by Phil Truman
With his Moore’s box under one arm and wearing his new navy blue suit, Henry walked toward the store exit. The sign directing him to refreshment in The Tea Room caught his eye and he stopped to read it again. It looked like today’s special was a chicken salad sandwich with something called French fried potatoes. He’d missed out on his steak back at Gundersen’s, and now he was getting hungry. He thought he’d give the chicken salad a shot, and he liked fried taters no matter what their nationality.
At the café’s entrance Henry looked over the dining room. Filled mostly with women, he doubted he’d be able to get a big bloody steak there like he could’ve at Gundersen’s, but he didn’t think he could eat a steak, anyway. The prospect of his coming endeavor had him too excited and nervous to have a big appetite. The food in this dainty little place would suit him just fine.
He took a table at one of the big windows overlooking the street. Main Street, on that afternoon, teemed with folks and their conveyances. After he ordered his lunch, he sat watching the flow of people on the walk outside the window. In the street a trolley trundled by, automobiles and trucks chugged up and down. The noise of it all was barely muffled by the window glass.
Henry thought about the first time he’d seen Tulsa, this street. He’d been a boy of about eight; his dad was still alive and had come here to do some trading, bringing him along. The place was little more than a settlement on the Arkansas River then, mostly dispossessed Indians. The street, the one they called Main now, was a multi-rutted odorous road of sticky mud and horse manure. And the town was a wild place, almost lawless. Sitting on the wagon bench waiting for his dad, he’d witnessed a shooting—a cowboy blown backwards through the doors of a saloon and into the muddy street by a .44 slug from the close range blast of a Colt revolver.
He shook his head at the memory, and laughed to himself. A whole different world back then, but a world he understood. This one now was probably a better world, at least a cleaner one. But he wasn’t sure it smelled any better. The stench of horse manure had been replaced by something more obnoxious coming from the ass-end of all those gasoline engines. And safer? He couldn’t say. People still got shot in the streets. Naw, the old times weren’t easy times in a lot of ways, but Henry knew how to live by the rules of the times then, what to expect. Now he wasn’t so sure. He felt increasingly out of step and off-balance. If he was going to survive, he’d have to adapt, and quickly. Used to be you and a gang of boys would ride up on horses, rob your bank, then thunder off, shooting up the place as you rode off. Now, he and his gang would use an automobile for their get-away. Faster, probably, but with all of you in one car, you couldn’t split up if a posse come after you. Yep, it would take some getting used to, this new way of robbing banks. The job in Harrison would be his start, he decided. He would succeed or die trying.
The last thought gave him pause. He suddenly felt a sharp sadness, and at the same time a great peace. But he couldn’t dwell on it, because someone came into the dining room who drew his immediate and full attention.
Outfitted to the nines, she moved with grace, leading a girl of about twelve. They sat at a table at the opposite end of the dining room from him, about forty or fifty feet away. Megan.
She looked a little lined about the eyes and mouth; older, yes, but still beautiful. No longer a strikingly pretty girl, but a stylish elegant woman, a handsome matron with a distinguished bearing. Henry couldn’t stop looking at her, half-fearing she might look over and recognize him, too. She seemed oblivious to anyone around her, though; giving her full attention to the young girl with her, talking earnestly to her and laughing easily. Presently, he stood and walked toward their table.
“Howdy, Megan,” Henry said. He smiled shyly, looking uncertain.
Megan looked up at Henry, the smile she’d been giving the girl in their conversation still there. She furrowed her brow, changing her expression to one of genteel cordiality. “Forgive me, sir. Do I know you?” she asked.
Henry laughed a little and rubbed his forehead. “Well, I reckon it has been a long time. It’s Henry, Megan. I’m Henry.”
Megan’s eyes widened, and her hand went to her mouth as she audibly drew in breath. “Oh my, Henry,” she said. “Why you’ve… it’s… Oh, I’m so sorry, Henry. It’s such a surprise to see you; I’m at a loss for words.”
“Aw, it’s okay, Megan. I can understand your surprise. I shouldn’t uh snuck up on you like that. I don’t reckon I look anything like… well, like I did the last time we seen each other.”
Flustered, he turned to the young girl who looked up at him in great puzzlement. “And who’s this attractive young lady?”
“Forgive my manners,” Megan said, recovering some of her composure. “This is my granddaughter, Evelyn. Evelyn this is Henry Starr. He and I were once, um…”
“We was close friends back when we was kids,” Henry said, coming to Megan’s rescue. “You might even say we was best friends.” He looked again at Megan. “The very best of friends.”
The girl smiled warmly at Henry and extended her right hand, fingers and palm down. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mister Starr.”
“Why, thank you, Missy, but I believe the pleasure is all mine.” He took her hand lightly in his and gave her a quick bow. She giggled.
“Won’t you join us for lunch, Mister Starr?” the girl asked.
Henry and Megan exchanged awkward glances. “Why, yes, Henry,” Megan said. “Please join us.”
“You know, I can’t think of nothing I’d enjoy more than dining with two beautiful ladies, but I’m afraid I have a bidness appointment to keep.”
He turned to look Megan. “I just wanted to step over and say hello. It’s been a mighty long time since we last seen each other.” He held her gaze intently for several long seconds. “Lord knows when we’ll be seeing each other again,” he said.
Henry waited. He could see tears welling in her eyes. “Yes,” she said. “It’s so good to see you again, Henry.”
He nodded to them both. “Well, goodbye to ya,” he said, then turned and walked away. As he did so he heard the girl say, “Is something wrong, Nanna?” And he heard Megan respond, “No, it’s nothing, dear.”
At his table he found his sandwich and French fried potatoes waiting for him. He picked up two of the potato strips and stuffed them into his mouth, munching them. Taking two dollar bills out of his wallet, he laid them on the table. He picked up his box of old clothes, and left the café, summoning all the strength he could not to look back at Megan.
* * *
February 18, 1921
The morning, gray and cold, had an icy fog sitting on the winter hills around Harrison, Arkansas. The road they drove on took them right by the front of their objective—the People’s National Bank. As they drove by, the building didn’t look like a particularly inviting place. Dark-bricked and flat-roofed, it squatted in the cold fog of that early February morning, like a jailhouse, plain and devoid of ornamentation.
“Let’s find somevere to get some breakfast,” Lars said from the backseat where he and Jim rode. “I don’t vant to vurk on uh empty stomach.”
Henry took out his watch and looked at it. Just past eight-thirty. “Yeah, we got some time,” he said. “Don’t reckon the bank will open for an hour or so.”
They’d driven since midnight, coming down from Springfield, Missouri where they’d laid over Wednesday night and most of Thursday. Henry had suggested they take a northern route as he didn’t want to cross Benton County in Arkansas. That would’ve been a more direct route, but no use tempting fate, Henry decided.
Henry felt alive, euphoric. “You know,” he said, sipping from his cup of coffee. “I don’t believe you can get any better meal than a good breakfast of fried eggs and bacon. If I was a condemned man, that’s what I’d want for my last meal.” He grabbed the napkin next to his plate and wiped his mouth. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go change.” He picked up the Moore’s box he’d sat beside his c
hair and stood up. “It’s almost time, boys,” he said to the table.
Henry had changed back into his old suit for the road trip, not wanting to get his new suit dirty or mussed. He wanted to look his best when he entered that bank and announced himself. Fifteen minutes later, he came out of the café washroom looking every bit the dashing gentleman in his navy blue wool suit with the lighter blue pinstripes. He even turned a few heads as he passed back through the café, which pleased him.
E.D., however, was not pleased. “Not too damn smart, you getting people to take notice of you, Henry.”
Henry just grinned.
* * *
The plan was, Henry would enter the bank first and go to one of the standing tables, pretending to write up a deposit slip. This would give him the opportunity to check things out—how many people were in the bank, where they were located, where the safe was, if it was open. Then, he’d act as if he’d forgotten something and leave the bank to pass on the details to Jim and Lars. He’d reenter the bank and take up his position at the table to continue his pretense. He carried no gun. His cohorts would bring in the hardware and announce their intent two minutes after Henry had reentered the bank. E.D. would wait in the car as the get-away driver. Henry would assume the lead roll and orchestrate the rest of the hold-up, using his calm charm to reassure the victims, so there’d be no panic during the robbery.
Henry closed the door behind him and looked about as he walked to the farthest standing table. Four customers stood about in the bank, one at each of the two teller windows, one in line, and one at the writing table nearest the door—a right handsome woman, he couldn’t help but notice. She had a child in tow, a little girl of about seven or eight who stood silently beside the woman. The girl watched Henry, staring solemnly at him. A uniformed bank guard stood by the door, wearing a pistol. He looked to be a man in his sixties, somewhat portly, and not much of a deterrent. There were two tellers, one at each window; a bank officer sat at a desk in the open area to the left of the teller windows, and another man worked at a desk in an enclosed office in the back corner. He sat in plain view through the windows along the inner walls of his office. At the back wall was a door to a walk-in vault; it stood opened, slightly.
Henry took a deposit slip from one of the pigeonholes on the table top and started writing on it; looking around as he did so, taking in the details of the setup. Satisfied with what he observed, he started patting his coat and looking through the pockets. “Fiddlesticks!” he said aloud, and started walking to the door. The woman at the other table looked up at him as he passed, and Henry touched the brim of his hat. “Mornin’ ma’am,” he said to her. She smiled and nodded. The little girl remained silent, looking at Henry like a forlorn owl. “Forgot something,” Henry said to the guard as he approached the door, and the man reached over and opened it for him. “I’ll be right back,” he added. The guard said nothing.
In the car, Henry gave his instructions. “So everyone knows what to do?” The three men nodded. “Okay, just stay calm and let me do all the talking. Wait two minutes after I go back inside before you come in.”
Henry reentered the bank, and looking at the guard, patted his side coat pocket. “Got what I need now,” he said to the man. He went to the standing table where the woman and little girl still stood. The woman glanced up at him as he approached. Henry offered her another smile, which she returned. Henry felt his dapper appearance impressed her. “Sure is foggy this morning.’” He said to her.
“Oh my, yes,” she said.
“How you doing this morning, darlin’?” Henry asked the girl.
“Fine,” She said. He thought of little Lorrie that day back in Stroud.
Henry took another slip of paper from a pigeonhole and started writing on it. Every few seconds he glanced up to check the whereabouts of everyone in the bank. All remained pretty much in the same places as before. The woman finished her writing, picked up her things, grabbed the girl’s hand, and went to stand in line. The Regulator clock on the wall next to the teller windows ticked unwaveringly in the relative quiet of the room. The only voice sound came from the near-whispered talk of the tellers. There were some shuffling feet on the wooden floor; someone coughed.
The bank doors crashed open, and in charged Lars and Jim. Lars swung to his left leveling his shotgun at the bank guard’s nose, who looked back at him somewhat confused.
“This here’s a hold-up!” Jim yelled. “Ever’body put your hands up!”
There were gasps and exclamations in the room; the woman gave out a feeble shriek and pulled the child close to her; the man at the desk rose quickly, his chair screeching backward. The man in the office stood halfway and leaned sideways to get a better look out one of his office windows.
“Do it NOW!” Jim demanded. All complied. The man in the office came to his doorway, putting one hand on the doorframe, his jaw clenched.
Henry moved to the guard’s side and removed his pistol. He told him to go over to where the customers stood along the wall, their hands raised high. Lars walked over to one side of the teller windows, now pointing his shotgun in the general direction of the employees.
“Folks, you all need to just stay calm,” Henry said in a relaxed and pleasant voice. “As long as you do everything we say, won’t nobody get hurt.
“I’m Henry Starr.” He paused to let that sink in a bit. He looked around at the faces to see if any expressions registered recognition. “For those of you who ain’t heard of me, you’d best know I don’t normally shoot nobody during the course of my hold-ups, unless I absolutely have to.
“Just take it easy and let us do what we come to do, and we’ll be out of here in no time.”
He paused again to let his words take effect. Everyone looked somewhat stunned, yet willing to comply. Satisfied, Henry turned his attention to the two bank officers. “You two come on over here,” he said motioning them in his direction with his free hand, as he pointed the guard’s pistol at them with the other. The two men advanced.
“I know you fellers got some money bags back there,” he said to the two tellers. “I want you to start filling them up with what you got and hand them to my men.”
He turned to the two men now standing in front of him. “What’s your name, mister?” he asked the man who’d come out of the office.
“Meyers,” the man said.
“You some kind of big shot in this bank, Mister Meyers?”
“I’m the president,” Meyers replied.
“President? Hell, this ain’t going to look good on your record then, is it?” Henry grinned. Meyers looked at him stone-faced.
“Well, while your boys over there are gathering up that money, why don’t we go into your safe and have you get what’s in there for us, too,” Henry said.
Meyers and the other man looked at each other and turned to walk toward the walk-in safe. The door to it stood ajar about a foot.
Henry felt elated and on an adrenaline high. Things were going better than expected. He figured they’d be out of there and speeding away in that big touring car in no more than five minutes. It was good to be back doing what he did best, being at the top of his game. My luck’s changing, Henry thought to himself.
Meyers’ man grabbed the safe door and pulled it open, using his weight to swing it back so he was behind it, his back to the wall. Meyers entered the safe in front of Henry. The little girl was crying hysterically now, clinging to the woman, saying, “Mommy, mommy,” so Henry thought he needed to give her and the hostages some more reassurance, and turned to speak to them.
“Honey, you don’t need to worry about nothing, now. Won’t be long and we—”
A gun blast roared from inside the safe, and a sledge hammer blow hit Henry in the small of the back, knocking him skidding forward to his knees, and then slamming face-forward onto the floor. The pistol flew from his hand clattering across the wooden floor. Henry tried to rise, but couldn’t.
Lars and Jim, stunned by the sound, looked in t
he direction of the safe. The woman screamed and put her arms around the girl, crouching protectively. The others at the wall went immediately down to the floor. The guard, his arm across the terrified woman’s back, drug her and the child to the floor with him.
Meyers, standing in the safe entrance, levered another round into the firing chamber of the Winchester he held, and without hesitation fired at Lars. The round went wide, snapping between the heads of Lars and Jim and slapping into the wall behind them. Meyers levered another round.
Jim and Lars bolted out the bank door, flying down the few front steps as another shot rang out behind them, the bullet whanging off the doorframe. They dove into the backseat of the car.
“Get the hell outta here!” Jim yelled.
“Where’s Henry?” E.D. asked.
“Just go, go! Git going!” Jim responded.
E.D. looked up at the bank door just as a man came out of it holding a rifle. He was trying to lever it, but was having trouble. E.D. revved the Buick’s big engine and popped the clutch. The powerful touring car lurched and roared off down the street. They heard another gunshot and a slug popped through the back window and out the center of the windshield.
The Winchester’s loading mechanism jammed again, and Meyers swore at it. He stood and watched the green touring car recede, careening across the Willow Street bridge. The robbers had gotten away, but at least they didn’t make off with any of the bank’s funds. Well, one of them didn’t get away. Meyers turned and went back into the bank.
Everyone but the woman with her child and the guard were crowded around the wounded gang leader sprawled on the floor. The woman and the girl still sat on the floor, sobbing; the bank guard knelt beside them trying to give comfort. Meyers walked up to the circle of standing men, and parted them. “Is he dead?” he asked.
“Naw, he ain’t dead yet. But I think his back’s broke,” one of the men said. “Looks like you shot him right in the backbone.
“John, go fetch Doc Lauder. Edgar, call the police,” Meyers ordered. He knelt beside Henry, bringing his face close to the robber. Henry, his eyes open, breathed rapidly; sweat glistened his forehead and face.