by Phil Truman
Henry, his dignity in flames, got to his one good foot, and with his pistol still in hand, shot out two panes in one of the station’s windows, then the glass of the tall gas lamp on the platform, showering the laughing crowd below it with the shattered pieces.
That seemed to sober the crowd and shut them up. Henry glared at the bunch, pointing his gun at them. They waited for him to speak.
After a few seconds, Henry said to his gang, “Mount up.” Frank, still with the reins of Henry’s horse in his hand, led the animal up across the platform and down the other side to where Henry stood waiting. Henry holstered his gun and grabbed the saddle horn. He leapt up, trying to stick his left boot toe into the stirrup, but the horse stepped sideways and Henry missed. He tried again with the same result. More titters came from the crowd, until he glared back at them.
“Come give me a hand, Watt,” Henry said, and the silent cowboy turned outlaw, ambled over to help his boss.
Once mounted, Henry reined his horse around to face the crowd. He looked as if he wanted to address them again, and the crowd, still hands up, waited soberly but with a few smirks. Henry looked at them for about thirty seconds, then looked at Frank and said, “Let’s go.” With that he turned and spurred his horse to head back along the railroad track.
Boone Tyler lay stretched out in Frank’s wagon waiting for the gang to return. He’d been assigned as the supply wagon driver. Henry had decided to use it to carry their extra ammunition and gear, and to help haul their booty back to their hideout. He’d stationed Boone several miles from their objective, and Boone had pulled the wagon off the road into a spot in the woods. There he found ample cover from curious passersby, as well as shade for his intended nap.
The sound of multiple hoof beats approaching roused Boone. He lifted his hat off his face and sat up. Frank was the first to ride up, followed by Henry and then the others. Boone could tell something wasn’t right with the boss.
“Help me get Henry off’n his horse, Boone,” Frank said as he dismounted.
Boone rolled to his knees and looked at the riders. “You get shot, Henry?” he asked.
“No,” Henry said, his face twisted in pain. “I sprang my ankle.”
“Sprang your ankle,” Boone echoed. “Well, how’d you do that?”
“It don’t matter, Boone,” Frank said with some irritation. “Just help me get him down and into the wagon.”
Once they got Henry off his horse and onto the wagon bed, Boone scratched his head and looked at Henry’s booted foot. “How you know it ain’t broke?” Boone asked.
“It ain’t broke,” Henry answered. “Help me get my boot off.”
Boone continued without responding to Henry. “’Cause I knew this cowboy onest got bucked off high and come down on a pile of rocks. He come up limping around and claimed he sprung his ankle. It didn’t get no better for a month or so, so he went to a doc who told him he had broke it and the bones had set up crooked. Last time I seen him he still walked with a limp.”
“Just shut up and help me with my boot,” Henry said.
“Well, you don’t have to get so all danged hateful,” said Boone. He grabbed the toe and heel of Henry’s boot and yanked causing Henry to scream in pain.
“Did that hurt?” Boone asked.
“Hell yes, it hurt, you idiot.”
“She’s on there pretty tight. I ’spect your ankle’s all swole up. We might have to cut this here boot off.”
“You ain’t cutting nothing, Boone,” Henry said. “These are the best pair of boots I ever stole. Just let me catch my breath, and you can try again.” Henry looked over at his silent partner. “Frank, you come over here and help him.”
Frank and Boone manned the boot. “Now, don’t yank it,” Henry instructed. “Just pull slow and steady.”
The two men did as told, while Henry filled the woods with his shrieks. By the time Boone and Frank had worked the boot backward, and Henry’s foot popped free, he’d passed out.
Chapter Five
Henry sat back on the bunk with his right foot propped atop two pillows. The other men stood around the table as Frank sorted the loot on the tabletop.
“Looks like we come away with eight pocket watches, three gold rings, and thirty-eight dollars and seventy-five cents in cash money,” Frank said once he’d completed his accounting.
“One bloke had this on ’im,” Happy Jack announced. He pulled a small black cloth bag out of his shirt pocket, and threw it onto the pile. Frank loosened the sack’s drawstrings and emptied the contents onto the table.
“What the hell are those?” Kid Wilson asked.
“They’re diamonds, lad,” Happy Jack replied.
Kid looked up at Jack and nodded; then looked back at the rocks on the table. “What are diamonds?” he asked.
“Why, gemstones, boy,” said Jack. “The jewels of kings and princes. Could be worth a good bit.”
The Kid looked doubtfully at the twenty or so scattered cloudy gray stones. “These?”
“Aye,” Jack said. “These here are uncut. A right diamond cutter could make ’em valuable.”
“Ain’t no diamond cutters I know of here abouts,” Frank said. “Prob’ly have to go to Kansas City or Saint Louie for such as them.”
“I know a feller in Tulsey Town,” Henry interjected. The group at the table turned to look at him. “Soon as I can ride, I’ll take those to him; see what he’ll give us.”
Within a week Henry could put his boot back on... as well as take it off without too much pain; and put enough weight on his right foot to walk… with a limp. On the morning of the seventh day he saddled up the gray and headed northwest towards Tulsey Town. He rode off alone.
Henry felt disquiet in the pit of his stomach, an uneasiness bordering on anxiety. The Pryor Creek train robbery had been a disappointment to say the least, and it wasn’t just about the quantity of the haul. He didn’t think the gang he’d assembled would be a crack unit this soon, like he wanted, but after this first job, they were much worse than he expected. Despite the fact that they were well outfitted, and had good mounts, they looked more like a bunch of rodeo clowns, than anything else. And he felt like he’d looked the fool, himself, with all his stumbling and falling. The people he held up didn’t fear him; they’d laughed at him. It all added anger to his mood and depressed him.
The further he rode, the more he thought about Megan. That green-eyed Irish beauty he’d called his sweetheart for the past three years. She’d always been there for him even when he got in trouble. The first time he got arrested on that phony horse-thieving charge, Meg had been the only one who believed in his innocence. Even later, when he wasn’t so innocent, she stuck with him, constantly telling him he was a good person and didn’t have to behave the way he did.
Megan had been fifteen when they’d first met; Henry sixteen. She’d moved into the Territory with her folks four years ago, where her old man had set up a livery and black smithy business in Nowata. Henry could still remember the first day she came into the school house. She stood there like a shining angel with her Irish red hair and green eyes. She was the most beautiful white girl he’d ever seen, and he fell instantly in love with her. He had to fight Stanley Poppingbird and Willie Watson in order to get her attention away from them and onto him. It cost him some loose teeth, a busted nose, and damn near a broken leg when Willie hit him with a stick of firewood, but he’d take it all again in a heartbeat. She was worth that much and more to him.
In his reverie, Henry didn’t notice that he’d angled his horse more in a northerly direction than northwest. It surprised him a little to find himself on a small rise looking down on his old hometown of Nowata. He reined back on the gray to bring her to a stop, and studied the little row of frame and brick buildings surrounded by the scattering of houses. He picked out the livery stable on the north end of Main Street, and the small school house at the south end. Meg would be there, in the school house.
He wanted to see Meg, but he couldn�
��t just ride into town. Meg was probably the only friend he had there. He’d robbed the depot once, and had been arrested on the street for his alleged horse thieving a few years back. Even though it was his home-town, most there knew his reputation, and not many wanted him around. Most likely any citizen would shoot him on sight, especially Meg’s pa—a brawny, hard-muscled Irishman—who’d warned Henry more than once to stay away from his daughter, or risk serious injury.
Henry looked at the sun. He figured he had about an hour before it set. He decided to wait a while before heading down to the school.
As was her habit, Megan Morrisey stayed in the school house well after the time she dismissed the children for the day. That’s when she’d do all the housekeeping chores and look over her students’ daily work. With the lengthening days, she could stay longer. She’d been so focused on grading the writing assignments on her desk, that when she looked up at the window, seeing half the red sun above the hill a mile away surprised her.
She gathered the papers into a neat stack at one corner of her desk, and placed the horseshoe she used as a paperweight atop them. She stood and looked about the room to make sure all was in order before she left.
“Hello, Meg,” a man said behind her, and she whirled toward the voice, letting out a short terrified screech. The man stepped out of the gloom and into the room’s dimming light. Meg’s terrified expression turned quickly to anger. She took two steps toward the man, and slapped him.
“Henry Starr, don’t you ever do that to me again! You scared me half out of my wits.”
Henry rubbed the side of his face where it stung, and laughed softly. “Sort of thought that’s the kind of welcome I’d get in this town, but I didn’t expect it’d come from you.”
Meg threw her arms around Henry’s neck and kissed him hard. Henry kissed back and the two stayed embraced and lip-locked for many seconds, until Meg pushed back and slapped Henry again. “You think you can show up after a year and just start kissing me like that,” she said.
“Now just a dang minute,” Henry said. “I believe you’s the one started kissing me. There ain’t a day gone by in the last year I ain’t wanted to see you. ’Sides your pa said he’d stomp a mud hole in my gut if I ever come around you again, so I had to pick my time, hopin’ maybe he’d forgot about that.”
“Oh, shut up,” Meg said and flung herself onto Henry again.
The passion grew in their kissing, their bodies pressed hard against one another. Henry slipped his hands to caress forbidden places, and Meg pushed against his chest, resisting. “Henry, don’t,” she breathed, but there didn’t seem to be much conviction in her words, so Henry pressed on, bending her back toward her desktop. “No, Henry, stop,” she pleaded as she relaxed into his reclining embrace. Henry relentlessly fumbled with buttons and belts and bloomers.
Meg once again pushed forcefully against her suitor’s chest holding him at arm’s length away from her. “We can’t,” she insisted between gasps. “The door’s unlocked. What if someone came in; one of the children?”
Henry continued kissing her neck, shoulder, ear. He whispered softly to her, “It’s a school house, ain’t it? Maybe they’d learn something.”
Absorbing his fervent kissing, Meg sighed, “At least take your boots off.”
Henry looked down at her sympathetically, “I can get one off, but t’othern ain’t coming off without some work. I got a sprung ankle. I’d need some help, but I ain’t really in the mood for that right now. Are you?”
Meg sighed and arched her back into his body, and he gently, without haste, took her.
* * *
“I better get going,” Meg said. She pushed at her hair and rubbed her hands across her face to remove the drowsiness. The twilight had almost dissolved into blackness, and the diamond brightness of Venus hung above the horizon out the west window. “Ma’s going to be wondering about me.”
“I ain’t staying,” Henry said.
Meg stood and continued to adjust her hair, her clothing. “Didn’t expect you would. I just hope you haven’t got me pregnant.”
Henry remained sitting, his back against the wall, watching her. No words passed between them, until Meg headed for the door. “I want you to marry me, Meg,” Henry said.
Meg stopped, but kept her back to him. “No you don’t,” she said. “Besides, why would I want to do that? You think I want an outlaw husband? You think I want to raise a child on my own with you off in jail, or worse yet, me being a widow?”
“I’m going to quit outlawin’, Meg. We could go off somewhere, where I ain’t known. Start a whole new life. Something respectable.”
“Like what?” Meg asked. She turned halfway back toward him.
“I’s thinking about getting a little cattle ranch going. Been thinking about Colorado. Some Cherokee people have carved out an area. Hear prospects is pretty good out there. And you could still school marm.”
“Colorado?” Meg stayed half turned to Henry, looking at the floor. “That’s a long way off. Anyway, if I married you, Pa would have a fit.”
“I ain’t planned on asking your pa. Figure doing that would make you a widow before we even got married.” Henry grinned at Meg, and she giggled.
“I got one more thing to do,” he continued. “Then I’m coming back for you.”
“What thing?”
“Promised some boys I’d help ’em with something. And I got to get a grub stake for that ranch in Colorado.”
Even in the darkness, Henry could see the anger flash in Meg’s eyes. “Is that how you’re going to quit being an outlaw?” She turned toward the door again, but stopped after she opened it. “If you don’t get killed and manage to come back, Henry, I’ll be waiting for you.” She paused for a few seconds, then added, “But not forever.”
* * *
“I’ll give you five hundred for the lot.” The small man removed the jeweler’s loupe from the front of his right eye, and looked at Henry.
“Hell, Feingold, them rocks is worth more than that, and you know it.”
The jeweler stuck out his lower lip and shrugged. “Perhaps, but they’re uncut. If you’d brought them to me cut, I might offer you more.”
“I could take them to Kansas City and get twice, three times as much. Dammit, man, you’re robbing me.”
Feingold chuckled as he gathered the diamonds and returned them to the sack. “So I’m robbing you, am I? Now that’s rich.” He reached up offering the bag back to Henry. “Here, then, you take your uncut stones up to Kansas City.”
Henry looked at the proffered bag, then walked small circles with his thumbs hooked in his belt. He stopped to face the jeweler again. “What about them watches and gold rings I brung?”
“Like I said, five hundred for the lot.” Feingold dropped the bag of diamonds onto his counter next to the watches and rings.
Henry rubbed his chin and walked in another small circle. “How ‘bout you give me six?” he asked.
The jeweler sighed. “This is a business, Starr. Certain parts of it are a risk, like doing business with fellas like you. You calculate your risks in your business; I calculate mine. But I like you, Henry, so I’ll give you five-fifty. It’s my final offer.”
Henry made a disgusted noise and nodded quickly. Feingold reached under the counter and pulled out a tin box, removed a stack of bills and started counting them out. Henry watched him intently and when the merchant finished, he folded the money and put it in his pocket.
“You’re a dang thief, Feingold,” Henry said. “You’re lucky I don’t just take all that money in that box, and give you a knock on the head to boot.”
“Yes, yes.” Feingold smiled at Henry. “I’m a thief. But who else would you go to with all your watches and diamonds? I could easier get the reward for you than sell all the watches you bring me.”
Henry smiled and nodded. “Yeah, I reckon that’s true enough,” he said. Something in the display case caught his eye and he bent to take a closer look. “How much you
want for that there ring?” he asked.
The jeweler opened the case from the back side and took out the ring. “Ah, this is a beautiful diamond, Henry. It’s a half carat Marquis.”
“How much?”
“I’d sell it to you for eight hundred.”
“I’ll give you five.”
“I’ll take six.”
Henry pulled out the bills he’d put in his pocket, then extracted the other fifty from the other pocket. “I wish you could ride a horse and shoot,” he said as he handed the money to the little man in the black vest and small skullcap. Feingold placed the ring in a small box and handed it to his customer. Henry touched his hat and said, “I’ll see you on another day, Mr. Feingold.”
“Good day, Mr. Starr. Always a pleasure doing business with you.”
Chapter Six
Happy Jack pulled a knife from his right boot and flung it. It gave out a sharp ring when the tip stuck an inch into the window frame. Link Cumplin let out a long string of angry oaths, and Watt spit into the fireplace. Kid Wilson glared at Henry, his hand on the butt of his holstered revolver, his thumb rubbing the back of its hammer. Boone Tyler scratched an armpit.
“You spent all of it?” Frank asked Henry.
“Hell, it weren’t that much,” Henry said. He looked sheepishly, and a little anxiously, at each man in the cabin.
“On what?” Link asked.
“Something personal,” Henry said. He stood and faced the group with a look of defiance. “Now look here, the haul we got from that train didn’t amount to a hill of beans. All we got out of that job was practice, and from how we done, it appears we dang sure needed it.
“Ever blame one of you has got a place to sleep and plenty to eat. I got a job planned that will bring us all a good haul.”
“Then let’s get to it,” Kid Wilson said. “I’m tired of hanging around here shooting rocks.” He looked at the others, and they nodded and muttered agreement.
“Yeah, I know,” Henry said. “But if we just jump into it we’re likely to get shot, judging from that train deal. We got to get ready. We got to do some training.”
