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Trails Of The Dime Novel

By Terry Burns

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The Daring Daylight Train Robbery

Rick Dayton thought, My name is no name for an adventure writer. I need something strong, adventurous . . . manly. It has to be a name that SOUNDS like action and excitement. It has to announce that I am someone who has seen it all, done it all, and spits in the very face of danger.
He sat deep in thought for several minutes as he waited for his train. Then it hit him, "Texas Jack."
The lady on the bench next to him jumped as if she had been poked with a sharp stick. She turned wide eyes toward him and said, "Pardon?"
Rick removed his hat. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you, Ma'am. I merely said I'm Texas Jack, an author, and I'm on my way West to work on my new book."
She gave a small nod of acknowledgement. "How exciting."
He lifted his chin, basking in the glow of her attention. "Yes, it is, and dangerous too, of course."
"Oh, my."
It suddenly occurred to him that he needed a pipe. To present the right image an author should have a pipe. No, that's not exactly right, a cigar. A western author should have an ever-present cigar. He thought it would make him look older, too.
Rick tipped his hat to the lady as he got up. "I'm sorry, Ma'am, but as much as I'm enjoying your company, I find I am quite without a cigar. I wouldn't have smoked one in your presence without permission, of course, but even to be able to have it in one's mouth, unlit or not, can be a comfort. I need to get over to the shop and stock up before the train leaves."
Rick went to the tobacconists, and purchased a couple of boxes of good Cuban cigars. Unable to wait, he immediately bit the end off one of the dark, tightly wrapped stogies, and lit it up. The noxious smoke brought on a coughing fit and his eyes filled with water. Whew, these things are terrible. He stubbed it out and thought perhaps he would simply chew on them in the corner of his mouth the way his city editor used to do.
The conductor shouted “Boooaaaaarrrrdddd” as Rick returned and found a seat. He made himself as comfortable as the hard upholstered, straight-backed bench would allow, and opened the new leather-bound journal he had just purchased. He had determined that the slender volume would become his constant companion, diary, repository of all the facts that would make up the writing he would soon be doing.
Eager to get started, Rick opened the letter that had made this trip possible. It was from his Uncle Edgar. He read it again:

Dear nephew,
If you are reading this it means I am dead. So be it. Don't waste time grieving for me, for I had a good life. You are my only surviving family, and as such inherit my estate. You will find my will has an interesting condition, however, and it was my wish that you be given time alone to read this letter before the reading of the will.
You see I know your dreams and your ambitions, but I also know you will never pursue them. You think you have a career going at that newspaper, and that could be true, but you are capable of much more. I see the potential. I'm aware of the flowery phrases your editor crosses out of the little stories he allows you write. I also know these phrases are the language of the little paperback novels now becoming so popular. You are a natural for them.
So I leave you no choice. My will provides for you to receive a monthly stipend to cover your expenses as you travel, but to receive it you must write. If you don't you will not receive a nickel. You might say I am reaching out from the great beyond to push the chick from the nest.
Some might criticize me for doing this to a twenty-two year old boy, but I think you are ready. After all, the west is full of young men your age driving cattle, in the army, and exploring the new frontier. That's where your future lies, I know it.
I wish you Godspeed, my young nephew. You were my most cherished companion while I was alive, and now that I am dead (you have no idea how it sounds to say that about myself), rest assured I shall look down on you to see how well my little plan succeeds.

Your Uncle Edgar

Rick already missed him terribly. Uncle Edgar's death made him the last of his line, on his father's side, that is. He still had family on his mother's side, but that was a different story entirely.
Rick could hardly overlook his good fortune. He had $200 in his pocket, which would normally represent several month's wages. The law firm of Daggett, Crockett and Allen had estimated such an amount would transport him West, and cover his expenses for the first month. Future transactions would be handled through the fine facilities of the Western Union. Modern technology was indeed amazing.
Before Rick left town, he had exploited his newspaper connections, such as they were, to get in touch with a publisher. Hungry for material for the little adventure paperbacks, they were very interested in an author willing to pay his own expenses, and only requiring compensation if they published his work. They considered it a fine arrangement, indeed. Again, any further negotiations, legal or financial were to be handled by Daggett, Crockett and Allen.
Texas Jack! Yes, he liked that, but how about a last name? Jack what? Texas Jack Hammer, he decided. Yes, that's it. Now, there's a name with steel in it. He tried it again, not really aware he spoke out loud.
"Texas Jack Hammer," he said, intense satisfaction on his face.
"Who is that?"
Rick looked up to find a large straw hat perched on a young girl's head. Under the brim of the hat, between two long braided pigtails, peered a pair of eyes of a most remarkable shade of blue.
He straightened his backbone and adopted a rather condescending tone. "I beg your pardon?"
It didn't faze her in the least. "Who is Texas Jack Hammer?"
Rick took hold of his coat lapel with his left hand; sure it presented a very scholarly pose. "I am Texas Jack Hammer. I'm an author on my way West to write my next book."
Both hands gripped the top of the seat as she scrutinized him. "What's an author?"
"An author is someone who writes books."
The lady next to the girl spoke sharply, "Kasey, turn around and leave the gentleman alone."
Rick lifted his hat and turned his attention to the lady. "It's all right, madam. One cannot begin cultivating fans at too young an age."
Returning his attention to the girl, he said, "Do you read adventure stories?"
She shook her head so hard that it caused the pigtails to swing rapidly. They continued after she stopped her head. "I don't read at all, I'm only five."
"Well, perhaps when you begin to read, you will start with one of mine."
Kasey gave him an appraising look, measuring him. "You don't look like someone named Texas Jack."
"And what should a Texas Jack look like?"
"He should have a big hat, and a scarf, and spurs, and a big gun."
It was Rick's turn to shake his head. "It's not a scarf, it's a bandanna."
"What is?"
He waved the question aside. "Never mind, what you describe is a cowboy. I'm not a cowboy, I merely write about them."
"How can you write about them if you aren't one?"
"I'm not a horse either, but I write about them, too."
"Do you ride horses?"
Rick smiled. He had her here. "Of course, there's nothing I enjoy more than a good canter through the park."
"I don't think horses out here canter."
The lady spoke again. "Kasey, I said to turn around and sit down. You're annoying the gentleman." Reluctantly, the child did as she was told.
Rick concurred with the lady, she was an annoying child, impertinent actually. Still, her questions kept nagging at him. She was right, that was what bothered him the most. He couldn't write effectively about things without experiencing them, which was the reason for the trip.
Then there was the matter of his appearance, perhaps the child had something there as well. Maybe his fans would expect a certain bravado in appearance, a dashing, western oriented style of dress. He felt he shouldn't try to look like a cowboy, of course, but a western hat might be in order, and of course boots, western boots. He determined to get them at the earliest opportunity.
Yet there was something Rick could do now, and he did. He removed his tie, and threw it out the window. Acutely aware that he had a lot to learn about cowboys, he still felt totally certain they didn't wear ties. He resolved from this point on, neither would he . . . never again.
Rick watched the offending garment flutter down from the speeding train. He closed the window, and his reflection caught his eye. It held his attention. He looked like what he was, a bookworm. Tall and lean, ungainly at best, he was under no illusions about himself. It would be foolish to try and dress the part of a cowboy.
He looked over the top of his wire frame glasses at the man reflected in the window. Let's not be ridiculous.
Rick closed his eyes and sat back. He pictured himself in a flamboyant western costume, riding a large black horse with fire in his eyes. He saw himself . . .
"Mr. Texas Jack?"
The image disappeared. The blue eyes were back.
"Yes."
"Do you have a gun?"
"I do not."
"Aren't you gonna need a gun where you're going?"
Rick pondered that one for a minute. He liked the sound of it. He could easily picture himself with cold steel swinging from his hip. He shook his head and dismissed it from his mind. Wearing a gun without being proficient in its use sounded like a good way to get killed.
The condescending tone came back into his voice. "One should only wear a gun if they are prepared to use it. I am not inclined to do so, so it would be foolish of me to put one on."
"You were sure right."
"Right about what?"
"You're not a cowboy."
"Are you an authority on the subject?"
"What's an authority?"
"Do you know about cowboys?"
"We have cowboys on our ranch."
"You have a ranch?"
"Not me, silly, but my Daddy does. My horse Patches is there."
Oh, great. I've been lecturing this young lady about cowboys and she lives on a ranch. Rick pulled out his journal and made its first entry:
Interview Rule Number One - find out how knowledgeable any subject is before telling them your personal thoughts.
Interview Rule Number Two - - Never take ANYBODY for granted. He underlined anybody three times.
Rick tucked the book back into his coat pocket and returned his attention to the girl. "So how big is this ranch of yours?"
"Daddy says it isn't very big."
"You raise cows on it?"
"Yes."
"How many cows are on the ranch?"
"I don't know, I can't count past ten."
"Let me try it this way. Once you get back to the boundaries of your ranch, how long will it take to get to your house?"
"Oh, we won't have to camp out or anything, not if we get an early start."
Rick reached for the journal again without comment, and wrote: Size in the West is relative.
He replaced the journal in his pocket and continued what had now become an interview. "What do these cowboys do on your ranch?"
"They rope the cows, and brand the cows, and watch the cows, and kick the cows, and cuss the cows; mostly they do things with the cows. I guess that's why we call them cowboys."
"They cuss the cows in front of you?"
"Not if they know I'm there. If I'm there, they make talk with big holes in it, like; you . . . I'm gonna . . . you dirty . . . I'd like to . . . They think I don't know what goes in the holes, but I do."
Kasey's companion awoke from her nap. "Kasey, are you bothering the man again? I told you not to . . ."
Rick tipped his hat again and leaned forward. "Your daughter isn't bothering me, Ma'am, really she isn't. As a matter of fact, she opened my eyes on a couple of things."
"Oh, she isn't my daughter, she's my sister, and I'm afraid she can be something of a pest if she puts her mind to it."
"Certainly not the case here. Ma'am, do you mind if I move to the seat facing you? I am traveling west, and your sister has given me to understand you have a ranch out there. As a writer, I would enjoy finding out more about it."
"I don't mind if you sit there. Ordinarily I would not engage in a conversation with a stranger, but I suppose one must make allowances on a public conveyance. It certainly would help pass the time."
"It is not necessary for us to remain strangers, Ma'am." He moved around to the facing seat, bowed, and offered his hand. "I am Rick Dayton."
She took the hand but had a puzzled expression on her face. "Rick? but I thought . . . "
"A pen name, Ma'am. Many writers use them."
She smoothed out her skirt, obviously to keep from having to make eye contact. "I see. I am Shanda James, and this is my sister Kasey."
Rick sat. "Your sister and I are old friends by now." Rick pulled his glasses down with his forefinger, and peered over the top as he looked at the youngster. "Even if I am not a cowboy."
He stored his valise under the facing seat, then looked up prepared to exchange some opening pleasantries. The face he looked into removed all thoughts from his mind. Shanda was breathtaking.
Her beauty wasn't such that one would encounter on the Boston social scene, no lace and cosmetics here. No, she radiated a healthy glow, no doubt from being out in the sun on her ranch. Her eyes were a soft brown, hidden by long eye-lashes. Her hair fell softly around her face. He found himself mesmerized.
She looked at the slack jaw and wide eyes. "Mr. Dayton, are you all right?"
He closed his mouth and tried to regain his senses. "Yes, why do you ask?"
"I don't know, you looked as if you had seen a ghost or something. You looked at me so . . ."
He cleared his throat, and pushed his glasses up more firmly with a finger again. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude. You see, in order to write I have to be able to describe the people I meet in my writing. Please don't think me as trying to be familiar with you when I say this, but your beauty will be hard to express with mere words."
"Oh my." Her eyes widened for an instant before they demurely dropped. "If you are going to carry on in such a manner, perhaps it's best you return to your seat."
"No, I'm sorry, I'll behave myself. Perhaps you'll understand what I mean if you helped me describe some of the other passengers. How about the gentleman across the aisle?"
She glanced at the other passenger. "A drummer. He's dressed like a banker, but doesn't wear the clothes as comfortably as a man of wealth would. The redness of his face suggests a fondness for drink. Yes, definitely in sales."
Rick was impressed. "Say, you're pretty good at this. How about the man across from him?" He recorded the description in his journal.
"A cowboy returning after letting the badger loose in the city."
"Letting the badger loose? What a delightful expression. I can guess what it means." He added the notation.
"Yes, I hear it used by the hands on our ranch. The red on his neck and hands made me think he might be a working hand, but when he removed his hat to me getting on and I saw the white line on his forehead where his hat topped, and that above his wrist under his cuff. Besides, he wears those dress clothes as if they had a hair lining. He can barely keep them on."
Rick made constant notes. She went on to describe many of the passengers, seeming to get enjoyment in the little diversion. She also told him a lot about their ranch, and what it was like to live on one. The ranch turned out to be in the hill country, Northwest of Austin, Texas. While not considered large by Texas ranch standards, it was a size Rick could scarcely comprehend.
They dropped the formalities, and were soon laughing and joking. Kasey squealed as they were suddenly plunged into the darkness of a long tunnel. When they emerged, and Rick's eyes adjusted, he had to blink to make sure what he saw was real.
Two men stood at the head of the car with bandannas over their faces, guns in their hands. "Is entertainment scheduled on this trip?" Rick asked.
"You may find this entertaining," Shanda said, "but these men certainly aren't doing it for such a purpose. We're about to be robbed."
"Robbed! surely not!" Rick looked around. The other passengers sat with their hands high in the air, the look of fear on each face unmistakable.
The hard looking men wore nice looking clothes, and seemed to be comfortable in them. They commanded the attention of the passengers, but at the same time weren’t particularly aggressive or threatening. They fascinated Rick.
The nearest man spoke, "Everybody just keep those hands where we can see 'em. Jasper, you go skin those pokes."
"Skin those pokes?" Rick whispered.
"It means to take your wallet," Kasey answered.
Rick pulled out the journal to write the phrase down.
"Hey you, the closest of the desperadoes said. I said to keep your hands where I can see them."
Rick looked up, "Who, me?"
"I ain't talking to your Aunt Martha."
"Oh, that one's good! May I write it down?"
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm a writer. Oh, by the way, here's my money. I'm afraid I only have about $160 left, but you are welcome to it." He opened his coat. "As you can see, I'm not armed."
"You sure are happy about this. When we rob folks, they generally tend to resent it somewhat."
"Yeah," said the other outlaw, "most of them get pretty testy."
"That's because they are losing money, and I certainly understand how they feel. I, on the other hand, feel like I am making an investment of the money in a story which will bring me back more money than I am losing."
"You gonna write about us in this here story?"
"Of course."
"You fixin' to mention us by name?"
"That's up to you, you haven't said your name."
"Guess we haven't," they looked at each other, "can't see how it'd hurt. Who reads these books?"
"Most everybody," Rick lied.
"Well, the plain fact is you are being robbed by the famous James Gang. I'm Jesse, and my brother Frank is doing business up at the express car at the present time."
Rick looked at Shanda. "Is he related to you?"
"Not that I know of."
"What are you two jabbering about?" Jesse asked.
"Her last name is James. Her name is Shanda, and this is her sister Kasey. We were wondering if you might be related."
"Well, just in case you are kin, you can hold on to your valuables. I ain't robbing no kin-folks."
"If such is the case, may I point out that I AM traveling with them?"
"Not on your life, dude, you done said you're making money on this deal. The way it sounds, you oughta be giving us more money than you are."
"That's probably true, maybe next time?"
A man burst in the door. "Jesse, what in blue blazes are you doing, having a tea party?"
"I'm getting my name in a book, Frank. This here guy's a writer."
"Are you crazy? Then they'll know it was us that did it."
"Now Frank, you know we get blamed for it whether we do it or not."
"Well, that's true. While you're at it, you want to sit here and talk to the Pinkerton Detectives, too? I'll bet they'd be happy to put your name in a book."
Rick wrote so fast his pencil nearly started to smoke.
"Aw, ease up, Frank, maybe this guy will write something nice about us for a change."
"You gentlemen have certainly been most pleasant to me," he said.
Frank said, "I don't get it. You ain't mad you've been robbed?"
"I'll tell you about that," Jesse said, "in fact, he says we got more coming later."
"It's called royalties," Rick nodded in affirmation.
"Yeah, well how about if we give you our address so you can send it to us," Frank said. "Or better yet, maybe we can put you on our mailing list along with the Pinkertons, and assorted sheriffs and marshals."
"Oh, yes, I see the problem. Well, perhaps we'll find a way to square it up in the future."
"I gotta say that's a first. I never robbed nobody before who offered to send more money later."

###

The conductor arranged to send a wire for Rick to Daggett, Crockett and Allen with news of the robbery, and a request to wire money to be waiting at a stop down the line. The wire also promised a manuscript for his first book, tentatively entitled The Daring Daylight Train Robbery to follow by post.
It turned out Shanda had been working as a public stenographer in New York, so on the rest of the trip she helped out by taking dictation on the manuscript.
Rick dictated it in the heady prose that was the style of the publications:
"Frank and Jesse James walked into the railroad car big as life," he started.
"Frank was in the express car, remember?" Kasey volunteered.
"It's called artistic license, Kasey. You can make changes in a true situation in order to make a story read better."
"So, it's all right to lie in a book?"
"It isn't a lie, it is within the spirit of what happened. It is merely packaging it for commercial consumption."
"Oh, I see," but it was clear she didn't.
Rick understood the rules for the little tomes. Everything had to be bigger than life. Men had to be of heroic proportions, women had to be always in peril, but never harmed or violated, and villains had to be magnificently evil with no redeeming qualities.
"Where was I? Oh yes. Their cold black eyes were hard as the steel bars on the door as they glared from above the bandannas covering their faces."
Kasey looked over at the doors. No bars. She started to say something, but Shanda said, "Shush."
"The barrels of the six guns in their hands looked as big as railroad tunnels."
"They just had one gun, not two . . . oh, yes, I know . . . shush."
"In a cold voice that brooked no interference, Jesse said, 'Everybody put your hands up!', then had one of his men skin the pokes of the passengers. A little girl said, 'Daddy, what does skin a poke mean?' He told her it meant he was going to have his wallet taken."
"I didn't say that, you did. I know what skin a poke means." Kasey was indignant.
"It's only a story."
"Well, I don't like it. You can lie if you want to and call it something else, but I don't like you lying about me. It makes it sound like I didn't know what skin a poke means. I KNOW what it means."
"All right, all right! Make that a little boy asks his daddy."
Rick went on to dictate the entire story, punctuated with substantial editing from the opposite seat, and had a neatly handwritten manuscript to post when he stopped to pick up his money. He sent the manuscript to his lawyers who would work with the publishers. He also sent instructions for one of the first copies to be posted to the James Sisters in care of general delivery at Round Rock, Texas.

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