John Dillinger was the last great outlaw of the Wild West. Replace the horse power in his Ford V8 for a real horse and his machine gun for a six-gun, and there is little to distinguish Johnny from Jesse. Both had rural roots; both rose during tough times; both robbed banks; both made dramatic getaways; both captured public imagination; both were filled with bravura; both shared that something-extra which separates legends from common thieves. More importantly, neither John or Jesse allowed their “profession” to trigger the worst in each. Many a time, had nerve failed either or had a sadistic streak surfaced, the scenes of their robberies would have been awash with innocent blood. And yet they never were.

(I might mention that both outlaws were laid low not by sworn enemies but by sworn “friends” but hey, we all exit via one form of treachery or another).

I once visited Dillinger’s hometown and the scene of his first petty crime in Mooresville, Indiana. I spun around on the same streets young John spun around on. I saw many of the same sights he saw as a kid. On my way out of town I took some photos of his old boyhood home. Interestingly enough, on my tour that morning, the fellow who eagerly told me where all these places were was a Mooresville policeman. Judging by his enthusiasm, it was obvious the cop was as fascinated by Dillinger as I was. But there was something more. I believe the gentleman secretly admired Johnny. And I see nothing wrong or unusual with this.

I have had numerous law enforcement types on my Jesse James bus tours. I think we all, cops included, secretly admire the successful bank robber who avoids violence whenever possible. Honestly, 99% of us are about as noteworthy as an ant in an ant-hill. We shuffle through life, running from the light, going along to get along, fearing to risk, fearing to fail, fearing to fall out of step or fall from fashion. And we do this with all the mind-numbing anonymity of those professional street crossers in Grade-B Westerns. We read history, we write history, but we don’t make history. For whatever reasons – guts, brains, talent – almost all of us lack what it takes to be remembered even 15 minutes after we are dead. We are intrigued, fascinated, and awed by those who take the risks and make the history. We live our lives vicariously through them. I think inside all of us there is a Jesse James or John Dillinger banging to get out.

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