March 1882Billy Drury
Farmer
Clay County, Missouri
The last time I saw Jesse James alive was about a month before Bob Ford did him in. I was to home, like always, and it was raining outside—chilly but not cold. As was my usual practice, I was lazing around in bed, trying to get up the courage to rise and face the dawn.
Then, I smelled coffee. Then, I heard a crash.
“Mornin’, Jess,” I said, as I stuck my head through the door.
“You got a mop, Billy?” The kitchen floor was awash with brownish water and coffee grounds.
“Why yes, I got a mop. I should say I got a mop. I don’t suppose there’s a farmer in the world ain’t got a mop.”
“Didn’t mean to wake you,” Jess said. “Got here round midnight so I just let myself in.”
“That was real thoughtful of you, Jess.”
He’d let himself in by br
