Outlaw Jesse James
New Member
(I wanted to share a sample of how I write for Jesse. This is my reply to a starter for another SL I have with Jesse on a different site):
The dull beating of bare knuckles to wood sounded strangely hollow at first, interrupting the tranquility of the dirt lane stretching up the hill, past an increasingly sparse row of houses to Charlie's intended destination. The small but clean cottage in the outskirts of St. Joseph was owned and inhabited, according to recent property records, by one Thomas Howard, a good Christian cattleman with a dutiful wife and two well-mannered children. There was, of course, no public mention of the name Jesse James in connection with the unassuming bungalow, and why should there be? After all, Jesse had become an outlaw not only to the Republican establishment he had violently railed against since his teens, but also to the current political line of Secessionists restored to power in Missouri. Save for the lingering sympathizers and believers in the Robin Hood myth still holding some association with the names of Frank and Jesse James, the actions of the latter had become, at least to authorities both within and beyond Missouri's borders, less worthy of admiration and more a desperate spilling of innocent bloodshed to keep old grudges alive. Who would expect the notoriously restless Jesse James to be living a quiet, respectable existence in St. Joe?
The clatter of small feet rapidly scurrying past the other side of the door could be heard, seconds before the knob was pulled back and the figure of a woman appeared before the screen separating herself from the visitor paused on the front step. Her dark hair swept up from her neck and an apron secured against her bodice and skirts, the woman blinked at Charlie with a faint smile and polite but wary kindness reserved for any strangers who showed up at her home while her husband was not at home. Her plain face, while pleasant enough, was that of a woman who may once have been considered lovely in her youth but was now marked by strain and strife, the resignation to a life of disappointment she still hoped to improve. "May I help you?" She inquired simply, her tone also kind enough, and while her face may well already be gaining some familiarity for Charlie, she did not recognize him at first, after the nearly eight years since she'd last laid eyes on the man.
When he hesitated there on the step, his manner awkward as he perhaps struggled for words he so rarely uttered voluntarily, the woman's expression changed from one of intense study to one of gradual recognition. Her dark eyes widened in surprise once her memory revealed what she in fact already knew but had forgotten after the passing of time. "Charlie? Charlie from Texas?" She must have perceived either a nod from the man or he offered some other indication to the affirmative, for Zerelda Mimms, known affectionately as Zee, Jesse's first cousin who had married the outlaw years earlier after a nine-year courtship, was opening the screen door and ushering Charlie into the house with a quiet but decidedly warmer smile. She had come to know Charlie somewhat when she and Jesse had honeymooned in Sherman, Texas, her outlaw husband introducing Zee to a man Jesse, at the earlier age of 19, had first befriended way back when the James Brothers had taken shelter from Missouri law enforcement at Belle Starr's ranch in Scyene, Texas.
Already having met Charlie previously, Zee would be able to spare him further stress of having to speak if he did not wish to, recalling his frequent use of hand signals, even pencil to paper, in most communication when she was around. Well, he always had been polite in her company, as well, while the more gregarious Jesse had been only too willing to help fill in the silences with his booming presence and seemingly telepathic ability to help vocalize Charlie's needs when other, less patient, people were around. Even if Jesse's mean streak did also provoke him into a dreadful teasing of Charlie's little notebooks on occasion.
Not being the sort to interrogate a man about his journeys or motives, so accustomed was she to the unorthodox and hardly enviable lifestyle she shared with Jesse, Zee spared Charlie the stream of rapid-fire questions he might otherwise be peppered with from other women. "Je-" She caught herself just in time, even if the correction wasn't truly needed for a man who knew Jesse long before he'd adopted the alias, Thomas Howard. "TOM's not home yet, although he's expected any minute, now. Why don't you come inside, have a seat in the kitchen, maybe some coffee while you wait? Oh, Mary, do let the gentleman sit!" The little three year old had been clinging to the back of a kitchen chair, peering out from the safe perch while her mother answered the door. Her older brother was nowhere to be seen, out with his father on whatever outing they would be returning from momentarily.
While Zee provided refreshment to her husband's unexpected visitor, another twenty minutes or so would pass before heavy footsteps were heard at the door, crossing the threshold with the comical strain of a man pulling a seven year old boy from his shoulder. "ARRRG! You're gettin' to be too heavy for all that, Tim, gonna give your daddy a heart condition, more'n likely, then you'll be carryin' me. We're home, now, Mama! Oh, there's my sweet girl, Mary, you lost a shoe again outside, here, little darlin'. Keep that on, right proper, Sweetheart." Jesse's voice, even in the passing of time, would have sounded almost the same to Charlie, albeit deeper, as it drifted from the parlor into the kitchen where friend and wife still remained. Not so impressive in stature, truth be told, Jesse gave the impression of being taller than he was, filling the room with his lean bulk and giving further rise to myth and rumor exaggerating his actual physique. The children's giggles and squeals of delight as he briefly teased them en route to the kitchen filled the space, along with the echo of his boots against the hardwood floor until he halted his steps, looming in the doorway. Only when Charlie turned to glance in his direction, did Jesse blink several times, his mind rapidly connecting the dots to recall the reasons for the familiarity of Charlie's features, fingers keenly aware of the proximity to the contents of the gunbelt worn beneath his heavy coat.
"Well, butter my backside and call me a biscuit. Is that really you, Charlie Mayfield?" Jesse never had been fond of cussing, and so his words, if not his bloody, vengeful deeds, were rarely composed of anything stronger than mild curses or playful and terse metaphors. They were both older, certainly, and the effects of longterm angst, paranoia, suicidal depressions and simmering rage had deepened the lines around the outlaw's still piercing but now hauntingly melancholy blue eyes. Lifelong insomnia had permanently darkened the circles under Jesse's eyes, an affliction he long shared with Charlie and had served as a catalyst for their friendship years ago, camaraderie fueled by late night talks during which Jesse had forged a curious bond with the frequently speechless son of John Wesley Hardin. Despite Charlie's conflicted ideas on the lawlessness Jesse ruthlessly embraced, Jesse had found a brotherly affection for Charlie, defending and encouraging the other man almost as often as he could cruelly tease.
"Well, c'mon, now, stand up and let ole Jesse get a better look at you." The fatigue marking the posture of Jesse's shoulders lightened suddenly, a shadow momentarily lifting from his features until he was all smiles and eagerness to embrace his friend with such welcome surprise. Indeed, a sort of relief had settled into Jesse then, a lighter end to what had actually been a most unsettling week for a man with dwindling options and a war with ghosts raging in his tortured mind.
The dull beating of bare knuckles to wood sounded strangely hollow at first, interrupting the tranquility of the dirt lane stretching up the hill, past an increasingly sparse row of houses to Charlie's intended destination. The small but clean cottage in the outskirts of St. Joseph was owned and inhabited, according to recent property records, by one Thomas Howard, a good Christian cattleman with a dutiful wife and two well-mannered children. There was, of course, no public mention of the name Jesse James in connection with the unassuming bungalow, and why should there be? After all, Jesse had become an outlaw not only to the Republican establishment he had violently railed against since his teens, but also to the current political line of Secessionists restored to power in Missouri. Save for the lingering sympathizers and believers in the Robin Hood myth still holding some association with the names of Frank and Jesse James, the actions of the latter had become, at least to authorities both within and beyond Missouri's borders, less worthy of admiration and more a desperate spilling of innocent bloodshed to keep old grudges alive. Who would expect the notoriously restless Jesse James to be living a quiet, respectable existence in St. Joe?
The clatter of small feet rapidly scurrying past the other side of the door could be heard, seconds before the knob was pulled back and the figure of a woman appeared before the screen separating herself from the visitor paused on the front step. Her dark hair swept up from her neck and an apron secured against her bodice and skirts, the woman blinked at Charlie with a faint smile and polite but wary kindness reserved for any strangers who showed up at her home while her husband was not at home. Her plain face, while pleasant enough, was that of a woman who may once have been considered lovely in her youth but was now marked by strain and strife, the resignation to a life of disappointment she still hoped to improve. "May I help you?" She inquired simply, her tone also kind enough, and while her face may well already be gaining some familiarity for Charlie, she did not recognize him at first, after the nearly eight years since she'd last laid eyes on the man.
When he hesitated there on the step, his manner awkward as he perhaps struggled for words he so rarely uttered voluntarily, the woman's expression changed from one of intense study to one of gradual recognition. Her dark eyes widened in surprise once her memory revealed what she in fact already knew but had forgotten after the passing of time. "Charlie? Charlie from Texas?" She must have perceived either a nod from the man or he offered some other indication to the affirmative, for Zerelda Mimms, known affectionately as Zee, Jesse's first cousin who had married the outlaw years earlier after a nine-year courtship, was opening the screen door and ushering Charlie into the house with a quiet but decidedly warmer smile. She had come to know Charlie somewhat when she and Jesse had honeymooned in Sherman, Texas, her outlaw husband introducing Zee to a man Jesse, at the earlier age of 19, had first befriended way back when the James Brothers had taken shelter from Missouri law enforcement at Belle Starr's ranch in Scyene, Texas.
Already having met Charlie previously, Zee would be able to spare him further stress of having to speak if he did not wish to, recalling his frequent use of hand signals, even pencil to paper, in most communication when she was around. Well, he always had been polite in her company, as well, while the more gregarious Jesse had been only too willing to help fill in the silences with his booming presence and seemingly telepathic ability to help vocalize Charlie's needs when other, less patient, people were around. Even if Jesse's mean streak did also provoke him into a dreadful teasing of Charlie's little notebooks on occasion.
Not being the sort to interrogate a man about his journeys or motives, so accustomed was she to the unorthodox and hardly enviable lifestyle she shared with Jesse, Zee spared Charlie the stream of rapid-fire questions he might otherwise be peppered with from other women. "Je-" She caught herself just in time, even if the correction wasn't truly needed for a man who knew Jesse long before he'd adopted the alias, Thomas Howard. "TOM's not home yet, although he's expected any minute, now. Why don't you come inside, have a seat in the kitchen, maybe some coffee while you wait? Oh, Mary, do let the gentleman sit!" The little three year old had been clinging to the back of a kitchen chair, peering out from the safe perch while her mother answered the door. Her older brother was nowhere to be seen, out with his father on whatever outing they would be returning from momentarily.
While Zee provided refreshment to her husband's unexpected visitor, another twenty minutes or so would pass before heavy footsteps were heard at the door, crossing the threshold with the comical strain of a man pulling a seven year old boy from his shoulder. "ARRRG! You're gettin' to be too heavy for all that, Tim, gonna give your daddy a heart condition, more'n likely, then you'll be carryin' me. We're home, now, Mama! Oh, there's my sweet girl, Mary, you lost a shoe again outside, here, little darlin'. Keep that on, right proper, Sweetheart." Jesse's voice, even in the passing of time, would have sounded almost the same to Charlie, albeit deeper, as it drifted from the parlor into the kitchen where friend and wife still remained. Not so impressive in stature, truth be told, Jesse gave the impression of being taller than he was, filling the room with his lean bulk and giving further rise to myth and rumor exaggerating his actual physique. The children's giggles and squeals of delight as he briefly teased them en route to the kitchen filled the space, along with the echo of his boots against the hardwood floor until he halted his steps, looming in the doorway. Only when Charlie turned to glance in his direction, did Jesse blink several times, his mind rapidly connecting the dots to recall the reasons for the familiarity of Charlie's features, fingers keenly aware of the proximity to the contents of the gunbelt worn beneath his heavy coat.
"Well, butter my backside and call me a biscuit. Is that really you, Charlie Mayfield?" Jesse never had been fond of cussing, and so his words, if not his bloody, vengeful deeds, were rarely composed of anything stronger than mild curses or playful and terse metaphors. They were both older, certainly, and the effects of longterm angst, paranoia, suicidal depressions and simmering rage had deepened the lines around the outlaw's still piercing but now hauntingly melancholy blue eyes. Lifelong insomnia had permanently darkened the circles under Jesse's eyes, an affliction he long shared with Charlie and had served as a catalyst for their friendship years ago, camaraderie fueled by late night talks during which Jesse had forged a curious bond with the frequently speechless son of John Wesley Hardin. Despite Charlie's conflicted ideas on the lawlessness Jesse ruthlessly embraced, Jesse had found a brotherly affection for Charlie, defending and encouraging the other man almost as often as he could cruelly tease.
"Well, c'mon, now, stand up and let ole Jesse get a better look at you." The fatigue marking the posture of Jesse's shoulders lightened suddenly, a shadow momentarily lifting from his features until he was all smiles and eagerness to embrace his friend with such welcome surprise. Indeed, a sort of relief had settled into Jesse then, a lighter end to what had actually been a most unsettling week for a man with dwindling options and a war with ghosts raging in his tortured mind.
