Red Lands Outlaw: the Ballad of Henry Starr

by Phil Truman

  “I’ll give you a hundred dollars for it,” Feingold said, turning the ring over as he held it between his right thumb and forefinger. “Less the ten bucks you borrowed, of course.”

  Henry rubbed his hand across his eyes and down over his cheeks and mouth. “Hell, Mordecai, you sold me that ring for six and a half bills.”

  “Yeah, that I did. But that was over a decade ago. Got plenty of diamond rings for sale now. Don’t much need this one.”

  Henry snatched the ring from the jeweler. “Feingold,” he said angrily, “don’t ever let nobody tell you you ain’t a thief. Hell, you’re a bigger thief than I ever thought about being. Believe I’ll just keep this ring.”

  Feingold looked back at Henry and shrugged.

  Chapter Twelve

  November 16, 1907

  Guthrie, Oklahoma

  It was a brilliant autumn day, an “Indian Summer” day. The sky was a high, deep blue and cloudless. The bright sun warmed the crisp air, and a light breeze barely rustled the spectrum of red and yellow and orange leaves hanging on, and falling from, the scattered maple, oak, and hickory trees. It was a rare day, a perfect day in the land the United States would now call The State of Oklahoma; a day the very first governor would be sworn in.

  Henry had voted for Haskell, even though the man was a Democrat. The other fella was a carpetbagger, in Henry’s estimation, and he wanted no part of that kind. So when Haskell spoke movingly about the new state’s duty to the Indian, and gave the Indian Orphan Band a place of honor in the inauguration ceremony, Henry knew he’d made the right choice.

  When the governor-elect moved out onto the upper steps of the library, Henry reached for his three-year-old son. “Ollie, hand me Teddy,” he said to his wife. “I want him to get a good look at this.”

  They stood near the front, close to where the new governor would take his oath to the new constitution. Henry hoisted the tyke up onto his shoulders. “Son, I want you to remember this day. This is the beginning of a new state, a state for us Indians. Remember it, and be proud.”

  Henry felt good, better than he’d felt in years. He’d honestly turned his life around—he’d completely quit outlawing; his business back in Tulsa was prosperous. He’d married a lovely Cherokee girl, who’d given him a perfect son. He named the boy Theodore Roosevelt Starr after the man who’d pardoned him. On that perfect bright autumn day, it seemed to Henry his life couldn’t get any better. His future looked bright.

  * * *

  “Hello, Bagby Real Estate Office,” the middle-aged woman said into the fluted mouthpiece of the telephone. She held the stem of the telephone in her left hand as she pressed the earpiece onto her ear with her right. She spoke louder than usual.

  “Yes,” she said. Then furrowing her brow she asked loudly, “Who?” Then, after a few seconds of listening, followed that with, “Please wait, I’ll tell him you’re calling.” She sat the phone pieces down on her desktop, and walked to one of the wood partitioned offices behind her.

  “Mister Starr, there is a Senator Birdsong on the telephone calling you.”

  Henry looked quizzically up from his newspaper, then quickly grabbed the phone on his desk and removed the earpiece from its cradle. “Birdsong?” he asked loudly into the mouthpiece, at the same time giving the secretary a look which indicated she should leave.

  “How you doing, Henry,” came a tinny voice from the other end.

  “Well, I’m doing fine,” Henry continued. “Never expected to hear from you again. I heard you was elected state senator over there in Muskogee. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. I guess being a constitutional delegate helped me there.”

  “So why you calling, Tom?”

  “Actually, Henry I’ve g… ome… ews for… ou.” Loud static came on the line and the caller’s voice became garbled.

  “What’s that, Birdsong? I didn’t get that last part.”

  “I… aid, I’ve got some news fo… you.”

  “What kind of news?” Henry shouted into the phone.

  “The State of Arkansas…” Birdsong’s voice began coming in stronger. “…has kept your case open on the Bentonville bank robbery back in ninety-three. As your attorney of record, they sent me notice that they are petitioning Governor Haskell to have you extradited back to Fort Smith to stand trial.”

  “Stand trial?” Henry yelled. “Why, hell, I already paid my dues in prison for what I done back then.” He happened to look out at the secretary who was looking back at him with her mouth open. Hiram Bagby had come to the doorway of his own office, and stood looking curiously at Henry. He turned his back to them and lowered his voice. “That was over fourteen years ago, Birdsong.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Henry,” Birdsong said. “You weren’t tried for that charge, and they’ve re-opened the case. When this was Indian Territory, they couldn’t come over here and get you. Now that Oklahoma is a state, they can. It’s called extradition. But they have to get the governor’s approval first.”

  “I ain’t going back, Birdsong. I ain’t going to get convicted and sent to one of them Arkansas convict farms. I’d die there. I got my life straight now. I’m living an honest life.”

  “Well, I know, Henry. Maybe there’s something I can do. I know Haskell pretty well; we worked together at the Constitutional Convention. We’re not in the same party, but perhaps I can convince him you’re an upstanding citizen now, and get him to turn down Arkansas’ request. Just stay put until I can see what I can do. And for God’s sake, don’t go to Arkansas for anything.”

  “Okay,” Henry said.

  “I’ll call you when I know something,” Birdsong said.

  * * *

  Henry sat by the phone in his office… waiting. He’d come back in after Bagby and Missus Logan had left for the day. It was getting late. Henry pulled his watch out of his vest pocket, and held it up to the dim light of the gas lamp on the wall. Almost half past nine. Earlier in the day, a week after his first call, Birdsong had called to tell him he had a meeting with the governor that night at eight, and to wait by the phone. He could not believe he was still wanted for that Bentonville job. The local paper had picked up on the extradition thing in the past few days, and now every petty robbery in that half the state—there had been several—had been pinned on him, even though he was completely innocent, and wasn’t even in the state where three of them took place.

  Despite expecting the phone’s ring, Henry jumped when it finally did. He didn’t pick the receiver off its cradle until the fourth ring.

  “Hello,” Henry said.

  “Long distance calling from Guthrie for Mister Henry Starr,” the nasal voice of the operator said.

  “That’d be me,” Henry responded.

  “Go ahead, please,” the operator said.

  “Henry?”

  “I’m here, Birdsong. What did he say?”

  “He… aid he was… going to gr… it.

  “What?”

  “He w… rant it. There’ll be… extradition.

  “There will be?”

  “What? We’ve got a… ad con…tion… enry. Did you… ear me?”

  “You said he granted the extradition?”

  “What? I said the go…nor did… grant the …dition.”

  Henry leaned back in the chair and pushed his thumb and forefinger against his eyes. “Yeah, I think I’ve got it, Birdsong. Appreciate what you did. Thanks for calling.”

  “You’re welc… Henry. Good… ye.

  Well, that was that. He’d been thinking about what he’d do if he got bad news, that is, that the governor would give him up. He’d have to go home and tell Ollie, say goodbye to her… and Teddy.

  “What’s wrong, Henry?” Ollie asked. She’d been sitting in bed reading, waiting for him to get home. She was used to him coming in late, he often did; but that night something about his demeanor alarmed her.

  “Something has come up,” Henry answered. He sat beside her on the edge of the bed keeping his back to
her.

  She laid her book on her lap and asked, “What has come up?”

  “Ollie, I got some things in my past, things I never told you about,” Henry started.

  “You mean the prison stuff?”

  “No, it’s more than that. Back when I was a kid, nineteen or so, I… me and a bunch of guys robbed a bank in Arkansas.”

  “You told me about your criminal days, Henry. Isn’t that why you went to prison?”

  “It is, Ollie, but this one I never got tried for. It was a long time ago. I thought they’d let it go, but I guess they didn’t. And now that Oklahoma is a state, they can come and get me and take me back to stand trial.

  “A friend of mine, he was my lawyer back then, he’s a state senator now. Anyway, he knows Governor Haskell, and he went and asked him not to allow this exterdition thing. But I guess he is going to allow it. That’s where I been tonight, waiting to hear from my friend about it.”

  His young wife put her hand on Henry’s back. “What are you going to do, Henry?”

  “Well, I ain’t going back to Arkansas to stand trial. I can’t. I’m guilty. They got me dead to rights on that, and I’m afraid they’d send me off to one of them convict farms for life.”

  Henry got quiet, sitting there on the bedside. He stayed that way for several minutes, his head bowed. Ollie couldn’t see his face, but she thought he was crying. She rubbed his back and waited for him to speak. She didn’t know what to say.

  “So what are you going to do, Henry?” she asked again.

  “I reckon I’d better take off, Ollie. Go on the scout. Figured I’d head out west; get as far away from Arkansas as I can. Maybe in a few months I can get settled in somewhere else, find a job. I’ll send for you and Teddy as soon as I can.”

  “You’re just going to take off? Well, how will Teddy and I live?”

  “I got some money saved up. I’ll take some of it, but I’ll leave most of it for you.”

  “Well, how long will you be gone, Henry?”

  “Can’t answer that, Ollie. Could be a while. I’ll send you some money when I get some. You might talk to Bagby; see if maybe you can’t get your old job back. I figure your ma can help you take care of Teddy.”

  “When are you leaving?”

  “Got a couple of things to take care of first, but soon.”

  * * *

  Henry wandered about the parlor looking at the caskets on display, while he waited for the undertaker.

  “Henry?” the solemn mortician inquired in as cheerful a voice as he could muster. He offered his hand and a sad smile. “What can I do for you?” He spoke in a sympathetic voice. It was habitual. Most people who came to see him were in a grieving state. To him, Henry looked to be that way, too.

  “Abe,” Henry started after shaking the mortician’s hand. “I’m here to make some arrangements.” Henry had sold the man, Abe Morton, the house which was now a funeral parlor. He figured he could take the man into his confidence. Though a young man, the undertaker looked older than his real age. His skeletal pale face and receding hairline aided in that.

  Morton looked stricken and grasped Henry’s hand with both of his. “Why yes, Henry. I’m so sorry for your loss. Who is it?”

  Henry pulled his hand away and snorted. “No, Morton, ain’t nobody died… not yet. But one of these days you’re going to hear about Henry Starr getting killed. When you do, I want you to give me a proper funeral. I don’t want to be dumped in no forgotten hole without a marker. I want you to fix me up right, put me in one of these fine caskets, plant me in a respectable cemetery, and get me a headstone.”

  The undertaker read the newspaper diligently every morning, starting with the obituaries, then spreading to the news stories to see who else had died, or possibly could soon. So he knew Henry’s plight. “Well, of course, Henry. I would be happy to be of service.”

  “Well, then, you tell me how much all that will likely cost, and we’ll settle up. I’m, uh… going to have to be away for a while.”

  “Well, let’s see,” Morton said rubbing his chin. “There’s the casket, the embalming, perhaps some clean-up work.” He looked at Henry apologetically before going on, “And, of course, the cemetery plot and headstone. And if you’re not here, there may be some transportation costs back to Tulsa. He drummed his long fingers on his cheek while he mentally calculated. “I could probably do it all for around eight hundred dollars.”

  Henry reached inside his suit pocket and pulled out his wallet. “I’ll give you a thousand, in case you run into some unexpected expenses.”

  Morton took the bills, folded them over once, and discreetly slipped them into his pocket. “Why, yes, we can give you a real nice funeral for that. Would you like to pick out a casket while you’re here?”

  Henry shook his head. “Don’t think so, Abe. You can do that when the time comes.”

  “There is one other thing I’d like you to do,” he added. He pulled a small sealed package out of his coat pocket. “Instructions are in here. I’d be obliged if you’d not open this until after I’m dead.”

  Morton took the package and looked at it curiously. “Why, of course, Henry. Whatever you say.”

  * * *

  From the top of the rise he saw the glow of a campfire about a mile away in the valley before him. He’d arisen at four that morning, and rode west. Facing the sunset, he figured he’d better find a place to camp. The gathering spring night was crystal clear with a handful of bright stars scattered in the twilight sky. The air was cool and still, remnants of the fading winter still in the air. He could see for miles in every direction in the flawless evening, and the campfire appeared to be the only light around, except for the emerging stars. He would ride to the camp and see if he would be welcomed.

  “Hello the camp,” he shouted when he came within thirty yards of it. A few small oak trees stood at the edge of the flame glow, their leaves just budding out. One figure sat by the fire; a stout man wearing what looked like a buffalo robe. The man reached for a Winchester at his side when Henry called out.

  “Who’s out there?” the camper shouted back.

  “One rider,” Henry called back. “Would like to share your fire, and some salt pork I got in my bag.”

  The man at the fire kept his rifle raised in Henry’s direction. “Come on in, then,” he said.

  Henry rode into the light of the fire and stopped. Still sitting astride his horse, he raised his hands slightly holding the reins loosely in the fingers of his left hand. He gave the nervous camper his friendliest smile. “How you doing, pard?”

  The man nodded, but kept his rifle trained on the rider. Henry judged him to be somewhere in his late 50’s, early 60’s. His face, weather-lined and brown, was covered with a short, grizzled beard, but his eyes were blue and piercing.

  Remaining cordial, Henry continued. “I promise, I’m alone. Traveling west. Saw your fire and thought maybe we could share it and some food.”

  Still a little wary, the man lowered the barrel of the rifle some. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Name’s Starr, Henry Starr.”

  The man studied Henry some more. “Believe I’ve heard of you,” he said. “You that bank robber?”

  Henry’s smile broadened. “Hell, my reputation has spread all the way out here to the boondocks. Mind if I get down?”

  “Yeah, I ’spect that’d be awright.” The man laid his rifle barrel in the crook of his left arm, keeping his right hand near the trigger. “You said something about some salt pork?”

  “It’s in my saddlebag,” Henry said. “Okay if I get it out?”

  The man nodded, but tightened his grip on his rifle, his finger back on the trigger. Henry opened the bag and pulled out the pork wrapped in butcher paper. He brought it toward the fire and his new companion. “I could sure go for some of that coffee,” He said.

  “Help yourself,” said the camper as he grabbed the offered package of meat.

  “I’d like to unsaddle my horse,
if it’s okay with you. He’s been rode hard today. Need to get him fed, too.

  “Why, hell yeah,” the man said. “Man’s gotta mind his horse first.”

  Loosening the saddle’s cinch, Henry asked, “What name do you go by, Pard?”

  “Last name’s Hart,” he answered. “Most folks just call me Stumpy.”

  “Why Stumpy?” Henry asked as he dropped his saddle, and settled in next to the fire. He grabbed the coffee pot and poured into a tin cup he’d brought out, too.

  The man removed the left-handed leather glove he wore and held up his hand, extending index finger and thumb. The other three fingers, down to the second joint, were missing. Before Henry could ask, Stumpy said, “Comanche named Bad Neck took ’em back in eighty-five. We got in a disagreement about an Indin woman; well, half Indin. We was both drunk at the time, so when I passed out, he whacked ‘em off. Took the woman, too.”

  Henry shook his head and sipped from his cup. “I’ve known a few Comanche. Mean bastards, most of ’em.”

  Stumpy stirred the fire with a stick he held in his good hand. “Well, I figure he got the worst of it. That was a rightly contentious woman; promiscuous, too.”

  “You headed somewheres, Stumpy?” Henry asked.

  “Nowheres in particular. Left a cowhand job down near Anadarko. Foreman was getting on my nerves. Figured on maybe going up to Colorado. Heard there might be some opportunities up there.”

  “Colorado, now there’s a nice place,” said Henry.

  “What about you, Starr? What I hear, you must be running from the law.”

  Henry drank some more coffee and looked up through the sparse oak branches at the stars. “I’d be curious to know what you heard,” he said.

  Stumpy had cut off a piece of the salt pork, and holding the chunk to his knife blade with his thumb, took a bite from it. “Heard there’s a string of hold-ups out east, up around Tulsa, stores and such. Papers say you’re probably the one who done ’em.”

  Henry reached for the salt pork to cut off a bite for himself. “Well, first of all, you can’t believe everything you read. Most of them papers just make things up. And, second, I ain’t done none of them robberies. I don’t rob candy stores; I’m a bank robber. Anyway, I was. Ain’t robbed a bank in fifteen years. But that’s why I’m on the scout. State of Arkansas ain’t forgot the last one I jacked up over there. They’re trying to come and get me for that one.”