The bullet wound which Jim received in our last fight near Madelia,
shattering his upper jaw, and remaining imbedded near his brain, until it
was removed by Dr. T. G. Clark after we were in the prison at Stillwater,
affected Jim at intervals during all his prison life, and he would have
periodical spells of depression, during which he would give up all hope,
and his gloomy spirits would repel the sympathy of those who were disposed
to cheer him up.
I remember that at the time of the fire in 1884, he was in one of these
fits of depression, but the excitement of that time buoyed him up, and he
was himself again for a considerable period.
After our release from prison, Jim’s precarious health and his inability
to rejoin his family in Missouri combined to make these fits of depression
more frequent. While he was working for Maj. Elwin, instead of putting in
his afternoons, which were free, among men, or enjoying the sunshine and
air which had so long been out of our reach, he would go to his room and
revel in socialistic literature, which only tended to overload a mind
already surcharged with troubles. For my part, I tried to get into the
world again, to live down the past, and I could and did enjoy the
theaters, although Jim declared he would never set foot in one until he
could go a free man. In July, he and some of his friends petitioned the
board of pardons for a full pardon, but the board was of the opinion that
it was too early to consider that, believing that we should be kept on our
good behavior for a time.
That resulted in another fit of depression for Jim. He took it to heart,
and never regained his cheerful mood, for when he was up, he was away up,
and when down, away down. There was no half way place with Jim.
In October, 1902, he left Maj. Elwin expecting to go to St. Paul to work
for Yerxa Bros.
But Sunday afternoon, Oct. 19, his dead body was found in a room at the
hotel Reardon, Seventh and Minnesota streets, St. Paul, where he had been
staying since leaving Minneapolis. His trunk had been sent to friends,
and there was every indication that he had carefully planned his death by
his own hand. A bullet hole above his right ear and a pistol clutched in
his hand, told the story of suicide. Dr. J. M. Finnell, who as acting
coroner, was summoned, decided that he must have shot himself early in the
forenoon, although neighbors in the block had not been disturbed by the
shot.
I was sick in bed at the time and my physician, Dr. J. J. Platt, forbade
my attempting to do anything in the premises, but Jim’s body was taken in
charge in my behalf by Chief of Police O’Connor, and borne to Lee’s
Summit, Mo., our old Jackson county home, where it was laid to rest.
The pallbearers were G. W. Wigginton, O. H. Lewis, H. H. McDowell, Sim
Whitsett, William Gregg and William Lewis, all old neighbors or comrades
during the war.
Some people obtained the idea that it was Jim’s wish that he be cremated,
but this idea grew out of a letter he left showing his gloomy condition.
It “roasted” Gov. Van Sant and Warden Wolfer and the board of pardons,
declared for socialism, and urged Bryan to come out for it.
On the outside of the envelope was written:
“All relations stay away from me. No crocodile tears wanted. Reporters,
be my friends. Burn me up.—Jim Younger.”
I think the “burn me up” was an admonition to the reporters. Jim always
felt that the papers had been bitter to us, although some of them had been
staunch supporters of the proposal for our parole. The day we were
paroled, Jim said to a visiting newspaper woman:
“When we get out we would like to be left in peace. We don’t want to be
stared at and we don’t want to be interviewed. For twenty-five years now,
we have been summoned here to have men stare at us and question us and
then go back and write up what they think and believe. It’s hard to have
people write things about you that are not true and put words in your
mouth that you never uttered.”
It was to such newspaper men, I think, that Jim sent his message “Burn me
up.”