother and me, but I get her done. Ain't got no choice.
Then I'm spurring my horse, emptying my .44, riding down the street toward Charlie Pitts and Frank James. Dogs bark. Bullets fly overhead. I see some kid, not even in his teens, step out of an alley, wooden pistol in his left hand, a chunk of brick in his right. He lets the brick fly. Damned near tears my nose off, missing it by inches. Then, he's aiming his toy pistol, mouthing: Bang. Bang. Bang....
A few rods up ahead, Charlie doubles over, hit in the shoulder, and finally I've reached them, and we're riding-riding toward Dundas, leaving Clell Miller and Bill Stiles, alias Bill Chadwell, leaving them two boys and I don't know how many dead citizens in the streets of Northfield.
Riding to...where?
Chadwell, he's the one who knowed this land. Sure, we've studied it a mite, but this is a foreign country. Soon we'll be hunted.
We catch up to Dingus and Jim. Keep riding hard, five horses abreast down the street. Five horses. Six men.
Bob almost slips.
"Hang on!" I yell to him. Suddenly I remember something else. "The telegraph wires!" I shout.
"No time!" Dingus yells back, and he's right.
We were supposed to cut the lines, but now the whole damned state will be alerted.
"Hold on, Bob!" I cry.
"For God's...sake...don't...leave me!" He's choking out them words like feeble sobs, crying, whimpering.
"I ain't leaving you, Bob!"
My horse stumbles, and Bob's whining more. "For God's...sake...don't...leave me." I figure he's in shock now, thinks he's still on that damned boardwalk, trading shots with the bastard who killed his horse.
"Which way?" screams Charlie Pitts.
"Just ride, damn it!" Dingus answers. "Ride or get buried!"
CHAPTER TWELVE.
JOHN OLESON.
Nic and I had been share wee taste of spritdryck-mycket liten spritdryck-mycket liten, not much, two, three swallows, no more-when shots began. We down in Bierman's basement, Bierman being man who owned furniture company who had ask me to hang door. Odd. You think furniture company fellow could hang own door, but he hired me, and I am carpenter.
Nicolaus Gustavson, he new to this country, live in Millersburg. Swede, like me, he comes to better place, to start life new, see something better than in old country.
But he like strong drink. Like me. Maybe Nic like it better. I mean...liked... Nic, he dead now. Man killed him. Well, Nic not quite dead, but I told there is nothing to do but wait. So I wait. Wait for Nic to die. Nic, he dead now. Man killed him. Well, Nic not quite dead, but I told there is nothing to do but wait. So I wait. Wait for Nic to die.
He got shot this way. We hear gunshots when we sit on stairs to basement. Nic say something, start up stairs, but I tell him, no. This not right. Something wrong.
Maybe Nic had more drink than before I share spritdryck. spritdryck. He pull away from me. I crawl up steps after him. Beg him to stay down. He pull away from me. I crawl up steps after him. Beg him to stay down.
Nic tell me it some theater show. He has hear of it. I tell him, no. I speak all of this in old language. Nic, he not understand English much. His nephew and others in Millersburg tell me this because too much spritdryck spritdryck Nic drink. Maybe so. Nic drink. Maybe so.
"Nic," I plead to him. "This real."
Mr. Manning, I see, fire big rifle. It boom. Mr. Manning, he no in theater company. Own hardware store. Mr. Ames, big government man, he run up beside Mr. Manning. I see that Mr. Manning has killed hast hast in front of bank. Other men, strangers in town, keep shooting. in front of bank. Other men, strangers in town, keep shooting.
"Nic...Nic! They rob bank."
"Nej," Nic tell me. He wave me off. Call me Nic tell me. He wave me off. Call me dumbom. dumbom.
"Brottslings!" I point at mounted men who thunder past. I point at mounted men who thunder past.
"Get off the street," shout one, "you sons-of-bitches!"
I almost soil myself.
"Feg stackare," Nic tell me, and he laugh. Nic tell me, and he laugh.
I climb down stairs, cringing at whine of bullets. Men curse. Feg stackare? Feg stackare? I no coward, but nor I I no coward, but nor I dumbom. dumbom. I screw open flask, have long drink. I screw open flask, have long drink.
How much time pass? I know not. Seem hours, but only minutes, ja. ja. Nic yell again at me, still calling me Nic yell again at me, still calling me feg stackare, dumbom feg stackare, dumbom, and I climb slowly steps, like cat. Nic, he berusad. berusad. Stinking drunk, like they say here. Not from my flask, though. He point again, laughing loudly. Now I see two men in long coats worn by cattlemen. I see them in streets, one near us, other toward corner of square. Another man, he cry out, hiding under stairs, throw his pistol into air, catch it with other arm. He shoot at window in hotel. Stinking drunk, like they say here. Not from my flask, though. He point again, laughing loudly. Now I see two men in long coats worn by cattlemen. I see them in streets, one near us, other toward corner of square. Another man, he cry out, hiding under stairs, throw his pistol into air, catch it with other arm. He shoot at window in hotel.
More curses. Dogs bark. Men gallop past us. Bullets whine. Feel hot.
"Nic!" I yell.
Then I see man, he crouch, he fire, he yell at Nic: "Get down, you son-of-a-bitch!"
Nic, he cannot understand, but I know it not his no good English. Two men dead. Hast Hast dead. Guns. Shouts. Cursing. That language clear enough. No act this is. Get down! But, Nic, he drunk. dead. Guns. Shouts. Cursing. That language clear enough. No act this is. Get down! But, Nic, he drunk.
I see Nic laugh at highwayman. I see man's cold eyes flame with anger. He cusses. He shoot Nic in head, and Nic, he fall down stairs, roll past me. For some reason, I look up, maybe to see if man, if he come to shoot me, too.
He see me. He yells: "Get back down, you son-of-a-bitch, or I'll kill you, too!"
I come down. All way down. I bang on door to Bierman's, but it locked. I bang and bang. And then I hear no more shots, and when I look up, Nic, he gone.
Slowly I climb stairs into streets. Men and boys, they point down Division Street, but that way I see nothing. I look around. Two men on street, dead. Hast Hast dead. Some men run into bank. Mr. Manning and Mr. Ames, they walk slowly. Others run. To bank. To livery. To dead men. dead. Some men run into bank. Mr. Manning and Mr. Ames, they walk slowly. Others run. To bank. To livery. To dead men.
"We need a posse!" someone yells.
"Get a telegraph off to Dundas. That's where they're headed!"
"They shot Alonzo Bunker!"
"I heard. How is he?"
"With the doctor now."
"Somebody go fetch his wife!"
Wheeler boy, one studying to become doktor doktor, he step out of hotel, holding big long rifle in arms. He yell at some boys standing over body of one of dead brottsling. brottsling.
"By God," come cry from bank. "Joe Heywood...he's been murdered!"
I remember Nic. Maybe I am drunk, too, no? No, I think it is just fear.
"Nic! Nicolaus Gustavson! Where are you?" I cry out for him in English, in Swedish. No answer.
Someone point toward Cannon River, by mill pond. "The Swede run off that way!" he yells.
"Tack," say I, and I hurry to river. say I, and I hurry to river.
There, I find Nic. His head all bloody, and he try washing blood off his face. I cannot believe he dead not.
"Nic," I tell him. I grab him by his arm, pull him from water's edge. He look at me. He vomit.
I wrap his arm around my shoulder. Nic, he sob. I tell him he will be fine, that we must find doktor doktor, and lead him to Norske Hotel. It where newcomers from old country stay often. Nic, he stayed there. I stayed there. By then, Nic, he asleep. Other men help me, they carry him to bed. Doktor Doktor look at me, look at Nic. look at me, look at Nic.
I wait.
Doktor, he say Nic will die. "The bullet fractured his skull, pierced his brain. There is nothing I can do, nothing anyone can do."