Red Lands Outlaw: the Ballad of Henry Starr

by Phil Truman

  Another half minute after that, Henry and his fellow inmates heard the deputy shout, “Throw the gun out, Bill. You do that and we won’t shoot ya.”

  There immediately followed two shots in rapid succession, and the deputy grunted, then swore. The upstairs inmate trio could hear him clomping unsteadily back up the stairs. He crashed through the door. “The crazy sumbitch got me,” the deputy said with pain in his voice. Blood seeped through his fingers where he had them clasped around his upper arm. He no longer held his pistol in his hand. Another red splotch spread out on the right side of the man’s shirt just above his belt.

  “Someone musta throwed in some extra ammo for Bill along with that gun,” Sammy said. His tone was matter of fact; his lips twisted into a tight smirk.

  “Think my arm’s busted,” said the deputy; although, none of the inmates had asked after the lawman’s well-being. It appeared he wasn’t aware of his other wound. He staggered to the other door in the cellblock and went down the stairs without saying another word.

  About halfway through the third hour of the standoff, with intermittent exchanges of gunfire, Captain Jed Pride, the head jailer, entered the frontward door of the upstairs cellblock. He came straight to Henry’s cell and stood looking into it.

  “Starr,” he said brusquely into the near dark of the cell.

  Henry, like the others, had moved as far away from the front of his cell as he could. He sat on his bunk, feet off the floor, knees to his chin. “You might get your ass shot off standing there, Cap’n,” Henry responded.

  Pride ignored the warning and got right to the point of his visit. “We want you to talk to Cherokee Bill, Starr. See if you can’t calm him down and have him give up this nonsense. He ain’t got no way out of this... not alive, anyways.”

  “Maybe he’s figured that out, Cap’n. Maybe that’s why he keeps shooting.”

  “I got two deputies wounded and a jailer dead. Cherokee Bill’s going to die one way or the other, but I don’t want no more of my men killed or hurt. We need you to talk to him.”

  Henry stayed on his bunk. “Why me? Why don’t you talk to him?”

  “I tried, but all I got was shot at. You’re an Indin, aintcha? We thought he’d listen to reason with another Indin.”

  “Reason?” In a mocking voice, Henry said. “Bill, why don’t you quit shooting at these white men? Now put down your gun and stop all this, so’s they can go ahead and hang you in a few days.

  “That the reason you’re talking about? Don’t think I’m interested, Cap’n.”

  “We could make your life easier in here, Starr. If you do this, mebbe I could do something for you.”

  Henry got up off his bunk and went to the cell door. “Tell you what I want, Cap’n Pride. I want my new trial to start. I want out of this hell hole. It’s been over a year since the Supreme Court threw my last trial out, now I want Judge Parker to give me that new trial like I’m s’pose to get, and I want it pronto.”

  “I’ll talk to the Judge,” said the Captain.

  “You do that. You come back with a set date in writing and signed by the Judge... and I’ll go down and talk to Bill.” Henry paused to let his proposal sink in. Then he thought to add, “I know Bill.” He hesitated before offering the next bit of information. “We even rode together some time back. Don’t believe Bill would shoot another Cherokee.”

  Captain Pride scoured the inside of his cheeks and lips with his tongue, as he thought. “I’ll be back,” he said at last, turning to go back downstairs.

  “I ’spect I’ll be here, Cap’n,” Henry said.

  * * *

  “Hey, Bill, it’s Henry Starr!” Henry remained concealed at the base of the back stairs. He could see the shot deputy’s pistol on the floor where he’d dropped it. It lay halfway between where he stood and the open door to Cherokee Bill’s cell.

  After a few seconds, Bill answered. “Henry? I thought they hung you.”

  “Not yet, Bill. I got me another trial first. Maybe they won’t.”

  Bill laughed. “You really believe that, Henry? Hell, it’d spoil their sport not to hang another Indin.”

  “I’m going to do my best to keep that from happening. My lawyer says they rarely convict on a retrial.”

  “Izzat right?” Bill said. But it was more derision than a question. “Well, you do your way, and I’ll do mine. I wish you luck, Henry.” With that, Bill fired off another shot toward the hunkered deputies at the front of the cellblock.

  “Bill, don’t shoot. I’m going to come over there to your cell so’s we can talk.”

  “Talk about what, Henry? They send you down here to talk me into giving up? ’Cause I ain’t giving up.” To emphasize his assertion, he fired another round in the direction of the deputies, then gobbled like a turkey.

  “Now come on, Bill. You keep doing that, you’re going to shoot me. Don’t believe you’d shoot a brother, would you?”

  “I might. I just might.”

  “Why hell, Bill, we rode together.”

  There was studied silence from Bill’s corner for several seconds. “Awright, you come on in here, Henry, but I’m telling you right now I ain’t giving up.” Then he said to the men bunched behind walls and crates at the other end of the building, “Any you bastards try anything, I’ll kill ya.”

  “Okay, Bill. I’m coming over there,” Henry said. He stepped around the corner with his hands raised, totally exposed. “I’m unarmed,” he added. He walked into Bill’s cell looking down the barrel of a .44 pointed at his nose.

  “Howdy, Henry,” Bill said without lowering the gun. “It’s been awhile.”

  Henry glanced down at the lifeless body of Lester Pogue sprawled on the cell floor. “It surely has, Bill. It surely has.” He stood five feet away from Bill, his arms still raised. “Why don’t you aim that pistol somewheres else. Makes me a little uncomfortable you pointing it at me.”

  Bill smiled and lowered the gun. “Sorry, Henry. Just wanted to make sure you knowed I’uz serious about maybe shooting you.”

  “Well, I knew that, Bill. I’m much obliged you ain’t yet.”

  Cherokee Bill threw back his head and laughed.

  “What’s this all about, anyway?” Henry asked.

  Bill sat down on one corner of his bunk, leaning left to peer back toward the front area where his adversaries hid from his line of sight. Satisfied that none of them were advancing, he spoke to Henry.

  “I’m busting out of here. Little brother Luther’s waiting outside with horses.”

  “He the one brought you that pistol?” Henry asked. He’d moved to the back of the cell so he’d be out of the line of fire.

  Bill nodded. “Yeah, we aim to head back to the Territory where it’ll be safe.”

  “Well, Bill, normally I’d say that was a good plan,” said Henry. He stood leaning against the back wall his arms folded across his chest. He’d raised up on his toes to look out the small barred window, then settled back down on his heels. “But I can see maybe twenty armed men outside this jailhouse waiting for you to come out. Most of ’em got Winchesters.”

  Bill looked back at him belligerently. “I ain’t dying in here. I ain’t being hung. A man who don’t fight for his freedom, ain’t a man.”

  Henry nodded. “I can see your point, Bill. But what about your little brother? You want him to die for your transgressions, too?”

  Bill, though still looking defiant, appeared to be thinking about it, so Henry continued. “Now you could maybe make it out of the jailhouse here. I doubt it, but it’s possible. You could even maybe make it to Luther and your horse, but I seriously doubt you’d get much beyond that. And don’t think any of them men and deputies out there would hesitate to shoot you, Luther, and your horses to stop you from getting away. You wouldn’t want that boy to die today, would you? His blood would be on your hands.”

  Henry stopped again to let Bill think about all this. He stretched up to look out the window again. “Just how old a boy is Luther, B
ill?” Henry asked.

  “Believe he’s fourteen... mebbe fifteen.” Bill stared at the floor, the gun held loosely between his legs. “When I’s his age, he was a little tyke. I’d take off to go out hunting... deer, wild hogs, bear, it didn’t matter... little Luther’d come running after me wanting to go along. I’d fuss at him, but he’d just run along beside my horse, looking up at me with them big sad eyes. So I’d take him along. He’d ride to the front of me on that saddle holding the reins. Truth is, I kind of liked having him with me. We was pretty close back then. Most things I done, he’d be right there with me.”

  “Well, there you go then. Even if they didn’t shoot Luther today, they’d arrest him. Now that you’ve kilt Lester, Luther getting you that gun makes him an accomplice. That could get him a hanging sentence from old Parker. You hand over that gun to me, and we call this whole thing off, we won’t mention Luther or his part. Once he sees you’re not busting out, he’ll probably head on back home.”

  Cherokee Bill looked up at Henry. “You think you could get word to him, Henry? I figure he’ll want to hang around for a few days to see if there’s anything else he can do to get me out. I’d like to tell him to get the hell on outta here.”

  “I think so, Bill. You know, Trustee Heller’s wife comes in here all the time to read us Bible verses. I bet if we explain the situation to her, she’d let Luther know.”

  Henry held out his hand, palm up, gesturing for Bill to give him the gun. Bill slapped the barrel of the pistol onto the palm of his own left hand over and over, trying to decide what to do. After the sixth or seventh slap, he closed his left fingers around the barrel and handed it butt first to Henry.

  * * *

  September 15, 1895

  U.S. Court in Fort Smith, Arkansas

  “Have you reached a verdict?”

  “We have, your honor.”

  “What say you?”

  “For the murder of Deputy U.S. Marshal Floyd Wilson, we find the defendant, Henry Starr, still guilty.”

  The usual hubbub surged through the courtroom. Judge Parker whacked his gavel and demanded order, as usual. “Henry Starr,” the Judge said, looking smugly at the convicted. “Again, I sentence you to hang by the neck until dead three months from today. Do you have anything you want to say?”

  Henry looking stunned, sat back down heavily in his chair. Lawyer Birdsong patted his shoulder and assured him he’d appeal the case again.

  “Court’s adjourned,” Judge Parker said with one last gavel whack.

  * * *

  Meg sat across the table from Henry in the jail’s visitor’s room. She held a kerchief to her nose more to hold off the stench of the jailhouse than to suppress any nose drip caused by her tears.

  “Meg, I’ve been in here over two years now,” Henry said speaking low. He held her hands, his head bowed almost to his chest. “Don’t know how much longer I’m going to be now. Wouldn’t blame you a bit if you wanted to divorce me.”

  “What do you mean, divorce you?” she sniffed. “Our marriage hasn’t even gotten started.”

  “We ain’t had much of a marriage.”

  “Well, we will. Birdsong got you that third trial. They won’t convict you a third time.”

  “Don’t be too sure about that. I’m pretty sure Parker means to hang me. Now more than ever. Besides, I don’t expect he’s in any hurry to bring me to trial again. The Supreme Court overturning his court twice has to be dang humiliating to him. He’s a proud man.

  “You should get on with your life, Meg. You’re a young woman, and pretty. You deserve a lot better than me.”

  “Henry, I’m not leaving you, so stop talking that way. I love you.”

  * * *

  Lawyer Birdsong sat his satchel on the table, then himself in the chair opposite Henry. He sighed, then spoke. “Henry, Parker is willing to try you as many times as it takes to get you hung. I don’t think I can take your case to the Supreme Court for the same conviction three times, and more than likely that’s what you’ll get at this next trial. There won’t be a fourth trial.”

  “Hell, Birdsong, I don’t really care no more. It has been almost five years I’ve been in this damn hell hole. I had what the doc called distentery, I had food poisoning, I had pneumonia, I got fleas and lice, I been ratbit I don’t know how many times, these big sores are all over me,” Henry held his forearm up for his lawyer to see. “Why look at me,” then he stood. “I’ve probably lost thirty pounds. Hell, I think I’d prefer to hang. Keeping me in here is Parker’s way of punishing me. It’s worser than hanging.”

  “I know, I know.” Birdsong looked around at the guard, then reached over to grab Henry’s shirt sleeve to pull him back down into the chair. “Calm down.” Henry returned to his seated position.

  The lawyer continued. “I can get you out of this place, Henry, but here’s what we got to do. I’m going to see if I can work a deal to get your murder charge reduced to manslaughter. You plead guilty to that and I believe maybe Parker won’t hang you.”

  Henry slumped back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. “Plead guilty?” he asked. His lawyer nodded.

  “Aw right, Birdsong,” he said after a bit. But if I plead guilty, you tell Parker I want this thing done quick so’s I can get the hell out of here.”

  * * *

  When Henry came into the visitor’s room, Lawyer Birdsong stood opposite the table with a big grin on his face.

  “You got some good news, Birdsong?” Henry asked.

  “Parker’s dead,” the lawyer said.

  Henry hesitated before sitting. “Is that a fact?” he asked, a little stunned.

  “Yes. Yes, it is, Henry. He succumbed this morning.”

  Henry grinned at his lawyer, then the guard. “Well, damn,” he said. “That is good news.”

  “I believe we’ll have a better chance of getting that plea bargain worked out when his replacement gets here.”

  Henry’s grin faded. “You mean saying that I done manslaughter?”

  “Well, yes, Henry. That’s what we talked about. The Supreme Court Justices recommended that charge for the new trial.”

  “But I figure with a new judge, I’ll be found innocent of murder.”

  Birdsong sat down and looked Henry in the eye. “No, Henry. I don’t believe that’s going to happen. Best chance we got is copping this plea.”

  “Well, what will it mean?”

  “It’ll mean you won’t hang, Henry. But you will do some prison time. Not here, though. Probably in a federal penitentiary somewhere back east.”

  “For how long?”

  “Hard to say. Could be as little as two years or as long as twenty. Whatever it is, I think I can get it reduced for time served.”

  “Okay, Birdsong. But I hope it’s soon. I’m tired of being rat and flea food.”

  November 15, 1898

  The Honorable John R. Rogers placed his glasses on his nose and looked at the paper he held in his hand. Henry stood below him in front of the judge’s bench, shackled at the wrists and feet.

  “Alright, Starr, your guilty plea for the charge of manslaughter in the first degree has been entered. The court sentences you to eight years.”

  Birdsong cleared his throat and said, “Your Honor—” but the judge held up his hand to silence him, and continued reading the sentence.

  “The term of that sentence will be reduced to three years for the time you’ve already served here.” Rogers lowered the paper and looked at Henry. “The deed you did to disarm one Crawford Goldsby back in ninety-five.” Judge Rogers again consulted the paper he held. “Also known as Cherokee Bill...” He read a few more lines silently before adding, “rest his renegade soul... that deed did not go unnoticed by this court. I’ve read Captain Pride’s report of the incident, and have taken that into consideration in pronouncing sentence.” Henry nodded, so the judge proceeded.

  “On the counts of armed robbery in Indian Territory, as well as that train robbery at Pryor Creek in Indian Territor
y, you are sentenced to seven and five years, respectively, which brings your total sentence to fifteen years. This court will remand you to the federal penitentiary at Columbus, Ohio to serve out these sentences.” The judge set the paper down and looked at Henry. “Is there anything you’d like to say, before I adjourn this court?”

  Henry looked at his feet, then up at the judge. “Well… onliest thing I can say is, I appreciate you not hanging me. I surely do, Judge.”

  Chapter Ten

  January 1899

  Ohio Federal Prison

  Standing on the prison grounds with fifteen other men in chains, Henry gazed up at the walls rising a vertical thirty feet above the frozen dirt. It was difficult to tell where the dull gray limestone blocks left off and the sullen sky began. Pellets of snow and sleet blew in a confused swirl around the men giving no true direction of the wind. All they knew for sure was that the frozen spits came from the hostile, leaden clouds gathered above them.

  Three guards had shoved the new prisoners into two loose lines facing a door in the stone wall, and told them to keep quiet. Then they waited, silently, in the biting cold and stinging sleet. After ten minutes, a small man in a wool overcoat came out, and stood on the raised porch in front of the door. He wore thick leather gloves; a fur hat covered his head and ears. He waited in silence while the guards prodded the standing men, demanding that they pay attention to what was about to be said.

  “My name is Coggin,” the man began. “If any of you ever has occasion, you will address me as Warden Coggin, or Warden. You men have entered the Ohio Penitentiary where you will remain as prisoners for either the remainder of your life, or until your sentence expires, whichever comes first.” Coggin paused to let his last sentence sink in.

  “You all have been convicted of crimes against humanity, and for those your incarceration will be served here. For most of you, your punishment will include hard labor. We have rules here. Obey those rules and your stay will be unremarkable. Disobey them, and we’ll make you wish you had. None of you will escape. If you try you will be shot in the attempt, or tied to that post in the yard over there,” he pointed to the seven foot pine pole sticking out of the ground to their left and behind them; they all turned to look at it, “… and flogged.”