Charley said in a constrained voice, “This is mysterious.”

Martha poured water into a tumbler and turned with it near her mouth. “It’s just a guess on my part.” She sipped water and put the tumbler down. “Mr. Craig is an attorney and a Kansas City police commissioner; has an office in the Times Building. Dick said he was going to give Mattie a Christmas gift, but my guess is he’s actually going to see Mr. Craig and give him you two for the reward.”

Bob bent into the sitting room and craned to see the stairs. Jesse was apparently motionless somewhere above them, letting his fancies run like red-eyed ferrets, letting the experienced air educate his senses. Bob could just make out his sister’s words as she informed Charley about the governor’s reward, about plea bargaining and immunity, about exoneration. She sipped water and told him Craig could only negotiate for Jackson County, so she and Bob were considering a visit with Governor Crittenden to see if he couldn’t guarantee the Ford brothers wouldn’t be prosecuted—in exchange for that they’d promise the governor to help him capture Jesse James.

Bob leaned his back against the kitchen doorframe and saw Charley contemplating his toes, his face temporarily sixty years old. “Charley?” Bob whispered.

His brother raised his brown eyes.

“You can forget about Wood Hite and about Jesse getting back at us. You won’t go to jail for your train robberies. And you’ll be a rich man come spring.”

“You’re both talking too fast for me. I can’t get it straight in my mind.”

Martha said, “Just let us take care of it then.”

They listened to the crump of Jesse’s slow descent on the staircase and Bob started to move out of the kitchen.

Charley said, “He’ll kill us if he catches wind of it. He’ll cut our throats in our sleep. He’s already put away Ed Miller. Said so like it was something piddly he’d done.”

Bob sauntered into the sitting room and saw Jesse crouched on the stairs, scratching his thumbnail on a riser. Jesse considered the nail and then sniffed it. “Is this blood?”

Bob sat nonchalantly in the rocker. “Could be. Clarence Hite was here for a week and never could get the best of that miserable cough; could be he was spitting blood and had himself an accident.”

Jesse rubbed his thumb on the seat of his trousers. “You don’t suppose it’s consumption, do you?”

“Oh, Lord; I hope not. I never gave it a thought.”

“In England they eat lemons. Twelve per day isn’t too few.” Jesse removed his broad hat and attended to the almost inaudible conference near the kitchen stove. “And they sip boiled water at bedtime.” He turned to Bob. “They talking about me?”

Bob rocked and smiled. “Probably. You’re the topic of conversation in every part of the country.”

Jesse extricated himself from his heavy coat and laid it on the sofa with his hat. “Did I ever tell you about meeting Mark Twain?”

“No.”

“He was in this country store and I recognized him, of course, and went over to shake the man’s hand and c

ongratulate him on his good writing. I said, ‘You’re Mark Twain, ain’t you?’ and he nodded yes he was, and I said, ‘Guess you and I are about the greatest in our line.’ He couldn’t very well agree since he didn’t know who I was, so he asks and I say, ‘Jesse James,’ and scoot on out of there. Hear tell he still talks about that. They say you go over to Europe and the only Americans they all know for certain are Mark Twain and yours truly.”

“I’m not surprised.”

Jesse seemed to peer at Bob through a jeweler’s bifocals. “You’ve got a bullet hole in your bedroom door.”

“Oh?”

“Could’ve been put there when old man Harbison ran the place.”

“You never can tell. If you look you’ll find holes in the kitchen too. Gun-cleaning accidents, maybe.”

Jesse batted the Christmas ornaments on a measly spruce that was wired into a tin bucket, and Wilbur came in from the privy, rigorously abrading his sleeves. Jesse asked, “Dick Liddil come by yet?”

“Nope.”

“You know why he hasn’t?”

“Maybe Mattie’s got him on a short leash these days.”

“I’ve got my own theory. I say it’s on account of him and Wood having a run-in like they did in Kentucky. It’s my theory he killed my cousin and he’s scared he’ll meet me here.”

Tags: Ron Hansen Western
Source: readsnovelonline.net