Mr. Howard Goes West By: G.C. Stevens
Clay Hollister, a civil war veteran trying to start a new life in frontier Iowa, finds that the war in the west is still raging on, when the unreconstuced rebel, Jessee James and his gang rides into Iowa, derails, a train, kills an Engineer and robs the express car and passengers. Clay then joins the posse to track and capture the James gang!
Spring was just a few weeks ahead, the weather in Peoria had got a little better. Clay was still recovering from his wounds, remembered that today was the anniversary of Lee's surrender at Appormattox Virginia. He reccalled the great relief he felt knowing that the confederates had finally been defeated in the east. He had served in a Union regiment during the war and was in in the trans-Mississippi portion of the war with the 54th Illinois. He had seen the elephant at Vicksburg, but ended up in Arkansas and was wounded at the Battle of Ashley's Station. He'd been shot with a pistol ball in the upper thigh, and that piece of lead caused him a of mess pain. It was only in recent months when he finally started to feel completely healed. He was shipped back home to Peoria Illinois and he was getting damn restless to move west and considered the thought of buying a ranch. Directly west was either Missouri or Iowa and Clay had enough of of the south and knew well enough about the war in Western Missouri and he had faced plenty raging rebels. He had family west of Des Moines Iowa, west of the two rivers area. As the weeks warmed up he got on a train of the Rock Island and Pacific Railroad, that took him all the way west to Adair Iowa It was there that Clay's brother John, or as Clay called him Big John, who a was farmer in Adair County, and Clay thought that he could be a big help to John and the farm. Clay climbed off the train, and his feet hit the wooden platform,
The air was crisp and the sun was setting on a clear an hilly horizon. there were about ten or fifteen people there. But he immediately recognized big John. They shook hands, both were choked up as they hadn't seen each other since sixity two, when Clay joined the union army. John said; You know, Clay, this here sky in Iowa has got more stars than there are cattle in Texas. Clay laughed, That's a lot of stars, John. But I reckon there ain't nothin' like the sight of a million stars to make you feel mighty small... Small indeed, said John, Makes ya think, don't it? 'Bout life, 'bout choices... I'm glad I got my farm. Winters are a little rough here. But the soil is good. Clay nodded... Choices... like choosin' to ride out here 'stead of stayin' back in town with all the ruckus. John agreed, Yeah, but out here, it's quiet. Peaceful. Just you, me, the coyotes, and the coyotes howlin' at the moon. Speak of the devil, there goes one now, as he pointed out across the open rolling plain. They're free, ain't they? Said Big john, Nothin' to chain 'em down, except maybe their hunger. Clay laughed, Well brother, That's freedom for ya. But freedom's got its price. And a lot of us gave our lives to make men free. Now We're out here 'cause we chose this life. Not everyone would. True, said John But would you trade it? All this... As he gestured to the west. for a life back in Illinois? Clay shook his head, Not on your life, John. I'd rather be out here with the dust, the heat, and the stars than cooped up any day. And seeing you again, makes it all worth it. Big John smiled, I figured as much, but You're a cowboy through and through, Clay. Just like our pa was. And you ain't far behind, John. We're cut from the same cloth.Said Clay, Cowboys, with the land in our blood. It was getting dark and Johns farm and family were a half a days ride to Johns farm which was near Battle creek. We best camp near here tonight said John, the war in Missouri aint quite over, there's still bandits that come across the border in Iowa. Ever heard of Jesse James? I sure have said Clay. He was with Quatrill and that murderer Bloody Bill Anderson under the black flag.
John moved his wagon to a tree line, set up a lean-too, started a fire, and boiled up some coffee, He poured Clay a cup, and called for a toast; To the land, then. And to many more nights like this one. It's gonna be a brisk one said Clay. To the land, and to freedom. Said Big john.They clinked their tin cups together, the sound echoing softly into the night.You reckon we'll see the day when all this land's fenced up, no more open range? Asked Clay.Maybe, said John, But that day's not today. And for now, we ride free. Long as there's stars up there, Clay, there'll always be room for cowboys and Sod Busters down here. The conversation drifted into silence as the fire crackled, the only sound accompanying their thoughts, their dreams, and the endless expanse of the open plain before them..
Taking care of a farm, bulding barns, tending to livestock, and bustin sod, isnt for the weak. The months moved on as Clay and Big John tended to natures needs, and feeding family. But despite the peaceful days, it seemed like the war between the states would not subside in the west. Reports started coming in from southwest Missouri of mayhem, robbery and murder, as unreconstuced confederate guerillas, by the name of Jesse and Frank James, along with a host of other outlaws, cattle rustlers and polecats were on the move. Missouri suffered from a case of post civil war rancor between neigbors, as Missouri became known as the “outlaw state” and it seemed that some of these bad feelings were spreading into southern Iowa.
Barely a week went on by when Clay and John didnt hear about another bank robbery conducted by the outlaw gangs. It was the summer of 1873, when a mounted rider galloped up to the Hollister farm and the excited rider was sounding the alarm. Someone had robbed the train near Adair Iowa, which was only about eight or nine miles from the homestead. Clay approached the rider, “whats all the yelling about?” The rider told them, “Five or six men derailed the train outside of Adair, they killed the engineer, roughed up the passengers mighty bad, and robbed them all too. He explained that the lawman from Des Moines had been telegraphed and they were looking to get up a posse to track the scoundrels who committed the fiendish crime. Big John Leaned against the doorframe, and watched as Clay went and grabbed his revolver, John knew Clay well, and knew he wouldnt hesitate in joining up with the posse. AreYou sure you want to go after these men John, ask Clay? I ain't got much choice, John. These border bandits and ex-guerillas, they terrorized enough folks; it's time they faced justice. John Shaking his head, I know..... They are dangerous. Maybe you should wait for some of the other deputies to join you. Pulling on his duster, Can't afford to wait. Said Clay. Every day they are free, more people could get hurt. Besides, they are probably in Missour'ah already. Fewer folks, less chance of bystanders getting caught in the crossfire.John:, His concern evident, and what if he gets the drop on you? You've got a brother here that would heap big miss you. So would my kids. Clay; Pauses, looking at his brother with a serious expression, Retorted, I know John. I've thought about Ellie and the kids plenty. But it's my duty. Can't let fear of what might happen stop me from doing what's right. John: (Sighs, nodding reluctantly) Just... come back in one piece, alright? Mom would be spinning in her grave if anything happened to you. Clay: A slight smile breaking through his stern look, I'll do my best. Keep an eye on your family for me, will you? Clay: Clapping John on the shoulder You know I will. And, be careful. The guerillas are sly as a fox and kill people at the drop of hat Clay: Adjusting his hat, ready to leave, I will. You take care of yourself, Big John. See you soon. John: Watched as Clay mounted his horse. See you soon, brother.Clay nodded, spurred his horse, and rodes off into the setting sun, dust kicking up behind him as John watched until Clay out of sight.
Alias Mr. Howard
By the late 1870s, Jesse James was one of the most wanted men in America. He and his gang, which was made up of different outlaws at different times, held a reign of terror throughout Missouri, Iowa and south to the Mexican border. They were long riders working under the guise of different identities, the best known alias of Jesse James was Mr. Howard, it was probably one of many identities. Jesse was an excellent intelligence operative, soldier and prolific outlaw. He, and his brother Frank were experts at deception, sabatoge and armed robbery. They managed to blend into the communities and the landscape, But maintained a criminal intelligence network.
The shadow of his past always loomed large. He was selective about whom he let close, always suspicious that someone might hand him over to the authorities for the substantial reward on his head. There was no pardons given to the Missouri Guerillas after the war. Jesse was a man without country and hated anything that was republican or yankee. He was indeed A desperate outlaw. And now there was a posse of over two hundred armed deputies entering the pursuit to apprehend him for the fiendish crime near Adair Iowa. And Clay Hollister was destined to be one of those men. Clay rode south toward Bear Grove Iowa. There was a bunk house there run by an old woman said to be the widow of a union soldier. As Clay rode near the house. The old woman came out with a shotgun, her gray hair messed, wearing a paisly dress and neckerchief . She yelled ya'll stop right there stranger. Clay shouted out to her, “I'm Clay Hollister, my brother has a farm near Battle creek maam, please don't shoot” I'm looking for the Posse, thats look'n for the train robbers. The old woman shouted back at Clay, “That notorious outlaw struck again, this time at Adair, They came through here two days ago, leaving behind a trail of dust. A posse of lawmen men left here just an hour ago, they headed south towards Missour'ah.I told them that had been here. I fed them a meal and let them sleep here, not knowing who they were. Clay reared in his saddle and headed south as fast as he could move. The fresh trail, of men and horses, as large number to be sure was easy to follow. It wasn't long befor he caught up to the posse, he carefully approached them and met with Sheriff Bringold. His name was “Bringold.” A man known for his sharp aim and sharper wit, and a connection to the railroad bosses, gathered his posse. There was Jim "Longshot" Malone, who could shoot the wings off a fly at fifty paces; Henry "Bear" O'Connell, whose strength was as legendary as his appetite; young Billy Turner, and now Clay Hollister. All eager to prove their mettle. Together, they formed a group as diverse in their skills as the land was vast they saddled their horses, the air was thick with the promise of adventure and the scent of danger. "We'll catch him this time," Sheriff Bringold declared, his voice firm. "Jesse James will dance at the end of a rope for what he's done."The posse set out, following the tracks that led north, towards the rugged terrain where the James-Younger Gang often vanished like smoke. The trail was clear at first, hoof marks in the soft earth, a broken branch here, a discarded bandana there. But as the sun began to dip, painting the sky with hues of orange and red, the tracks became scarcer, the landscape wilder.
They rode through the night, guided by the moon and their resolve. They knew Jesse was cunning, perhaps even enjoying the chase. His legend grew with each pursuit, his name whispered in fear and awe by both lawmen and outlaws alike.
Dawn broke over the horizon, revealing the silhouette of a lone horseman in the distance. The posse spurred their mounts, the thrill of the chase igniting their spirits. But as they closed in, they found not Jesse, but one of his decoys, a man with a laugh as mocking as the wind through the willows. "Jesse's a ghost," the decoy cackled before they could apprehend him, "and you'll never catch a ghost!"
Undeterred, the posse continued, their path now leading them through dense forests and across babbling brooks. The landscape whispered secrets of Jesse's escapes, each turn in the trail a testament to his elusiveness.
Days turned into a relentless pursuit, with the posse growing weary yet more determined. They encountered allies and enemies, tales of Jesse's charity to the poor juxtaposed with his ruthlessness. The moral lines blurred under the hot sun, making Jesse not just an outlaw but a symbol of resistance against the encroaching might of big banks and railroads.
Finally, near the banks of the Missouri River, they caught sight of him. Jesse James, atop his horse, the sun glinting off his revolver. Under the blistering sun of a late Missouri afternoon, a posse of lawmen, closed in on a dilapidated barn where Jesse James had been spotted. The air was thick with tension as the six riders dismounted, their boots kicking up dust that mingled with the scent of gunpowder lingering from past skirmishes. Jesse, ever the cunning outlaw, had holed up inside with a pair of revolvers and a sawed-off shotgun, his sharp eyes peering through the slats. The lawmen fanned out, taking cover behind a rusted plow and a splintered wagon, their hands steady on their Colts as Tate barked orders to flush the bandit out.The first shots rang out like thunder, splintering the barn’s weathered wood as Jesse fired with deadly precision, clipping Deputy Hargrove’s hat and sending him sprawling behind the wagon. The posse returned fire, their bullets chewing through the barn’s facade, while Jesse darted between shadows, his laughter cutting through the chaos like a taunt. Tate, grizzled and unrelenting, lobbed a lit kerosene lantern through a gaping hole, igniting a pile of dry hay in a burst of flame. Smoke billowed as Jesse cursed, his silhouette staggering against the orange glow, but he wasn’t done—his shotgun roared, catching a young deputy in the shoulder and dropping him with a cry that echoed across the plains.As the fire spread, the barn groaned under the heat, and Jesse made his move, bursting through the back wall in a hail of splinters and lead. The posse wheeled around, guns blazing, but Jesse was a phantom, weaving through the haze with a gambler’s luck. Tate charged after him, emptying his revolver as Jesse vaulted onto a stolen mare and spurred her into a gallop, dust swirling in his wake. The lawmen stood panting, their quarry slipping away once more, the crackle of the burning barn a bitter soundtrack to their defeat. Jesse James, bloodied but unbroken, vanished into the horizon, leaving the posse with nothing but smoke and a story to tell. There was a standoff, the air tense with the possibility of gunfire. But Jesse, ever the trickster, tipped his hat, smiled, and with a swift turn of his horse, vanished into the foliage.
"We'll meet again, Sheriff," his voice echoed back, a promise or a threat, it was hard to tell.The posse returned to Gallatin empty-handed but richer in experience. Sheriff Tucker knew this wouldn't be the last they saw of Jesse James. The legend would grow, as would the tales of the men who chased him. In the Wild West, where the line between hero and villain was as thin as the horizon, the pursuit of Jesse James was just another chapter in the saga of law and lawlessness. And so, the story of the posse's pursuit of Jesse James ended not with a capture but with the enduring myth of the man who could never quite be caught.