Northfield Part 9

So now I sit by my friend, Nicolaus Gustavson.

I wait him to die.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

HENRY MASON WHEELER.

"Hey, boy, you stop that. Put that pistol down!"

Still in my stocking feet, I raced across Division Street, from the hotel to the body of the man I had killed. This pockmarked kid-I didn't recognize him-held a big Colt's revolver in his hand-a pistol dropped by one of the outlaws, I expect- aiming it at the dead man's face, and I wasn't about to have his body ruined so. As a medical student, I envisioned a much higher calling for this young desperado. And his friend lying up the street, also.

"I said...put it down!" The boy obeyed, started to keep the gun, but J.S. Allen wrenched it from his hand, and told the kid to show some respect.

"Man's dead. He can't hurt you now. And we might need this pistol in the inquest and trial of those murdering b'hoys."

The kid took off running. I made sure he didn't detour toward the other corpse.

"My word," someone said, staring at my handiwork, "look at all that blood."

Another: "Like a hawg killin'."

The man stared at us with unseeing blue eyes, his curly, reddish hair matted in sweat and drying blood, one side of his linen duster soaked in blood. No gun belt, but I remembered one of his companions relieving him of his weaponry. A drummer, visiting from Faribault, bent over the dead man and began going through the pockets of his striped britches, under the pretense of learning the deceased man's name, but I think he just wanted to touch a slain outlaw. The search revealed only a map, a battered Waltham no longer ticking, and 10. Not much to show for his life, I thought. A young man doomed to die an early death because of his outlaw ways. Fate had let me kill him.

"Still can't believe a shoulder shot would kill that poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d," someone else said.

"My bullet severed the subclavian artery," I explained. "No way he could survive. He bled out in seconds."

"Your shot?" The Faribault man looked up, sounding skeptical.

All you did was touch him, I thought to myself with some vehemence and irritation. You certainly didn't kill him. You certainly didn't kill him. I patted the Smith carbine's stock, pointed its barrel at the second-story window at the Dampier House. I patted the Smith carbine's stock, pointed its barrel at the second-story window at the Dampier House.

Dr. Dampier crossed the street now, and he overheard this conversation, came forward, and patted my back, saying: "Brave lad, brave lad. That was some shooting, too."

"Yes," I said, trying to sound immodest.

Nor do I wish this to sound as brag, but I suspected these strangers were up to no good when they rode into town.

Northfield is home. Well, technically, I was born in New Hamps.h.i.+re but have lived twenty of my twenty-two years here. Father runs an apothecary shop on Division Street, and, last year, I was graduated from Carleton College here in town, then went off to Ann Arbor to study medicine at the University of Michigan. Having returned home between semesters, I found myself relaxing in front of Father's store, boots off, whetting my appet.i.te on soda crackers while reading the Rice County Journal Journal with only pa.s.sing interest. with only pa.s.sing interest.

Three strangers rode into town, tethering their mounts to the hitching post in front of the bank, then moved down the street and sat on some boxes in front of the mercantile. One produced a bottle, flask, something, and pa.s.sed it amongst themselves. The first things I noticed were the quality of the horses, the fine saddles, out of place in a farming and milling town like this. The men did not look at home, either. They wore long dusters, b.u.t.toned for the moment, boots, spurs, broad hats. One sported an auburn mustache, a dark-skinned man had a thick mustache and Van d.y.k.e, and the third man, tall, c.o.c.ksure, wore a full beard, evenly cropped. He glanced often at the bank. The dusters, I thought, would be fine to hide sidearms, and I thought to myself-these men bear watching.

From that moment, my eyes did not leave them for more than a few seconds.

A while later, I noticed two other men, also well mounted, coming down the street. They, too, donned long dusters, and, when the first men saw them, the bearded man said something, but the youngest of the trio-the one with the auburn mustache-jumped to his feet and headed for the bank door. The dark man shoved the flask into his pocket, and all three entered the bank, leaving the door open.

Yet not until later did I know with all certainty of their evil intent. The two riders swung off their mounts. One pretended to be adjusting the girth, while the other, puffing a homemade pipe, hurriedly slammed the door shut and stood blocking the entrance. Seconds later, J.S. Allen stepped into the scene.

When the pipe-smoking man rough-handled Mr. Allen, I leaned forward in my chair.

"Father," I called inside, "something is happening!"

Then I saw the pipe-smoking man unb.u.t.ton his duster and draw a huge revolver, cursing at Mr. Allen, who turned and fled, shouting: "Get your guns, boys, the bank's being robbed!"

The men fired, although their shots at this time were aimed at the heavens, and I leaped from my seat. "Robbery!" I yelled. "Robbery!"

"Get inside, you sons-of-b.i.t.c.hes!"

As if on command, three other riders galloped across the iron bridge, yelling like savage Indians, firing their guns this way and that. I leaped from my chair, into the street, still amazed at what I seemed to be witnessing. "They're robbing the bank!" I yelled.

The men in front of the bank turned to me. "Get in," one said, "or we'll kill you!"

Now, since I turned fourteen I have been hunting, and am more than a pa.s.sing shot. I knew I needed to get my hands on a rifle, but my own En-field hung above the door inside my house. Blocks away A bullet smashed into the column beside me, and I realized I'd never make it to my house. Where? Where?

Mr. Allen's hardware store? Perhaps Mr. Manning's? No chance. I'd have to cross the street, now filled with chaos, with galloping outlaws firing pistols, and over to Mill Square. I'd be dead before I got halfway there. Suddenly I remembered the old Army carbine Dr. Dampier had shown me at his hotel. He kept it, he said, and a sack of cartridges behind the counter in the lobby. So I raced to the hotel, hearing gunshots, hoofs, screams, and a booming voice: "Let him go!"

Well, if that man-killer was referring to me, I am grateful they let me go.

Inside, a stunned Dr. Dampier did not comprehend the situation.

"They're robbing the bank!" I told him. "I need that rifle of yours. And the sh.e.l.ls!"

"Son," the kindly man said, "they're just playacting. Part of some troupe coming through, performing at the Opera House...."

"I tell you they are robbing the bank, sir. Please!"

I imagine the bullet that shattered one of his windowpanes changed his mind, and he quickly retrieved the carbine.

"Cartridges!" I demanded. "And caps."

He moved slowly, put two on the counter, then another. "I can't find the danged sack," he said, but handed me a tube of percussion caps.

"I'll take these." I raced to the front door, stepping outside, met instantly with a shot that sang past my left ear.

"Get back inside, you Yankee b.a.s.t.a.r.d! Stay inside, or I'll blow your d.a.m.ned head off!"

Good advice, I thought, and retreated deeper into the Dampier House. What had I been thinking, stepping onto the streets like that? Upstairs! I bounded the steps three at a time, knowing that a perch on the second floor would provide good cover and a clear aim.

The weapon was an old Smith breechloader, .52 caliber, firing foil and paper cartridges with a percussion cap. Dr. Dampier had carried it with him during the War of the Rebellion. When I reached the second story, I charged into a room, opened a window, and took in the scene. Five men on the streets, all in dusters, shooting, cursing, screaming. A man raced across the street with his son and took cover inside Eldred's Confectionary. Another man climbed out from the stairs leading to the bas.e.m.e.nt offices of Bierman's furniture store. Just stood there like a dolt, either drunk or in shock.

For a moment, I simply stared at the battlefield below, seeking out a target, but these men moved rapidly. Elias Stacy, I believe, drew first blood when he charged like a lancer, lifted a shotgun, and blew the pipe-smoking man from his saddle.

The outlaw landed on the boardwalk, yelling something, and Elias pivoted and beat a hasty retreat, diving behind the crates in front of the mercantile while a scraggly bearded fellow on a high-stepping horse galloped past and fired, splintering one of the boxes but missing young Stacy.

I fired twice, rus.h.i.+ng my first shot, missing my second by inches at some pa.s.sing rider. The third cartridge I dropped, and it broke on the floor, spilling powder on the hardwood. Needing more ammunition, I darted out of the room and met Dr. Dampier on the staircase. He handed me a flour sack, and I grabbed it and returned to my fortification, withdrawing another foil and paper cartridge, working it into the breech, capping the nipple, looking out the window, taking it all in again, still hard to fathom.

A man in a duster lays sprawled down Division Street. Men have left the bank. The streets are chaos. Gunsmoke. I hear dogs barking, the musketry of savage fight. It's like no hunting trip I've ever been on.

A rider galloped past, cursing, snapping me from my state of shock, and I fired, missing, but scaring the h.e.l.l out of him. And then I saw my chance. The pipe-smoking man, who had miraculously survived Elias Stacy's shotgun charge, was back in his saddle. I took aim, but he bent over, and I cursed, holding my rifle steady. He adjusted his stirrup, and, when he straightened himself, s.h.i.+fting his revolver in his hand, I squeezed the trigger.

A good hunter knows when he has scored a hit, and I did not hesitate, swinging down to reload and recap the Smith. When I looked out again, the pipe-smoking man, who had long ago spit out his pipe, was down, being attended by another outlaw, but I had no clear shot at him. Another outlaw I spied, by the corner stairs, aiming his pistol, trying to get a clear shot at Mr. Manning. I chose him for my next target, drew a bead, let out my breath, fired again.

This time, foolishly, I tried to watch, rather than take cover and reload. This mistake almost got me killed, for, amazingly, my bullet slammed into the outlaw's right arm, but he tossed his revolver in the air, caught it with his left hand, whirled- somehow must have spotted me in the window- and let loose with a shot. It shattered a pane, inches from my head.

I ducked, reloading, cursing my stupidity.

When I chanced another look outside, I found the man I had wounded in the right arm, screaming something, still by the stairs. Another man, the one who had been adjusting the saddle girth, mounted his horse. I'd kill him next.

Some people, I believe, are blessed with the armor of the Lord. I fired. Mr. Manning fired. Others shot at this scoundrel. The man's hat flew off, and I am certain my shot tore his saddle horn asunder, while yet another clipped one of his reins. Previously the man had been wounded in the leg, but he did not act like a suffering soul. No, he drew a lethal Bowie knife with one hand, sliced the other rein with the blade, then kneed and spurred his brave horse to his wounded comrade.

I am a man who admires courage, and this man showed more grit than anyone I have ever seen. He got his horse to stop and wheel at the precise moment it reached the stairs. I fired again, but still G.o.d's armor protected this brigand, and, with amazement, I watched him grab the wounded man's gun belt and lift him into the saddle behind him. Then, without benefit of reins or a saddle horn, riders and steed exploded down Division Street, toward Dundas.

Like that, it was over.

I grabbed the sack of ammunition in one hand, the Smith in the other, and hurried downstairs, outside.

"Grosser Gottl" a gray-haired German lady cried out. She stood in front of Gress's shoe store, where she broke out sobbing, pointing, not at the dead men, but at the horse Mr. Manning had killed. a gray-haired German lady cried out. She stood in front of Gress's shoe store, where she broke out sobbing, pointing, not at the dead men, but at the horse Mr. Manning had killed.

I remained standing guard over the body of the young outlaw I had felled when I heard news that Alonzo Bunker, the teller, had been shot and was being treated by a doctor. Then someone yelled inside the bank that Joe Heywood, acting cas.h.i.+er, had been murdered.

The street became a frenzy of activity once again. Men and boys stepped forward with their weapons, from pocket pistols and fowling pieces to rocks and wooden toys. I noticed one man, a coward to be sure, climb sheepishly out of the ice house, his hair and clothes covered with sawdust and mud, and attempt to sneak away toward the river. A mother rushed her child away from the carnage. Dogs came from all directions, sniffing at the corpses.

Conversations broke out about an inquest, about the dead men, who they might be, about the robbers who had escaped. Others still stood around as if dazed, confused, unable to understand what had happened-how long ago had it started? I checked my watch. Not even ten minutes ago.

Others cried.

"We'll put the bodies of these vermin in the granary for now," one man said.

Ira Summer, who had opened his photography studio in town shortly after the war, said: "Per-haps it might be best to photograph these two specimens before too long."

Naturally there were rumors, flying as wild as some of those gunshots only minutes earlier.

The Swede that had been shot had recognized one of the robbers....

The outlaws were riding down Division Street to kill Governor Ames's family in revenge. (This got Mr. Ames racing down the street to the huge mansion he shared with his family and parents.) The James-Younger Gang was behind this. (That struck me as pure poppyc.o.c.k...for the time being.) "We need a d.a.m.ned posse!" Mr. Allen shouted. "Get a wire to Dundas. Maybe we can stop them!"

"How much money did they get?" another voice asked.

"d.a.m.ned little," banker Frank Wilc.o.x answered in a cracking voice as he was helped outside. "Joe wouldn't open the safe."

Jack Hayes quickly mounted the horse of the bushwhacker I had killed, which a kid had fetched after catching it in front of Mr. Cook's place on Fourth, and Dwight Davis rode toward us, mounted, ironically, on the other dead bandit's horse, which he had recovered at Northfield Livery. "We'll follow them," Mr. Hayes said. "Try not to let them out of our sight."

"Don't get too close, boys," George Taylor cautioned. "They are desperate men. They have laid Joe Heywood low and shot that Swede from Millersburg."

"What about Joe Heywood?" Mr. Manning asked. "Someone should inform his wife. And we should get his poor body home."

"Best clean it up first," said a pale gentleman, rolling a cigarette in front of the bank door. "Sons-of-b.i.t.c.hes blew his brains out."

"Take my buggy," Mr. Davis said, pointing toward the livery "You boys catch up, soon as you can get a posse together."

With that, Mr. Davis and Mr. Hayes took off in pursuit of the outlaws.

"We need to send a telegraph to Sheriff Barton down in Faribault," Mr. Allen suggested. "And Minneapolis. And Saint Paul. We must trap those desperadoes!"

"Let's get a d.a.m.ned posse up, now, boys!" Mr. Taylor shouted. "Time's a-wasting. You with us, Henry?"

I will admit that I did not have a strong desire to ride with the posse, but there is a matter of duty. I had two. "All right," I said, but detecting my friend Clarence Persons, standing near Skinner and Drew's Drug Store, I shouted at him: "See if you can get the bodies!"

Excellent cadavers are hard to come by in medical school.

They say up to 1,000 men took part in the search for the Northfield robbers over the following weeks, and I pride myself that I served as one of those, albeit not for long. The Northfield posse was ill prepared, and I cannot be called an exception. One gentleman turned back after losing his dentures. Another lost his gun in the Cannon River. At least neither Princ.i.p.al Mohn, nor posse leader Mr. Taylor, would allow the young boys at St. Olaf to join us.

Twenty-one rode out of Northfield, Mr. Taylor and four others leading the way in a double rig, the rest of us on horseback. We caught up with Mr. Hayes and Mr. Davis at Millersburg, and followed the trail to s.h.i.+eldsville.

As for me? I felt mighty foolish riding an old plug mule in my stocking feet, gripping the Smith carbine in my hand with the sack of cartridges tied around my horn.

The clouds opened shortly thereafter, a downpour that would continue most of September, and I soon found myself soaked through to the bone. I had no slicker, not even a hat. Luckily my mule gave out (so did, I), and with no great reluctance I returned to Northfield the following day, changed into dry clothes, ate a filling supper, and sought out my friend Clarence Persons.

After a coroner's inquest and exquisite photography by Mr. Sumner, and a while the following afternoon to let the trainloads of tourists come and gawk at the dead men, the two outlaws had been buried in our town cemetery's Potter's Field shortly before my return, but the constable and undertaker had promised to bury them shallow. Grave robbery is not a n.o.ble endeavor, but I am a medical student and I killed one of those fiends. I figure I deserved him more than anybody else, and n.o.body was claiming the man Mr. Manning had slain. As I have previously mentioned, those men had a higher calling than outlawry.

On the evening of September 8th, my friends Clarence Persons and Charles Dampier hired out a buckboard and a Negro, and we began our nocturnal business at Northfield Cemetery. The Negro did not care for it, but did his duty, although he would not leave the wagon. Charles and Clarence lacked much enthusiasm for the idea, as well, but the ground was soft from all that rain-it still drizzled as we set to work around midnight- the graves fresh, and, as the undertaker and constable had promised, shallow.

A dirty, detestable job, but we worked quickly, and few people inspect graveyards on rainy nights after midnight. Our conspiracy went undetected. We dug up the bodies, stuffed them into barrels marked Paint Paint, and had the Negro drive them to Minneapolis depot, where the "paint" was s.h.i.+pped to the University of Michigan Medical School in Ann Arbor.

On September 10th, I attended the funeral of Joseph Lee Heywood, with most of Northfield, but my mind, I admit, found itself weeks ahead, wondering what would happen back in Ann Arbor.

To answer that question, dear reader, I will skip ahead. Well, I became something of a hero when I returned to school in October. Even the Ann Arbor Courier Courier proudly advertised my coup. proudly advertised my coup.

The Students of the Medical Department Will This Winter Have the Pleasure of Carving Up TWO GENUINE ROBBERS!!!,.

being members of the Northfield, Minnesota gang.

The two cadavers were first-rate, impressing not only my fellow students, but also my professors, who singled me out for providing the piece de resistance. piece de resistance.

"A prime, young specimen," one cla.s.smate said after we had worked on the pipe-smoking man. "Practically flawless. How, pray tell, did you obtain such a corpse in this remarkable condition?" With pridefulness, I answered-"I shot him!"- savoring the startled expression on the young gent's face. prime, young specimen," one cla.s.smate said after we had worked on the pipe-smoking man. "Practically flawless. How, pray tell, did you obtain such a corpse in this remarkable condition?" With pridefulness, I answered-"I shot him!"- savoring the startled expression on the young gent's face.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.