A man who has outlived his time — Frank James

The Last Testament of Frank James according to Mr. Bob Dylan

Bob Dylan posted this video yesterday on his Instagram account.

There is no source for this video on YouTube or anywhere else, it seems to originate only as a video on Instagram. There is equally no source for the text itself which has led many to speculate that it is taken from a source that only Bob Dylan knows, perhaps something published more than 100 years ago. It also doesn’t appear to match what is held by the Library of Congress. Intriguing. Thanks as ever Bob.

The last Testament of Frank James

Ladies and gentlemen, I stand before you tonight not as an outlaw, not as a soldier, but as a man who has outlived his time. I have ridden across the battlefields of the Civil War, the lawless plains of the frontier, and the dusty roads of the outlaw trail. And now, in my old age, I have watched the world change around me until the life I once knew is no more than a tale told in dimly lit parlors.

I was born in 1843 in Clay County, Missouri, on a quiet farm where my father, a Baptist preacher, read scripture by candlelight, and my mother, Zerelda, ruled the house with a will of iron. Before I could even walk, I was thrown onto a horse’s back, and by the time I was old enough to speak, I could ride bareback as fast as the wind through the Missouri hills. Those were the days of boyhood adventures.

My brother Jesse was four years younger—perhaps you’ve heard of him. We spent our summers swimming in the cool, clear waters of the creek near our home, diving from rocks, chasing minnows, and laughing like we had all the time in the world. But time does not wait, and the world does not care for the dreams of boys.

My father left us for California in the Gold Rush and never returned. In his place, he left behind something that shaped me more than gold ever could—his books. Among them were the words of Shakespeare, and I read them like a starving man at a feast: *Hamlet, Julius Caesar, Macbeth*—their words burned into my mind. And even when I rode in the saddle as a bushwhacker, even when I stood in a courtroom decades later, I could still hear them echoing. But all the poetry in the world could not stop the storm of war.

You want to hear about the war? About Quantrill, Bloody Bill Anderson, and the days when we rode with hell on our heels? If you ask me that, I reckon you better understand—war ain’t like the stories. It ain’t clean, it ain’t gallant, and it sure as hell ain’t fair.

I was just a boy of 18 when the war came to Missouri, but Missouri had already been a battlefield for years. Jayhawkers, Union militia, bushwhackers—we fought neighbor against neighbor, brother against brother. It was a war with no front lines, no rules, and no mercy.

So I joined Quantrill’s Raiders—not because I had a choice, but because the war gave me none. We were ghosts on horseback, striking from the shadows, riding hard, vanishing into the hills before the smoke cleared. We weren’t an army; we were a vengeance-driven whirlwind, taking back what the Union troops had stolen, giving them the same hell they gave us.

**Lawrence, Kansas, 1863.** That’s the one folks talk about the most. We rode in before dawn, 400 men strong, led by Quantrill himself. The town was full of Unionists, abolitionists—men who had sent their own raiders into Missouri to burn homes and kill our kin. We hit them like a storm—gunfire in the streets, torches lighting up the sky, men falling before they could even grab their weapons. 150 men and boys lay dead before we rode out. Some called it a massacre. We called it war.

And then there was **Centralia, 1864.** That wasn’t Quantrill’s raid—that was Bloody Bill Anderson’s. But I was there. A train came through, full of Union soldiers on furlough. We stopped it, dragged them off one by one, and lined them up. They thought they’d be prisoners. Instead, they were executed—every last one of them. Some of the boys even scalped the dead—a message to the Union that Missouri was not theirs.

You might think that was savage. But let me tell you—we were not the only ones who fought that way. The Union forces killed every guerrilla they caught. No trials, no mercy. If you wore the gray, or even if you were just suspected of helping men like us, your house burned, your family suffered, and you were left hanging from a tree.

We didn’t fight for generals or battlefields. We fought for revenge. We hit Union supply lines, burned down posts, ambushed soldiers in the night. We were hunted like animals. But the ones hunting us? They feared us more than they feared death itself.

I rode with Quantrill. With Bloody Bill Anderson. With men who didn’t expect to live to see the next winter. Jesse was younger—still green when he joined—but the war hardened him quick. He learned how to kill, how to strike first, how to never hesitate.

But by 1865, the war was lost. The South fell. Quantrill was dead. And Missouri—Missouri was never the same. We didn’t lay down our arms because we suddenly found peace. We stopped because there was nothing left to fight for.

So you ask me about my exploits. There were plenty. Some I’ll speak of. Some I won’t. War made men out of boys, monsters out of men. And when it was over? Well, some of us never stopped riding.

When the war was done, Jesse and I fought on for 15 years. Jesse and I, along with Cole Younger and our gang, robbed banks, trains, stagecoaches, and lived by the gun. We rode the best horses money could buy—stole them when we had to—and could outrun any lawman who dared chase us. We slept under the stars, in barns, in the homes of men and women who still saw us as Confederate heroes.

And that brings me to something folks often ask me—did I survive so long because I was such a good rider?

You ask why I was such a fine rider? Because I had to be.

I didn’t learn to ride in a school or in a cavalry camp. I learned bareback before I could walk, riding through the hills of Missouri with nothing but my balance and the grip of my knees. Some folks treat a horse like a tool. I treated mine like a partner. I knew how far I could push him, how to move with him, how to trust his instincts as much as my own.

Now, as for Jesse? He was fast. He was fearless. But he rode like he lived—reckless, daring, sometimes without a second thought for the consequences. He could outrun most men. But he didn’t read a horse the way I did. He wanted speed. I wanted control.

He was good, no doubt about it. But was he as good as me? I don’t reckon he’d argue it if he were here.

And do I think I survived because of it? Absolutely.

There were times the only thing between me and a bullet was the speed of my horse. I could ride hard when I needed to. But more importantly—I could ride smart. A good rider doesn’t just know how to gallop. He knows when to slow down. When to weave. When to disappear into the brush and let the posse chase shadows.

I survived because I didn’t panic, didn’t waste my horse, and didn’t let adrenaline do my thinking for me. Many a man got himself shot because he thought a fast horse would save him. But a smart horseman? He knows that the best escape isn’t always straight ahead.

It’s in the places the law don’t think to look.

And that’s why I’m here—still breathing—long after most of my kind are buried beneath the dust.