by Phil Truman
Meyers began to speak softly to Henry. “Sorry I had to shoot you, Mister Starr, but I couldn’t let you rob us. I keep this Winchester inside the safe in case the likes of you come along. Last bank I was in up in Illinois, a bunch uh guys like you busted in and robbed us. I was caught flat-footed. One of them shot my teller. Like you said, it looked bad on my record. Swore then I’d never let it happen again.”
Henry tried to smile, speaking with effort. “Hell, it’s okay, Meyers. I s’pose I been pretty lucky up ’til today.” Henry coughed weakly and grimaced. “You reckon you’ve killed me?” he asked.
Meyers raised his head up and looked at the bullet hole in the back of Henry’s coat where a red splotch of blood slowly spread. “I won’t lie to ya, Starr. It don’t look too good. You just take it easy. We got a doc coming,” Meyers said.
The people in the room got quiet. The only sounds were the ticking of the Regulator clock, and the continued sobs of the woman and little girl. After a bit Henry spoke again. “You know, I just bought this suit,” he said. “One of the nicest suits I ever owned.”
He lay quiet for a few seconds. Then he added, “Got married once in a suit just like this… long time ago. Colorado.”
Meyers said nothing.
Henry spoke again. “If it ain’t too tore up and the blood don’t show, I’d like to be buried in this suit.
“You tell the undertaker that for me, Mister Meyers? He’s a man named Morton in Tulsa. Abe Morton. You call him.”
Meyers looked up at the men around him who all looked solemn and uncomfortable.
Henry coughed some more. “Will you?” he asked again.
“Sure, Mister Starr, I’ll do that,” Meyers said.
Epilogue
Abe Morton leafed through the newspaper, as was his habit every day, looking for the newly deceased. He opened the paper to the obituaries first, reading those, then backtracked toward the front pages, scanning the headlines as he went. It was on page three that one headline caught his eye, along with the picture beside it. “Long Career as Outlaw Ended by Death; Shot in Arkansas Raid,” it read. The photograph was a portrait of his old friend and client, Henry Starr.
The story went on to say that Henry had lingered for four days after receiving his wound in an attempted bank holdup, and was attended at his death in a jail cell at the Boone County Sheriff’s office by his young wife of one year, Hulda Starr; his seventeen-year-old son, Teddy; and his sister, Elizabeth.
The phone sitting on the desk in front of him rang. Morton picked up the receiver. “Morton’s Funeral Parlor,” he said.
“Long distance calling for Mister Abe Morton,” a tinny female voice said on the other end.
“This is Abe Morton.”
“One moment please,” she said. After a couple minutes the operator returned. “I have your party on the line, sir,” she said. “Please go ahead.”
“Hello?” Abe said into the phone.
“Mister Morton, this is Sheriff Johnson in Boone County, Arkansas,” a gruff man’s voice responded.
“Yes, sir. Do you still have the remains of Henry Starr?”
“Yes, we do. He’s in the county morgue. Before he died, he said he’d worked out his burial arrangements with you. Told us to call you. So this is all correct?”
“Yes, it is, Sheriff. Mister Starr prearranged his burial through our establishment. I’d like to arrange for the body’s shipment back to Tulsa. Are his wife or sister still there in Harrison?”
“Yes, they are. I believe you can reach them at the Sturtevant Hotel.”
* * *
They brought him back to Dewey, Oklahoma. That was his sister’s wish, who lived there. Morton fixed him up good and even managed to dress him in the blue pinstripe suit Henry was so proud of. Morton had the suit cleaned as best he could, and arranged it on Henry so that none of the blood stains showed too much.
They set up the funeral service in a little church in Dewey, the one his old mother had attended on occasion before her death. The place was packed the day of the service, more by the curious than the mournful. There was a small organ at the front of the church, over near one wall, where a large middle-aged woman warbled out a slow medley of hymns as the folks filed into the church, and passed by the open casket to view Henry. Some even paid their respects, shook their heads or wept a little.
The plan for the service was that Preacher James would give the eulogy, such as it was; comfort the survivors, offer a prayer. It would be brief. Miz Treacher, who sang in the church choir, would sing a couple hymns about “the sweet by and by” and “when we all get to heaven, what a day of rejoicing it will be.” Then they would haul Henry out of there to the cemetery, and put him in the ground.
Most had been seated when the stately woman had come in. Dressed all in black from hat to shoe with a thick black veil obscuring her face, she walked right up the center aisle of the church, and stopped at the head of the casket. She stood there looking at Henry for a long time, at one point grabbing the open edge of the coffin as if to steady herself. Her head bowed and her shoulders quivered some, although no one could hear any weeping. Then she bent forward slightly, and whispered something. Those in the first few pews later said they heard her, although no one could make out her words. Some of those same people also said it appeared she had something in her right hand which she placed in with Henry, perhaps near one of his hands. Then she turned and walked back up the aisle and out the church door. No one recalled seeing her later at the cemetery.
As the last notes of Miz Treacher’s final hymn died out in the rafters of the quiet church, Morton moved to the front of the congregated.
“This concludes the funeral service,” he said solemnly.
The church cleared quickly. The few family members lingered a bit at Henry’s casket, but none too long. Once alone with his assistant, Morton moved to close the casket. It was then he noticed it lying at the tip of Henry’s left third finger—a diamond ring. It appeared to be the one Henry had given him many years prior and told him to deliver to a Missus Megan McGuinness of Nowata in the event of his death.
Morton reached in and slid the ring as far as it would go up onto the deceased’s left ring finger, and closed the casket on the outlaw Henry Starr; his earthly debts all paid in full.
About the Author
Phil Truman is a native Oklahoman, born in the small town of Miami in the northeastern part of the state. A former teacher and businessman, he and his wife have lived in the Tulsa suburban city of Broken Arrow for more than 30 years. Other books by Truman include his novels GAME and Legends of Tsalagee, and a non-fiction writer’s guide, Writing Humor for More than Laughs.
Phil’s website is at http://philtrumanink.com .
He can be contacted at [email protected] .
Other books by Phil Truman
Game
Legends of Tsalagee
Table of Contents
Author’s Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Epilogue
About the Author
Other books by Phil Truman
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