Red Lands Outlaw: the Ballad of Henry Starr

by Phil Truman

  At the edge of a doze, Henry heard the snort of a horse which wasn’t his own. He snapped his head up and looked about, reining hard to his left to look behind him, his right hand drawing out his Peacemaker.

  Some thirty yards behind him a rider had stopped, looking back at him. The man wore dungarees and a plaid shirt under a leather vest with some sort of dark fur sticking out at the edges. On his head sat a fur hat of some kind; his feet were shod with moccasins. He was a large broad-shouldered man, of indeterminate age. Long black braids of hair hung down to his chest. There was no mistaking his facial features and dark skin were those of an Indian. He gripped a Winchester rifle at the stock waist, the butt resting on his right thigh, the barrel pointed skyward. The carcass of a small deer lay tied across his mount’s rump.

  The sorrel grunted nervously in Henry’s tight rein, spinning in his tracks. “How long you been following me?” he shouted back to the man.

  The rider gave no immediate answer, only looked back at Henry stone-faced.

  “You speak English?” Henry shouted. “What do you want?” Still no response.

  “Look,” Henry said, pointing his gun at the man. “I ain’t above shooting a brother if he means me harm.”

  The man laid the barrel of the rifle he held into the crook of his left arm. “Are you hungry?” he asked Henry.

  “What?” Henry returned, not sure he understood what the man asked.

  “Do you want to eat?”

  “Well… yeah. I reckon I do.” Henry answered, still a little confused.

  “We will ride to my house and have my wives cook this deer,” the big Indian said.

  Henry holstered his pistol. “How far to your house?” he asked. The man rode up to him and gestured down the road with the rifle barrel, riding on past Henry at a trot without looking back. Henry spurred the sorrel, pulling up beside the rider.

  They rode along in silence. After about a mile Henry said, “What’s your nation, brother? I’m Cherokee myself.”

  “I am Quahadi. I am Comanche,” his companion answered with force and pride.

  “What do folks call you?”

  They’d started to break out of the trees coming onto a slight downslope. Out in the flat plain of the valley stood an enormous frame house. A tall fence of pickets surrounded it, and the cones of teepees filled the grounds near it, curling ribbons of smoke coming from their peaks. Several big white stars adorned the roof of the house.

  “I am Quanah Parker,” the man said.

  Henry had momentarily forgotten his question when he saw the house, but the man’s answer gave him pause. “You’re Quanah Parker?” he asked with astonishment.

  “Yes,” the man said. He pointed his rifle at the distant settlement with its large building. “That is my house.” He rode on ahead as Henry sat still on his horse, watching him. The name Quanah Parker had reached far and wide throughout America, even parts of Europe, and especially so in the Indian Nations. He was a living legend.

  * * *

  “Do you like tobacco?” Quanah asked Henry. He’d walked to a large cabinet set up against a wall of the dining room, and pulled a box of cigars out of a drawer. He opened it to offer Henry one.

  Henry hesitated. He’d never used tobacco, but he didn’t want to insult his esteemed host, the last great war chief of the Comanche. The man seemed to sense Henry’s reluctance. “It good American tobacco, from Virginia,” he said, still with the opened box held out to his guest. Henry smiled weakly and took one of the cigars. Quanah grunted his approval and passed the box to the other guests. The man called Stands in One Place helped himself to two.

  They’d dined late, as it’d taken Quanah’s wives—he had five—several hours to dress the small doe, and then to prepare and cook the venison stew. Besides Henry, three others had come to dinner. Stands in One Place was already in the dining room when Quanah and Henry entered. His host had introduced the man, adding, “He is my third wife brother.” He said it almost under his breath with a tone of antipathy. Stands in One Place sat in a rocker in one corner of the room most of the time, wrapped in a blanket. He left the chair only to come to the table, and returned to it once he’d eaten. He spoke not a word to Henry, uttering only a few Comanche phrases to Quanah during the course of the meal. The second man seemed cordial enough, coming in through the door from the kitchen, full of talk and warm greeting, although he eyed Henry with suspicion. He was also undoubtedly Comanche, as Quanah called him uncle. Henry learned his name to be Mad Coyote.

  “You are Tonkawa?” Mad Coyote asked Henry. It seemed more of an accusation than a friendly inquiry. He looked at Henry with narrowed eyes and raised chin. Quanah immediately spoke to the old man in Comanche using an abrupt, harsh tone. Henry would later learn being called a Tonkawa by a Comanche was the equivalent of the worst racial epithet a white man could give to a black man.

  Mad Coyote looked back at Henry coolly. “Ah, Cherokee. We not see many Cherokee.” Again with disdain. He then took his seat at the table. “You look Tonk,” he added with no apology in his voice, and despite Quanah’s disapproving glare.

  The four men ate most of the meal in silence. Occasionally, one or two women—Henry supposed them Quanah’s wives—came into the dining room carrying fresh bowls of food and taking others out.

  At about the midpoint of the eating, the door to the outside burst open, and in strode a big white man. He wore a knee-length, fur-lined buckskin coat and a tall felt range hat. He shed the outer coat, hanging it on the peg of a wall-mounted rack, then his hat on top of that. Dressed in a brown-vested wool suit, he looked every bit like a banker, except for the pant legs stuffed inside ornate cowboots. His face, wide and weather-worn, was decked with round wire-rimmed spectacles and a bushy mustache. Henry thought he sort of looked like Teddy Roosevelt from pictures he’d seen.

  “Big Boss!” Quanah said when the man came through the door. The other two men raised their greeting, too, with whoops and loud cries. The women came in from the kitchen, surrounding the man and chattering excitedly, saying “Big Boss! Big Boss!” The man grinned broadly, returning all the greetings with hugs and shoulder slaps and handshakes.

  Once all the excitement over the man’s arrival subsided, he settled into a chair between Quanah at the head of the table and Henry on his right. “Thought I’d been here sooner,” he said to the table. “Got tied up with a dang banker in Lawton.”

  “You ain’t a banker?” Henry asked with a grin. “You sort of look like one.”

  “This Mas-Sa-Suta,” Quanah said. “Big Boss. He have many cattle. Pay Comanche lots money for them cattle eat our grass in Big Pasture.”

  Big Boss turned to Henry on his right. Grinning, he extended his hand. “They call me that, but you don’t hafta. Name’s Burk Burnett,” he said. Henry took the handshake.

  “Who might you be?” Burnett asked.

  “Zeke Proctor,” Henry said. “From over around Durant.”

  “You Choctaw?” Burnett asked.

  “Chero-KEE,” Mad Coyote interjected. Henry looked at him with a tight smile, then to Burnett he said. “Moved to Durant from Arkansas. In the horse business.”

  “Horse bidness?” Burnett looked at the host, then around the table. “You here sellin’ horses to these boys? ’Cause they loves horses, but I don’t think they’ll buy any. Believe they’d rather steal ’em from you.”

  That brought a hearty round of laughter and shouts from all at the table, even from Stands in One Place. Henry nodded and chuckled good-naturedly.

  Burnett continued. “Money don’t mean a whole lot to Comanch, but horses do. The number of horses they own? That’s how they measure their wealth.” He stopped to fork a piece of deer meat from the stew, and pop it into his mouth. Around his chewing, he continued, “Now Quanah here, and I expect old Mad Coyote, too, they’ve gathered up a lot of horses in their day. Took ’em from white men and Indin alike. Didn’t matter to them who they belonged to, as long as they could say they belonged to them in the
end. The stealin’ part was important, too; part of the prestige of being a Comanche warrior.”

  “Naw, not trying to sell horses here,” Henry said. “Just passing through. Met Quanah on the trail. He invited me to supper.”

  Burnett nodded as he ate. “Yeah, he’ll do that, especially to Indian brothers.”

  “Not Tonk,” Mad Coyote cut in.

  That started a heated discussion in Comanche between Quanah, Mad Coyote, and Stands in One Place.

  “Comanch don’t much like Tonkawas,” Burnett said out of the side of his mouth to Henry as the argument raged across the table. “Consider them a wholly inferior race. But I do believe Quanah is defending you. Tonkawa aside, though, Comanch don’t have a very high opinion of any Indin outside of themselves, Kiowas, and Cheyenne.”

  Once the Comanche argument ran its course, and the meal ended, Quanah had moved to fetch the cigars. Burnett stuck a kindling stick into the wood stove and put the light to his cigar. He puffed up a cloud of blue smoke, and handed the burning stick to Quanah. The lighter passed from man to man until it came to Henry. With some unease, he held the flame to his stogy and sucked in the fire, which immediately made him cough.

  Quanah, Burnett, and Stands in One Place laughed. Mad Coyote muttered something and shook his head in disgust.

  Henry waved the thick smoke away from his face. “I guess I ain’t much of a smoker,” he said in a choking voice.

  Burnett slapped Henry on the back. “Don’t worry about it, son. Quanah never smoked one of these neither until I brought him some. Now he just uses them to impress people. He wants you to believe he’s civilized.”

  Henry tapped his cigar to knock off the ash. “Civilized? I don’t know about that, Mister Burnett. Even among my people, Quanah Parker here is legendary. The last of the great war chiefs to fight against you invading white men.” Henry shook his head sadly and looked squarely at Parker. “Wouldn’t want to believe he’s turned white.”

  Quanah looked at Henry with a scowling grin. “Do not listen my great friend Big Boss too much, Zekeproctor. He make you think Quanah Parker has become American.

  “It is true I now live like American, have big house, dress like whites, but I do not always think like American. Do you think Cherokee? I think so. I think Comanche. I think about my Comanche... and children of Comanche… and their children to come.

  “Americans are here. They will stay. We cannot drive them out. They will grow strong while we will not. We must learn from him so that our children will not hunger... so they will be warm in winter... so they will be strong as the Americans are strong.

  “This has long been on my mind. Americans know many things. We must learn from them... or the sun will set on us forever. But I will always remain Comanche.”

  The room got quiet for a few seconds, filled with more tobacco smoke. “That was damn well spoken,” Burnett said breaking the silence. “I’ve never underestimated my friend Quanah, Mister Proctor.”

  The room got quiet again; the men smoked. Three of the women came into the room to work it over on their after-meal cleanup. Several small children appeared jumping into Quanah’s lap and crawling over him from around his chair. They chattered and squealed as the great chief grabbed and tickled them. He laughed with obvious delight as the children tumbled over him in their play.

  Henry noticed Burnett studying him while all the child play was going on.

  “Where ‘bouts you headed, Mister Proctor?” Burnett asked.

  “New Mexico,” Henry said. “Man out near Tucumcari wants to contract with me on a few head.”

  “Rancher?”

  Henry started to shift nervously in his chair. He didn’t like being questioned. “Has a small ranch out there, I believe.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Um… goes by the name Perry.”

  “Perry,” Burnett said, rubbing his forehead with his index finger, the cigar forked between it and the middle. “Know most the ranchers over that way. Don’t believe I know a Perry.”

  “Well, like I said, he’s got a small spread.”

  “You ever been down around Gainesville? I swear I seen you somewheres before.”

  “Naw, never been there,” Henry answered.

  “Well, you sure do look familiar,” Burnett said. He continued to scrutinize Henry intently.

  Henry smiled at Burnett, then standing and stretching, said, “I believe I’ll call it a night. Mister Parker offered me a bed upstairs for the night, so I’m going to head on up to it. Got to head out early tomorrow.”

  “It’s sure been a pleasure meetin’ you, Mister Proctor,” Burnett said as he stood and extended his hand to shake. He held onto Henry’s hand continuing to examine Henry’s face. “Yessir,” he said. “I believe I know you from somewhere.”

  “Well, when you figure it out, you let me know,” Henry said as he broke the handhold. He nodded to the others. “G’night,” he said and quickly left the room.

  * * *

  Even into the second day of riding, it bothered Henry that Burnett seemed to recognize him, but he’d put all of them at the Star House well behind him. By that evening he’d be in Perrytown, and two days after that, Albuquerque. Maybe three days; he thought he’d see if he couldn’t get over to Tucumcari. See if he couldn’t find an easy store to rob, as he was getting low on funds. He hoped old Chief Perry would still welcome him, at least for a one night stop-over.

  It wasn’t quite dark when he rode up to Perry’s place. He could see no one about outside, but a dim light shined from the front windows. An unexplained disquiet came over him as he dismounted and tied off his horse. Walking to the door, the still evening air seemed unusually quiet. He looked about with unease before he raised his hand to knock; that’s when he heard something move at the corner of the house to his left.

  “Evenin’ Henry,” a deep voice spoke softly but firmly. He turned quickly to see a tall man pointing a six-shooter at him. His first instinct was to duck slightly, and put his right hand on the butt of his own holstered Peacemaker.

  Behind him, he heard the distinctive click of a Colt hammer being cocked back into the firing position. “Hold it right there, Starr!” another voice spoke sternly. He turned to look back, seeing the silhouette of a shorter stockier man at the opposite corner of the house.

  “I’ll take that pistol,” the first man said. He’d stepped closer to Henry within an arm’s length. “Put your hands up high, Henry, so I can take it out of your holster. Best not to try anything or Deputy Smoak there won’t hesitate to shoot you in the back.”

  Henry squinted in the fading light to better see the man addressing him. He wore a dark fedora and a three piece suit. A bushy mustache nearly covered his mouth, and his long lean face was lined and weather-worn. But even in the gathering dark, Henry could see the penetrating look of the steel-blue eyes.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Henry said. “Ain’t you Bill Tilghman?”

  “That I am,” the man said. “Been looking to meet up with you for some time now, Henry.” He holstered his own piece, holding Henry’s Colt loosely in his left hand. “Fella pointing that pistol between your shoulder blades is Deputy U.S. Marshal Jubal Smoak, out of Pueblo, Colorado.”

  Henry turned his torso to look back at Smoak again. He touched his raised right hand to his hat. “Marshal,” he said with a nod.

  The door creaked open, and Otis Perry stuck his head out. He looked at Henry with a sad expression. “I’m sorry, Henry,” he said. “Why don’t you come in and have some supper?”

  Later, at the table, the two lawmen drank coffee while Henry ate beans and cornbread. Perry’s daughter-in-law puttered at the stove; his grandson sat on the floor in one corner watching them.

  “How’d you find me?” Henry asked the deputies.

  “Been chasing you almost two years now, Henry,” Tilghman offered. “Almost caught up with you a couple times, but you’ve been very elusive. Man you roughed up in Tulsa gave us a call a week or so ago, so we
knew you’d come back home. Still, we didn’t know which way you’d headed out, but then we got lucky. Cattleman I know named Burk Burnett called me; said he’d had dinner with you at Quanah Parker’s house. Took him a while to figure out who you were, but then he remembered seein’ wanted flyers we’d put out with your picture on it. Apparently, that bank you robbed in Colorado had some of his money in it. He said you told him you were going to see a man named Perry in New Mexico, so the rest was easy. I caught a train to Tucumcari; Mister Smoak here come down from Pueblo. We both got here yesterday, and just waited.”

  “So what happens now?” Henry asked.

  “We’ll be taking you back to Colorado for trial. I expect you’ll do some time at the Canon City Penitentiary.”

  Henry looked at the lawman, then the sad-eyed old chief looking back at him, then the boy sitting in the corner. “I promise you, Mister Tilghman, no matter how long they keep me in that prison, I’m through robbin’ banks.”

  Chapter Twenty

  March 1919

  McAlester, Oklahoma

  “Henry Starr, it is the decision of this board to grant you parole.”

  Hearing that news wasn’t something new for Henry, nor was he surprised. In all his days he’d been given sixty-five years in prison for his times found guilty of crimes. Once he was even sentenced to hang. But he didn’t hang, and he’d only served a total of fifteen of those sixty-five years in four separate prisons, if you counted his stay in Judge Parker’s Fort Smith jail.

  Never a model citizen, Henry had always been a model prisoner. If he led a charmed life it was because he charmed the wardens and parole boards. They’d always believed their prison systems had reformed him; that he’d go forth and never rob again, but Henry always proved them wrong. After his six-year stint in the Colorado prison, and despite the promise he’d made to Bill Tilghman, he’d robbed sixteen more banks in a six-month period, including the dual heist in Stroud.