Northfield by Johnny D. Boggs Page B

breechloader un-fired. “I can’t,” I told Governor Ames. “Not the horses. I…just….”
    “It is all right, Anselm,” the governor said soothingly. “I fear I could not kill a horse, either. So kill the men who ride them.”
    That I felt I could do.
    “Take careful aim,” the governor coached.
    I stepped into the street again.
    Up the road about a block, perhaps 130 or 140 rods away, I spied one of the outlaws, popping shots at our townsmen, hiding behind the neck of his horse. He was one of the few clean-shaven ruffians raiding our town, and I drew a bead on where I thought he might lift his body and give me a clear shot. When he did appear, just for a second, I squeezed the trigger, thought I saw him flinch, and leaped back behind the wall to reload.
    Governor Ames smiled. “Great shooting, Anselm,” he said. “We could have used a man with your eye and pluck during the rebellion.”
    My mouth felt too dry to even attempt a response. My hands trembled with such force it’s a wonder I hit anything that day.
    “Chadwell! Stiles!” one of the outlaws yelled. “Stiles! Bill! Bill! Christ A’mighty!”
    I worked another shell into the Rolling Block’s chamber, returned to my position, and saw the clean-shaven man lying dead in the dust. His horse trotted along casually, turned down Fifth Street as if heading for the Northfield Livery. Only then did I know for certain that my bullet had flown true.
    I felt no compunction, no need for penitence (except, much later, for the horse I had slain), not even fear, not any more. I fired again, ducked back, heard the man with the goatee pounding on the door with the butt of his revolver, screaming: “For God’s sake, boys, come out! It’s getting too hot for us!”
    The man with the goatee limped to his horse, swung into the saddle, firing, shouting at his rowdy friends inside the bank to finish their business. The man Elias Stacy had shot in the face with the shotgun had also remounted.
    Horses thundered past us again. Smoke burned my eyes. My ears pounded from the roar of the battle.
    Then a cry came from a voice I did not recognize, but it had to be from one of my neighbors.
    “They’ve shot Alonzo Bunker!”

C HAPTER T EN
C HARLIE P ITTS
    I’d ride through hell for Capt’n Younger.
    Best friend I ever had, but then, when I think about it, I never met many men I’d label a pard, and damned fewer who’d call me his pal. Capt’n Cole, though, I reckon he’d ride through hell for me, too.
    So when that pip-squeak of a bank teller scrambled to his feet and dived through the flimsy back door, I let out with an oath and took after him, mad more at myself than that paper-collar man, mad for letting the capt’n down.
    ’Course, it was young Bob who was supposed to have been watching him at the time. I had just stepped out of the vault to holler something at Frank when I heard the teller’s shoes pounding the wood floor and caught him out of the corner of my eye. “Shit!” I yelled, and Bob whirled, yelling something stupid. I ran after the fool Yank, snapped a shot, jerking the trigger at the last moment because I recollected that Capt’n Cole didn’t want us to shoot anyone iffen we could help it. ’Course, with all those shots coming from out in the streets, I wasn’t so certain nobody was following the capt’n’s orders no more.
    “Stop that bastard, Charlie!” Frank James hollered at me, but I was already chasing the teller. He had pushed through the blinds, gone down the steps, and was raising dust through the back alley. Only twenty feet ahead of me.
    “Kill that son-of-a-bitch!” Bob’s voice boomed inside the bank.
    Which is what I figured, now, I had to do.
    I raised my Smith & Wesson, pulled the trigger, figuring the capt’n’s rules didn’t apply no more that things had gone to hell. Nailed that running son-of-a-bitch in the back, through the shoulder blade, heard him gasp, saw him stagger, blood spurting, but damned iffen that