Red Lands Outlaw: the Ballad of Henry Starr

by Phil Truman

  Stumpy cut off some more pork. “I reckon every man has got a cross to bear.”

  “What’s yours, Stumpy?”

  Henry’s campmate dunked the blade of his pocket knife into the boiling pot of coffee sitting in the coals of the fire, then wiped it on his pants leg. He looked the blade over carefully before folding it and putting the knife in his shirt pocket. “Well, except for letting Bad Neck take that woman, which was a considerable wrong on my part, I don’t recall too much I done to invoke the wrath of God or man. Maybe stole a chicken or two, some beeves, a few ponies when I ran with the Comanche and Kiowa. Never held up a bank, though... or shot a man.”

  “That’s commendable,” Henry said.

  Stumpy looked steadily into the fire, remaining quiet for several minutes. Henry leaned back on his saddle and lowered his hat brim to cover his eyes. It’d been a long day, and he was feeling a doze coming on.

  “Of course,” Stumpy suddenly continued. “There was that time up on the Washita when I was with the 7th Cavalry.”

  Henry pushed up the brim of his hat, and looked intently at his companion. “You rode with Custer at the Washita?” Every Indian in Oklahoma knew about the massacre of Black Kettle and his camp on the Washita River. On a cold, snowy morning in November of sixty-eight, Custer and his troop rode down on the peaceful Cheyenne village, shooting everything in sight; not just warriors and dogs and cattle, but women and children as well. Then Custer took prisoners, mostly women and children, along with what horses they hadn’t shot, and used them as human shields while he made his retreat.

  “Hell, I was just sixteen,” Stumpy answered. “Joined up with the Army the summer of that year in Hays, Kansas. Figured Army life would be better than life on a dirt farm with my old man. He was as mean as any Comanch I ever met.”

  Henry looked hard at Stumpy, unable to hide his contempt, nor did he much want to. Stumpy could tell that.

  “I know you’re Indin, Starr, but I didn’t shoot nobody, not even one of the dogs. I seen enough that day, though, without doing nothing to stop it, that’ll surely send me to hell. Saw my sergeant shoot a small boy in the chest with his Colt.”

  Stumpy fell silent. Watching him, Henry saw the man close his eyes tight and bow his head, his lips tight and twitching. Then he raised his head and poked the fire some more, sniffing and wiping his nose with his mangled left hand. “What the hell?” he said in a husky voice. Henry could tell he was embarrassed and kind of surprised at his display of emotion. “This ain’t something I talk about much, especially not to no stranger. But seeing that little boy shot down ain’t never left me. Usually comes up nights in a bad dream.

  “Anyways, I left the Army right then and there. That night, as we was marching all them prisoners back to Fort Cobb… women with babies, little kids, old men… all on foot and in the dark, snow on the ground… I left the column. Reined my horse away and just rode off into the darkness.

  “I expect I’d uh been hung for desertion if they’d ever caught up with me, but no one ever did. I been wandering around here in the Territory ever since. Lived with various Indin tribes; did a lot of cowboyin’ over the years.”

  Still staring into the fire, Stumpy shook his head. “Hard to believe that day was forty years ago.”

  The crackling of the fire and the night sounds outside the camp were all that could be heard for several minutes. Presently, Henry rolled onto his left side, pulling his blanket up to his shoulders. “Believe I’ll get some shut-eye,” he said. “I got some friends up north I’d like to see. Mebbe we could ride together on your way to Colorado.

  Chapter Thirteen

  After a week of riding, the land had turned red and sandy. High rusty mesas, layered in ocher and beige and black, stretched north and south on either side of the two men as they rode through the valley. Henry said he knew a guy somewhere up in this area; said they’d stop and ask where to find him, next home place they saw. They’d stayed away from towns, as much as they could, preferring to ride up to farm and ranch homes to seek shelter and food and hospitality. Most times that worked.

  Their second morning out, they’d come across an old Boomer northwest of a town called Watonga. Nice big painted house, big barn, lots of livestock, acres of rolling farmland. The evening before, they’d spied the farm house some miles off, a strand of smoke curling from its rock chimney. “Let’s camp here,” Henry said when they rode atop the knoll where they’d first seen the house. “We’ll get up early tomorrow and see if those folks won’t feed us some breakfast.”

  As they approached the house in the pre-dawn light the next morning, a portly man in bib overalls and a much-faded red flannel shirt, walked out onto his back porch to watch them. A sweat-stained droopy-brimmed hat covered his head, and the pant legs of his overalls were stuffed into the tops of ornately sewn cowboots. An untrimmed and graying mustache sagged from his upper lip, covering most of his mouth. His round face was wind-creased and sun-worn.

  The two riders reined up ten feet from the farmer. Henry leaned forward with his forearms on the saddle horn. “Morning, mister” he said.

  “Mornin’ to you,” the farmer responded in an amicable tone. “What’s got you boys out riding so early on this fine spring morning?”

  “We seen your place last night from where we camped. Wanted to come on down here to see if we could buy some eggs and bacon to cook up for our breakfast; maybe get some oats for our horses, too.”

  Without hesitation the man yelled over his shoulder, “Mother, two more for breakfast. They look to be hungry, so pile on the biscuits and bacon.” A woman’s face appeared in the kitchen’ window, looking Henry and Stumpy over curiously. The farmer turned back to the riders. “Cain’t take your money when our larder is so bounteous. You follow me on out to the barn. We’ll get your animals fed and watered, too.”

  Walking to the barn, he asked them, “Where’d you boys camp last night?”

  “Out east of here, up on that little hill yonder,” Henry answered, pointing back over his shoulder.

  “That’d be some of my land,” the man said. “I own almost all the land far as you can see; almost four hunnert acres. Got it back in eighty-nine at the Land Run. Finest farm land on the Strip.”

  “Well, it sure looks it, Mister, uh…”

  “Sweeney,” the farmer said. “I’ll answer to Ben, though.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Ben. I’m Ned Christie, up from around Durant.” After shaking hands with Sweeney, Henry glanced to Stumpy to let him introduce himself.

  Stumpy took Sweeney’s hand. “Stumpy Hart,” he said with no further elaboration.

  “Nice to meet you boys,” Sweeney said. “Don’t get many folks stop by way out here. ’Spect my daughters will be pleased you did, too.”

  “Oh, you got daughters?” Henry asked, not trying to appear too overly interested.

  “Yeah, I got daughters,” Sweeney said a little wistfully. “Three of ’em. Youngest is seventeen.”

  “Must be tough having three daughters on a place as big as this,” Stumpy offered. He grinned at the farmer, indicating his lack of tact was to be taken as a friendly jest.

  “Damn tough,” Sweeney said. He shook his head and frowned, with no apparent recognition of any humor. Then he seemed to brighten.

  “They do cook good, though. Let’s head to the house and see what they’ve whomped up.”

  After breakfast, Sweeney stuffed his corncob pipe with tobacco and lit it. He’d pushed back a bit from the kitchen table, puffing big blue clouds of smoke into the room and slurping his coffee. Henry leaned back in his chair equally sated from the meal. Stumpy still sopped white sausage gravy with a fluffy golden biscuit.

  One of the cow-eyed daughters—the middle one, Henry thought—hovered near him, pouring coffee into his half-full cup, smiling at him a lot. He smiled back. She wasn’t exactly homely, Henry decided, but she wasn’t what you’d call looksome, neither. Not like the other two, to whom “homely” would be a generous description. Bu
t they were friendly, jolly girls. The oldest—a big girl, but not what you’d call fat, just tall and stout—had a beau, though, as she kept mentioning it. It so happened he was coming out that very night for supper to which Henry thought Ben looked pleased… and hopeful.

  Sweeney had introduced his girls as Irma May, Ester June, and Bitsy, in descending order of age. Henry couldn’t remember who was which with the older two, nor which middle name went with what first, but he could remember Bitsy as she seemed to be considerably younger than the others. But Bitsy appeared a misnomer, as the girl was anything but that. Probably a holdover from her toddler days, Henry thought.

  “If you boys ain’t in a hurry to head off,” Sweeney said. “I’d like to invite you to stay on for supper tonight. You’d be welcome to bed down in the barn.” Before Henry could politely beg off, the farmer continued. “Truth is, I sure could use some help today. You see, my hired man had to ride off to Edmond for a few days to be with his dying ma, and I got fencing needs done out on the edge of some of my wheat fields.”

  Henry and Stumpy looked at one another. Planting fence posts and stringing wire hadn’t been part of their plans. “Well, Ben, we’d sure like to but—”

  “Oh, it wouldn’t be no trouble,” Sweeney cut in. “You can see the kind of meal these girls can put together. Wasn’t that a fine breakfast?” He turned to his wife and daughters who were well into clearing the table and dumping the dishes into a big pot of water on the stove. “Mother, that was a dang fine breakfast.” He then looked back at Henry with a wry smile.

  Henry caught Ben’s allusion—there ain’t no free breakfast. “’Sides,” he said. “It’d sure be nice to have some men around to talk to for a spell.” There was no mistaking the pleading look in his eyes, or the desperation in his voice. “I don’t get a lot of that,” he added.

  “Well sure, Ben,” Henry said, having a sudden change of heart. “We’d be glad to help you out.” He looked over at Stumpy who gave him a “Sure, why not” shrug as he devoured another butter-laden biscuit. Besides, an evening with the farmer’s daughters might prove to be amusing.

  * * *

  It turned out the beau either Ester May or Irma June mentioned so often at breakfast—“My beau this” and “My beau that”—was a proper name as well as a description. Henry found the thirty-something Beau Grimley, who worked at the grain elevator in town, to be a very likeable fella in a hulking, dim-witted sort of way, and he seemed to be a good match for Ester/Irma May/June… if she could nab him. He also happened to be a fiddle player of sorts, so after the ample dinner of fried chicken, smashed taters and gravy, collard greens and corn, the dinner party retired to the parlor for a round of musical entertainment—Beau playing his fiddle, accompanied by Irma/Ester on the piano.

  Beau was affable enough, but his fiddle playing was excruciating. And the middle girl and Bitsy had started to become bolder toward Henry. In fact, it had all the looks of a predatory competition. Middle had taken a seat next to Henry on the settee, pushing her thigh up next to his, and encircling his arm with hers. Bitsy stood behind them, leaning her forearms and elbows onto the back of the settee, breathing hotly onto Henry’s neck and occasionally whispering something into his ear, which he couldn’t decipher over the piano and fiddle squall. But it had a very disturbing effect on him.

  He looked to Stumpy for rescue, but his pard, totally aware of what was going on, only looked back at him with an amused grin. Satisfied no help would come from that quarter, Henry looked to his host and wife; however, both would only glance toward him out of the corner of their eyes, obviously pretending not to notice the unseemly and brazen advances of their two youngest daughters.

  Presently, during an interlude for Beau to adjust his fiddle, Henry yawned big and stretched. “My goodness,” he said, standing and dislodging himself from Middle’s grasp. “That larrupin’ supper on top of all that fresh air and work today, has got me wanting to bed down.

  He turned to the hostess. “Miz Sweeney, I sure do appreciate all the cooking you and your daughters done for me and my pard today. I’ve never et finer meals. Now, if y’all will excuse me, I believe I’ll turn in.”

  Looking at his partner, Henry added, “Of course, just because I’m leaving the party don’t mean you have to, Stumpy.”

  “Well, I could go for another slice of that fine apple pie, Miz Sweeney. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

  “No trouble at all, Mister Hart,” the woman said, standing from her chair. “I’ll fetch it for you.”

  Stumpy smiled and nodded. There was no mistaking the annoyance in the woman’s voice.

  Ben Sweeney stood, too. “Ned, if you and your friend could see staying on for a couple more days to help me, I’d pay you wages… plus meals, of course,” he said.

  “That’s a mighty tempting proposition, Ben,” Henry said. “Me and Stumpy will talk it over, and I’ll let you know in the morning.”

  “Fine, fine,” Sweeney said. “Say, would you like some of that apple pie, too? You know, for a bedtime snack.”

  “No, I couldn’t eat another bite, Ben. G’night.” Henry hurried out the front door.

  Outside on the porch, the dark silhouette of Middle rushed up to him, grabbing him around the waist. She nuzzled her lips up against his cheek, her hot breath in his ear.

  “I’d like to help you bed down,” she whispered. “Soon as ma and pa go to bed, I’ll come out to the barn.”

  Henry pried her arms from his waist. “Well, gosh, uh, I don’t… uh, you just make sure they’re good and asleep,” he said. “Don’t want any run-in with your pa. I’d give it a good hour and a half before you come out.”

  Middle giggled and brushed her hand across his crotch. “See you then,” she sighed.

  Henry headed around the house, almost at a trot. Near the back door, he was assaulted again. This time it was Bitsy, jumping on his back, wrapping her legs around his waist. She bit his ear, then wallowed her tongue in it.

  “Hey!” Henry said, more in surprise than pain. He spun around trying to get the young minx off his back. “Bitsy, damn! What’re you doing?”

  The girl laughed, jumping off him and spinning him to face her. “Thought we could do a little sportin’ tonight.”

  Henry rubbed his ear trying to wipe off the saliva. “No. I don’t think there’ll be none of that. You’re just a kid.”

  “A kid?” she said. “Well then, I’ll just go tell my pa you made improper advances toward me. ’Spect he’ll have something to say about that,” she added coyly.

  “No, now, hold on,” Henry scratched the back of his head. “Okay, but we got to wait until your folks are asleep. I’ll meet you out at the barn in, say, an hour and a half.”

  Bitsy reached up and kissed Henry hard, square on the mouth. Once she broke loose, she said “I’ll be there.”

  Henry watched the girl run back in the house. Then he gave out a shuddering sigh. “Oh crap,” he said.

  Back in the barn, Henry packed up his stuff and saddled his horse. He went to the barn door and peeked through the cracks toward the house. If Stumpy didn’t come out in the next ten minutes, he’d take off without him. It was every man for himself. For the next eight minutes, Henry paced, taking frequent looks out the cracks. Finally, he could see the shape of Stumpy meandering toward the barn.

  Henry grabbed his partner when he entered the barn. “Stumpy, we gotta get out of here,” he said with panic in his voice. “Sweeney’s the devil, and his daughters are sirens. They’re trying to trap us.”

  Stumpy gave out a hearty laugh. “You maybe. I don’t think they’re much interested in me. They think I eat too much. Anyway, that’s what I tried to make them think. That’s also why I told them I was a socialist during supper when the missus started going on about Roosevelt, and what a strong Republican she was because of him. Figured that’d sour ’em on my prospects.”

  Henry looked stunned. “You knew what they were doing?”

  “Oh, hell, yeah. I got s
uspicious when Sweeney first told us he had three daughters. Daughters ain’t much good on a spread like this. They’re like beef cows; they get to a certain age, you got to get rid of them, or you ain’t going to get back what you put into them.”

  Henry watched nervously through the cracks in the barn door. “Them girls scare me,” he said.

  “Yep,” Stumpy said. “Looks like they got their own ideas, too. Healthy young females like them probably get real anxious living out here in the middle of nowheres. I suspect Sweeney’s hired man didn’t ride off to see his sick ma. He probably rode off in the middle of the night, too. In fact, I’d be willing to bet Sweeney has a hard time keeping a hired man.” He shook his head, his expression one of sad and certain knowledge. “I seen this kind of thing happen before.”

  As soon as Stumpy got his gear together and saddled up, the two men led their horses quietly out of the barn. They walked them that way for a quarter mile before they mounted and rode like the wind toward the northwest.

  * * *

  The sun had dipped behind the high mesa on their left. Even though it wouldn’t truly set for three-quarters of an hour, darkness filled the shadowed valley quickly. They’d ridden steady since noon without spotting so much as an outhouse. This was a dry and uninhabited land. Their prospects for an evening meal at a farmhouse seemed as dim as the daylight.

  “We better find a campsite before it gets too dark,” Stumpy said.

  “Let’s get on back down toward that river,” Henry said. “Find some grass so the horses can eat.”

  They’d been following an old wagon trail which wandered away from the shallow run of a narrow river. About a mile to the west, a line of cottonwoods and willows hulked along the river’s banks in the gathering gloom. They reined the horses left and trotted toward them.