Red Lands Outlaw: the Ballad of Henry Starr

by Phil Truman

  “Take your time, Mister Feurstine. Is this him?”

  The man next to Henderson, perspiring some and looking nervous, nodded. “Yes. Yes, this’s Henry Starr.”

  “Awright, arrest him, boys,” he said to the two policemen.

  Henry looked at the man called Feurstine. “Who the hell are you?” he asked him.

  “He’s from Bentonville, Arkansas,” Henderson answered for the man. “One of the people you lined up in front of you when you and your boys shot your way out of that bank. Just sort of your bad luck he was here in Colorado Springs on business and spotted you. Good luck for me he went to the police and told them who you were. I was already on your tail though. His identifying you only made this business go quicker.”

  “Why, hell, Audie, you told me you wasn’t a lawman,” Henry said as one of the policemen put him in cuffs.

  “I’m not, Mister Starr. I’m a Pinkerton detective. I work for the railroad you robbed a few months back. You stole some diamonds off a passenger who is the brother-in-law of that railroad’s president. That’s all my client wants you for. Of course, I intend to collect the reward out on you for the Bentonville bank holdup, too. That and the one on your head for murdering a deputy U.S. marshal. So, I’m taking you and your associate back to Fort Smith so’s you can stand trial for all those crimes, and I can collect the rewards.”

  “Well, if it’s just the rewards you’re after, Audie, maybe we can work out a deal. Save us all a lot of time and inconvenience.”

  Henderson leaned in close to Henry, looking at him eye-to-eye. “You and your associate are a debtor, Mr. Starr. I’m of the conviction that all debts need to be paid. Bribes won’t work with me.”

  “What associate?”

  “Why that young boy, Wilson.”

  “I doubt you’ll find Wilson. He lit out the day we got here.”

  “He’s already in custody. Found him in a bawdy house caught...” Henderson hesitated glancing at Meg. “...totally unawares.”

  “What about Meg here? You ain’t going to arrest her, are you? She ain’t done nothing.”

  Meg had taken a couple steps back from the group of men when the policeman had handcuffed Henry; her fingers covering her lips, her eyes wide in disbelief.

  Henderson looked at Meg, frowning. “Other than her ill-advised association with you, I have no argument with her.” He tipped his hat to Meg. “We’re going to need to search your room and belongings for any stolen money, but after that you’re free to go, ma’am.”

  “Now hold on,” Henry sprung toward Henderson, but the policemen pulled him back. “We just got married. I can’t just leave her here unaccompanied. She ain’t got no wherewithal.”

  Henderson looked at Henry then back at Meg with displeasure. He reached inside his prisoner’s coat pocket and pulled out the wallet. Opening it, he extracted a fifty dollar bill, handing it to Meg. “Here you go, Missus Starr. This won’t leave you destitute, and should allow you to purchase a train ticket back to wherever you came from.”

  Meg, starting to cry, looked at the offered bill then at Henry.

  “Damn you, Henderson,” Henry said, lunging again toward him. “There’s more than that in that billfold. Give her all of it!”

  “I expect this money is all ill-gotten, Starr. Giving her any is only on account of my soft-heartedness. Fifty should be plenty for her needs. Besides, these two boys here are off-duty. I’m thinking they’ll be wanting a gratuity.”

  * * *

  The train trip back across Kansas didn’t have the enthusiastic expectancy as did the trip out. Henderson had allowed Henry and Meg to sit together, after Meg pleaded for it and convinced Audie it would do no harm, but he sat opposite them the whole time and Henry remained in shackles. Audie had enlisted a deputy U.S. marshal to help him take the two outlaws back to Arkansas. The deputy and the Kid took seats across the aisle.

  At around midnight that first day of the trip, Henderson could no longer stay awake, so he clasped Henry to the seat and moved a row back on the empty bench there to try to sleep. He and the deputy would trade off watching their prisoners. As Audie stretched out on the seat bench, he pulled his revolver from his shoulder holster, laying it across his chest, his trigger finger inside the trigger guard. He looked seriously at Meg and said, “Don’t try nothing stupid.”

  When she heard Audie start to snore, Meg said quietly, “Henry, what are we going to do?”

  Henry, himself nodding some, came fully awake and looked at Meg. She looked back broken hearted, awaiting his answer. He looked across the aisle at the deputy and his charge. Wilson was fast asleep, snoring and drooling with his head up against the window; the deputy stared back at him with a sleepy, yet stern expression. “Well, darlin’,” Henry said. He lifted his left arm, cuffed at the wrist and chained to a restraint around his waist. “I can’t see that there’s much we can do at the present time, except try to get some sleep.”

  “I mean about your coming trial.” Meg said. “They’ll hang you if you’re found guilty of murder. You said you killed that man in self-defense.”

  “Well, it was, Meg. Only he was a deputy marshal.” Henry looked at the deputy looking back at him. He continued talking in a lowered voice so that the man couldn’t hear him over the clatter of the train. “Even though most of Judge Parker’s marshals is thievin’ murderers themselves, he usually takes sides with the prosecutin’ lawyer in such cases.” He patted her right knee. “It don’t look real promising.”

  Meg started crying again. She’d done a fair amount of that at the beginning of the ordeal, when Henry had first been arrested, but she’d stopped and sobered up when Henderson said she could ride back with them on the train and sit next to her husband. Now she opened up again in earnest.

  “I reckon you’re sorry you married me, aintcha Meg?” Henry said.

  Meg dabbed her eyes and blew her nose. “Yes, somewhat,” she said. “I knew in my heart marrying you was a fool idea.” She made some more adjustments to her cheeks, eyes, and lips, sighing hard.

  “But I did,” she continued more in control. “And I’m going to stick with you. I don’t know why, Henry, but I love you. I think I have since the day we met. I believe you told me the truth when you said you’d quit outlawing. Now we need to see if we can get you out of this mess. We need to find you a good lawyer. I expect you’ll go to prison, but I don’t want to see you hanged.”

  “Lawyers cost money, darlin’, even bad ones. Henderson got all our money.”

  “No he didn’t,” Meg whispered.

  Henry looked quickly at the deputy, who’d dropped his chin dozing, then back to Meg. “What do you mean? I thought he searched our room and bags.”

  “He did, and he got all that you put in the carpetbag. But he didn’t search my bustle.”

  Henry grinned at her. “How much you got?”

  Meg tried to smile, whispering close to Henry’s ear. “I’m sitting on about two thousand dollars.”

  Henry nodded and scratched the side of his face. “That ought to get me a pretty good lawyer. My cousin Kale over in Tahlequah got me a good one when I went to jail for horse-thieving.” He look quickly at Meg. “Another crime I never done.” With her nod, he continued. “Man’s name was Birdsong. He got me freed on that. I expect Birdsong could get me off that murder charge, too. There was witnesses; old Albert Dodge who I worked for as a cowhand, and another man who was with the deputy I shot. Don’t reckon they’d lie under oath.”

  Suddenly another thought struck him, and his expression turned cold and fearful. “What about your pa?” he asked.

  “Don’t worry about my pa,” she said. “What you need to worry about is your life.”

  “I reckon I am,” he said

  * * *

  “Mister Foreman, have the gentlemen of the jury reached a verdict?” Judge Parker asked the man standing in the jury box.

  “Yes, your honor.”

  “The defendant will rise,” Parker instructed. Once Henry got to his
feet, the judge turned back to the jury foreman.

  “What say you, then?”

  “On the charge of first degree murder for the killin’ of Deputy U.S. Marshal Floyd Wilson on December 13, 1892, we find the defendant, Henry Starr, guilty.”

  Meg let out a short wail, followed by sobs, and there was a flurry in the courtroom; half in jubilation, half in outrage, most from those with money down on the verdict.

  Judge Parker slammed his gavel three times; calmly, but firmly, demanding order. Once the crowd settled down, he looked severely at the defendant and addressed him.

  “Henry Starr,” Judge Parker began. “This isn’t the first time you’ve been before my court, but it will be your last. Time and time again, I see your kind come before me charged with scurrilous misdeeds against society. Even though you’re a young man, it is evident you are an Indian man, and there doesn’t seem to be any hope for reformation or redemption in you. I believe you were born hostile and that it is your sworn vow to do harm to all white people as long as you live. There are other charges against you for which you need to be tried, but considering today’s verdict, I don’t see where we need to waste this court’s—”

  Henry slammed the chains of his wrist shackles onto the table top in front of him. “Judge, I have been found guilty of something I ain’t guilty of! But I don’t believe I need to stand here and listen to you jaw-jack. Now I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me my sentence and just be done with it!”

  The courtroom became crypt quiet. The Hanging Judge himself was stunned into silence. Never in his long history on the bench had anyone ever interrupted him in such a manner. He cleared his throat. He opened a ledger on his bench and leafed through several pages, finally stopping and studying one of the pages for a few seconds.

  “Henry Starr, I sentence you to be hanged by the neck until dead right outside on that gallows there,” Parker pointed the gavel in his hand toward a side window in the courtroom. “...four months from today at noon on February 20, 1894.” He looked again at Henry and paused to see if the condemned had anything else to say. “Bailiff, remove the prisoner. Court is adjourned for lunch,” he said, slamming down his gavel one last time. “We’ll reconvene at one-thirty to proceed with the next case.”

  Standing outside Henry’s jail cell, Claude Birdsong, Esq. addressed his client. “Henry, there were some prejudicial issues in your trial, and I believe I can get it overturned. I’m going to petition the Supreme Court for a mistrial. I believe I can get your sentence overturned.”

  Henry sat on his cot, dejected. He said nothing.

  Meg, standing behind Birdsong, came up to the bars of the cell door and spoke, her voice hushed, raspy from crying. “Henry?”

  Henry looked up at Meg, and came to the cell door. He kissed her through the bars, and her tears bubbled out some more. He reached out through the bars as best he could to touch the sides of her face, her hair.

  “I’m so sorry, Meg. I wish I’d never got you mixed up with me. I wish you’d took up with Stanley Poppingbird or Willie Watson back when we was school kids. You’d best find someone else now, and stay clean away from me.”

  Hot tears of anger mixed with those of her anguish. “You shut up! You’re the one I love, Henry, and I can’t change that. I’ll always stay with you. Mister Birdsong believes he can get you another trial. We can’t give up. You stay strong.”

  Henry nodded and smiled at her. He kissed her once more. The jailer came up behind them and said brusquely, “You folks gotta go now.”

  Chapter Nine

  February 18, 1894

  Fort Smith Prison

  Through the cell window Henry watched men working on the gallows replacing the ropes and nooses. Apparently, the old ropes had been stretched beyond their usefulness, so it appeared he would get a new one at his appointed time in two days. Lawyer Birdsong had been working frantically to get a stay of execution, but it didn’t look like he was going to be successful. Henry hadn’t heard from him in three days.

  “Dang it,” Henry said. His cellmate, Dangerous Bob Lawson, rolled over in his bunk to face the wall. He wasn’t interested in Henry’s comment, only in blocking out the cold with his broad back and the thin blanket that partially covered it. Their cell was on the east side of the jailhouse, but the north wind still cut around the corner and knifed through the small open window. Heat from the potbellied stove in the aisle between the rows of cells did little to offset the permeating cold, even when Turnkey Pogue remembered to stoke it.

  But Henry’s oath was more for his regrets than his misery from the cold. He had a few. He regretted not seeing his sisters more, or his ma. He regretted not putting a bullet through the brain of the green-eyed reprobate of a stepfather when he’d had the chance. He regretted the decision to rob that depot in Nowata when he was sixteen, which set him on the path to his current state. He regretted he wouldn’t live to see his twenty-first birthday. But his biggest regret was Meg. He regretted making her love him, because she did, and now he was going to fill the one love of his life with a great sorrow. For that he wished he’d never met her.

  Keys rattled in the lock of the wooden door at the front of the cell block and it swung open. “Starr! Your lawyer’s here,” Turnkey Pogue hollered. Birdsong rushed through.

  “Henry! They granted your stay!”

  “What?” Henry clung to the cell bars. “What does that mean?”

  “It means you won’t hang. Not this week, anyway. It means the Supreme Court has decided to review your appeal. We’ll probably get a new trial!”

  “How soon will we know?” Henry asked.

  Lawyer Birdsong’s excitement abated some. “Well, these things take time in the high court. Maybe late spring, early summer.”

  * * *

  July 1895

  Turnkey Pogue moved a checker piece forward, then back, forward, then back. He took his finger off the piece and studied the board some more.

  “Come on, Lester,” Henry said with exasperation. “You’re going to get jumped no matter which move you make.”

  Pogue had moved the small wooden table and his chair close to the bars of Henry’s cell so they could play, something he’d done most afternoons for the past year.

  “Well, I know,” Pogue said, scratching the scruffy stubble on his face. “I just can’t decide which move would get me jumped the least, that’s all.” He sighed and moved the piece again, this time removing his finger to finalize the move.

  Henry jumped three of Pogue’s checkers right into a royal square. “King me,” he said, collecting the jumped pieces.

  Pogue placed a black checker atop the new king. “When’re you s’posed to get your new trial?” he asked Henry.

  “No word yet. Don’t expect old Judge Parker’s too keen on trying me again. I think he’s still upset the high court threw out my last one.”

  Pogue moved a checker piece and Henry performed another double jump. Pogue shook his head and stood up. “Well, I better go start passing out supper,” he said.

  Henry lay back on his cot and dozed in the hot, still air of his cell. He’d had the cell all to himself since the day they’d hung Dangerous Bob, some six months prior. While cellmates, Henry didn’t think Bob was all that dangerous, or how he come by the name. Dangerous Bob had only been convicted of horse-stealing, along with aggravated assault for shooting his arresting marshal in the foot. But Bob rode with old Blue Duck who, still at large, was a known killer of women and children. It was said he was the same Blue Duck who lived with Belle Starr during her final days, and may have been the one who killed her. Nah, it seemed poor old Bob got hung more for guilt by association than anything else.

  A loud war whoop and a gunshot brought Henry awake and upright in his bunk. Others in the cell block stirred, too.

  “What the hell?” asked Sammy Broder grasping his cell bars and looking out.

  “Sounded like it come from downstairs,” answered Jake Dempsey from the cell next to Sammy’s.

  Tw
o more gunshots rang out from two different guns, then a third from still another gun. A floorboard in the aisle between the rows of cells splintered upward. Another war whoop followed from below.

  “Must be a jailbreak going on,” Jake said, backing further away from the bullet hole in the floor.

  A deputy, gun in hand, came crashing through the cellblock door at one end and headed for the door at the back end. He opened the door a crack, peering down the back stairs cautiously, pistol at the ready.

  “What’s going on?” Henry asked him.

  “Cherokee Bill’s got a gun, and he has shot Lester Pogue,” he rasped.

  “Is he dead? Henry asked.

  “Bill’s got a gun?” Sammy asked enviously.

  “Yeah, he’s dead awright,” the deputy answered. “Ain’t no doubt about that. Shot in the head.”

  “How’d Bill get a gun?” Sammy asked again.

  “Good question,” the deputy said. “Could’ve been one of his brothers tossed it in through his cell winder.”

  Another two shots exploded and the deputy flinched, ducking involuntarily. Someone downstairs screamed, “Eeeeyi! Yie! Yie! Yie!”

  “That’s gotta be Cherokee Bill,” Sammy said.

  “Has to be,” Jake agreed.

  More shots fired, more savage whoops. “How come Bill ain’t left yet?” Jake wondered.

  “Lester unlocked Bill’s cell door to take him his food. If he hadn’t shot Lester, Bill probably could’ve left, but now we got him pinned in his cell,” the deputy said. “If I figured right, he’s shot five times; only has one bullet left. Onest he’s emptied that gun, we’ll get him.”

  “You going to kill him?” Henry asked.

  “I ’spect so,” the deputy said, still looking down the stairs through the partially opened door. “Hell, he’s set for hangin’ in a couple days, anyway.”

  Another shot. “That’s it,” the deputy said and stepped through the door leaving it ajar. He descended the staircase slowly, stealthily, his pistol pointed forward. After a quarter of a minute he disappeared from Henry’s view.