Jesse is laid in his grave, accompanied by a few of the surviving guerrillas he'd ridden with

Zerelda and her oldest turned from the old gravesite and slowly walked to the wagon, limping slightly – her old joints objecting to the uneven yard. 

At the sight of Jesse's new coffin sitting in the back of the wagon, awaiting transport to its new home, Zerelda took a jagged breath and steeled herself for the next few hours.

When they got to Mt. Olivet, the James family found themselves surrounded by hundreds of town–folk who had come to the cemetery to see Jesse – one of their own – be placed in his final resting place. After 20 years, Jesse was still infamous for his deeds and more so for his violent death. Yet the crowd had a sort of reverence for Zerelda, Frank and the old guerrillas escorting Jesse home.

There was most likely some whispering in the crowd that day as Zerelda was helped down from the carriage by her oldest son, Frank. 

It was something most of them had never seen before, even those who had witnessed Jesse being brought back from St. Joseph 20 years previous – but Frank had not been there in 1882 and it was not a public burial that time, even though many had gone out to the farm to see whatever they could from the old dusty road.

Frank took his mother's arm as she was surrounded by her son, J.T., and her grandson, who was just a six-year-old child when his father had been killed.

It became deathly quiet except for the sound of Zerelda, sobbing as the men who had fought alongside Jesse and Frank 40 years before carried their comrade to the grave next to Zee. 

A preacher stood by, but there was not to be a ceremony. Ironically, the cemetery was at the original location of the old Baptist church that Jesse had joined in 1868 in an attempt to redeem his tortured conscience. He remained a devout reader of his father's tattered Bible under the day of his death.

"This is it," thought Zerelda. "It is the end of Jesse's story. I will not see him again, until I myself pass from this world," she told herself as the last shovelfuls of earth landed in the grave.

Frank was silent too, lost in his own thoughts. He had missed Jesse's first burial, and once he had learned of Jesse's death, he knew he would have to strategize his surrender in order to return home.

He and Jesse were blood brothers of the deepest kind. Dingus, (Jesse's nickname) had been full of life and loved living it. He was outgoing, loved to play pranks, passionate, and gave everyone in his life a run for their money – Frank included.

They rode together during the war and during peace time when they were outlaws. They had spent many a night out under the stars talking about the war, their lives, their wives and families.

He remembered nights in Tennessee, after dinner, the two of them on the porch, boots propped up on the railing – laughing at some private joke. Then things would turn serious and Jesse would lean forward and say, "Hey Buck, whad'ya think about … "

Frank never thought Jesse would be caught, much less shot and killed by the likes of someone like Bob Ford. He recalled the sniveling, 20-year-old who had held a most unnatural obsession with Jesse. Ford had made the hair stand up on the back of Frank's neck and he'd distanced himself from the boy at the beginning.

He shook his head, "If only Jesse had distanced himself from the Ford brothers. He might just be alive today," Frank said to himself.

As Frank stood with his mother at the head of his brother's grave while the men shoveled the last of the dirt onto the coffin, he turned away and said, "Well boys, that's all we can do."

Frank, his mother, and the rest turned away and headed back to the carriage – sure it was over for Jesse James – he as at rest beside his beloved Zee. They all believed that someday Jesse would be forgotten, a long ago legend that soon would fade.

Little did they know that in death – no matter how many years would pass – Jesse James would be larger than the life he had led.