“These things cost money,” he said. “I can’t get very far for you with twenty-two dollars, but, uh, if you’ll sign this bill of sale for your horse and saddle, I might be able to help you out.”
“Even if you do get me out of this, how am I going to get home from here without my horse?”
“You’re a long ways from out,” said the redhead. “First things first.”
“Where else you going to turn, boy?” said the deputy.
Henry felt sick. He didn’t like either of these two men, and he didn’t trust them. He felt certain that they were just trying to get his money, and he felt like a fool for handing it over. Now they wanted his horse and saddle. He felt terribly young and inexperienced all of a sudden, and he felt completely vulnerable. This was all wrong, but he had no place else to turn. He had no idea what to do. He was alone and lost and almost without hope. Henry signed the paper.
5
The jail guard shoved Henry Starr roughly into the large cell in the Fort Smith jail and shut the heavy door behind him with a clank. Henry could hear the large key turn in the lock as he looked around himself to take in his new setting. The cell was large, yet it was overcrowded. The prisoners all seemed to be looking at him, and they were a rough and seedy-looking lot. Henry thought that he had never before in his life seen so many of the lowest type of humanity in one crowded location. They were filthy, as was the cell into which they were packed, and Henry was nearly overcome by the oppressive stench that pervaded the atmosphere of the place. In spite of the chaos into which he had just been so rudely thrust, Henry noticed that one prisoner did not seem to be paying attention to his entrance. That man was lounging on a filthy cot against the far wall. He appeared to be a large man, and he was obviously a full-blooded Indian.
Henry had just barely taken in all this when one of the prisoners jumped up from where he crouched against the moldy wall and shouted.
“Fresh fish. Fresh fish.”
Suddenly the cell was all movement. The prisoners were all running around, and a number of them laid hands on Henry and dragged him across the room. When they had him where they wanted him and the dragging and shoving had more or less stopped, Henry saw that he had been placed before a particularly scroungy-looking convict who was perched on an upper-level bunk and leering down at him. A small, weasel-faced man at the foot of the bunk stood up in mock formality and squealed out as loudly as he could.
“Oh, yes. Oh, yes. The honorable kangaroo court is now in session.”
The prisoners became disturbingly quiet. Henry had no idea what was about to befall him. He braced himself for the worst. Then the wretch on the top bunk spoke in a solemn voice.
“Sheriff,” he intoned, “what is this prisoner charged with?”
“Why, judge, your honor,” answered another, “breaking into our jail without permission.”
The decorum of the court broke down as the prisoners all began to shout, “Guilty. Guilty.” The judge allowed this to go on for a bit before deciding to regain control.
“Order,” he finally shouted above the din. “Order, or I’ll have to clear this courtroom.”
The mob of prisoners roared with laughter. This time the judge prudently waited until the laughter died down before continuing.
“I find this prisoner guilty of breaking into jail,” he said, “and fine him fifty cents for the offense.”
“Pay up, prisoner,” ordered the sheriff.
“I haven’t got fifty cents,” said Henry.
The judge looked hurt.
“What do you got?” he said.
Henry pulled his trouser pockets inside out.
“I haven’t got a cent,” he said, “A real criminal, better known as a lawyer, got to me before you did.”
A few of the prisoners giggled at Henry’s characterization of the lawyer, but the judge was still looking pained. Then the sheriff noticed Henry’s right hand, grabbed the wrist and pulled it up for the judge’s view.
“He’s got a gold ring,” he shouted.
The judge’s pained expression left his face at once. His watery eyes lit up just a bit beneath their reddish tint.
“Gold? Ah, the court will hold it for security,” he decreed.
The sheriff reached for the ring to try to pull it off Henry’s finger, but Henry shot out a quick left hook that crushed some cartilage in the sheriff’s nose. The sheriff howled, grabbed for his face, and sank down on his knees. Henry didn’t wait for the others to react. As soon as the sheriff released his right wrist, Henry swung a right at the nearest chin. Knowing that he was not only outnumbered, but also, in effect, surrounded, he spun around so that his back was to the judge, reached up over his shoulders, and, taking the judge totally by surprise, threw him out into the crowd of scrambling prisoners. At least, with that move, he would have no one at his back. The mob moved in on him, and Henry took a couple of glancing blows to the side of his head, but there were just too many hands reaching for him. He knew that he couldn’t last long against them.
Then a scream came from in back of the crowd, and a prisoner went flying through the room to crash against a wall. The big, quiet Indian had gotten up and joined the fray. Before the crowd realized what was happening, he had knocked two more of their number out of the fight. The odds were much improved, and Henry fought back with renewed determination. He was actually, to his own astonishment, enjoying it. After so much frustration, after such a long time of feeling utterly helpless, he found himself with a means of releasing his tensions. He had someone to strike back at.
Then a guard stepped in at the door and fired a pistol shot into the ceiling, and the fight was over.
Henry felt a little better after the fight, but even that didn’t help when he looked around for a place to sit down and try to relax. The big Indian had gone back to his spot on the filthy cot and showed no inclination to talk to Henry. It was as if the fight had never taken place. Henry had never seen such filth in his life as what he found in this Fort Smith jail, and he felt suddenly unclean just being in the cell. It was bad enough to have the soles of his boots on the putrid floor, and he certainly didn’t want to touch anything with any other part of his body or clothing.
As the day dragged on into the night, though, he found that his weariness overcame him, and he had to lie down. Only after he settled did he notice the bugs. He was awake long after all the others had gone to sleep, and, thinking about what had befallen him, breathing the foul, stale air of the cell, he finally fell asleep with tears running down his cheeks.
6
Henry spent the next two weeks in the cell at Fort Smith. His lawyer did not come to see him. He didn’t see the deputy again. He saw no one except the prisoners and the guards who brought the food to the cell. The other prisoners left him alone after the fight, and, even though he had come to Henry’s defense, the big Indian still kept to himself. Henry had lost track of time, and he had begun to feel as if he would never see the light of day again. He had gotten to the point where he didn’t even bother to look at the floor or a cot or the wall before sitting, lying down, or leaning back. He had been so long in the filth that he had become adjusted to it. He no longer noticed the fetid atmosphere of the cell.
He was, like the others, a little curious when the cell door was opened one morning and it was too early yet for the noon meal. The guard who opened the door didn’t go into the cell. He just opened the door a little, stuck his head in, and yelled out.
“Henry Starr?”
Henry stood up slowly, cautiously, his head filled with fear and apprehension and suspicion of everyone he had encountered in Fort Smith. Inside he wanted to jump and run. He didn’t know what to expect, but anything would be better than the sitting and waiting in filth—filth that he had almost ceased to notice. He might be going to trial, for all he knew, or it might be the slimy lawyer finally come to consult with him. He had no idea what might be in store for him as he walked toward the doorway. All he knew was that he wanted out of the cell,
out of the filth, away from the hardened, unfeeling criminals, the living corpses, the less than human monsters who inhabited this unearthly environment.
“Come on out,” said the guard.
Henry stepped out into the hallway. Even there, still inside the jail, the air felt cleaner. There beside the guard was Charlie Starr, Henry’s Uncle Charlie, brother of old Hop Starr. Henry was suddenly painfully aware of his own filth. He wondered how much he, himself, stank to someone who had been outside living in the real world. He was in one sense overjoyed at the sight of his uncle, but at the same time he was humiliated and ashamed. He wanted out of the jail, but he also wanted to hide from his uncle. He had a shocking realization that a part of him, something inside, wanted to hide so badly that it actually created an impulse to run back into the hated cell.
“Uncle Charlie,” said Henry, his voice betraying his astonishment. “Uncle Charlie, how did you—?”
Charlie Starr cut him off short.
“Come on, Henry,” he said. “Let’s get out of here. We’ll talk later.”
Whatever had to be done to get Henry released from jail had apparently already been taken care of by his uncle, for Charlie Starr led Henry directly outside and to a hitching rail where he had two saddled horses waiting. He untied one and handed the reins to Henry without a word. Henry mounted up, and Charlie climbed on the other horse and led the way out of town.
He rode in silence for a good way out into the countryside, then led Henry off the road down a trail to a campsite beside a creek. Undoing his saddle roll, he produced a bar of lye soap and a new suit of clothes. Henry took the soap, stripped, and rushed into the clear, cold water. He was glad for the strong lye soap, and he almost used up the entire bar scrubbing himself over and over until his skin was nearly raw. He washed his hair again and again until he felt reasonably certain there were no bugs settled in there. The water felt good. It felt clean. And the air was fresh.
Henry felt as if he could stay in that fresh water much longer, but his curiosity was tormenting him ferociously. He got out and dried off, put on his fresh clothes, and felt almost normal again. He was still ashamed. He had done nothing to deserve it, but he had been in jail. The humiliation, unlike the filth and the stench, would not wash off.
While Henry had been scraping his skin in the creek, Charlie Starr had built a small fire and pulled out of his saddle pack some bean bread and some coffee. He boiled the coffee grounds in a small pot he had set on the fire and, when Henry finally came out of the creek, passed him the bread. After two weeks of Fort Smith jail slop, Henry was glad to taste anything from outside. He relished the traditional Cherokee bread, and the pure, cold creek water, with which he washed it down, was delicious. He politely refused the coffee. When he had satisfied his palate and his stomach, he decided that it was time to try to satisfy his curiosity.
“Uncle Charlie,” he said, “how did you know where to find me?”
“I guess one of Todd’s cowboys was in town and seen you arrested. Anyhow, Todd sent the man to tell me.”
“Then Mr. Todd knows where I’ve been,” said Henry, staring into the fire and watching the small licks of flame dance.
“He knows, Henry, and he knows that you’re innocent. I went by to see him on my way here after you. He told me about that damned coward, Eaton, and his horses. Don’t worry. You’ve still got a job.”
“What about the trial and all that?” asked Henry.
“There won’t be any trial,” said Charlie, reaching for the coffeepot and refilling his cup. “I found Eaton still in Fort Smith and made it clear to him that I wouldn’t put up with him swearing a lie on you in court, so he finally told them that there was after all a doubt in his mind whether you had actually stole his horse. It took a little doing, but I finally got it straightened out. I’ve learned how to play this white man’s game pretty well by now.”
That was an understatement. Charlie Starr was a wealthy man. The Starr Ranch made both Roberts’ and Todd’s look like jerkwater outfits. And Charlie dressed the part of a rich rancher, too.
Henry took a cold sip of creek water.
“I spent two weeks in that stink hole,” he said, “and I’m innocent. Where’s the justice in that? Eaton should be charged with perjury or something.”
“Let it go, Henry,” advised his uncle. “You’re free.”
Henry got to his feet and paced around to the other side of the fire.
“But, Uncle Charlie,” he said, “they treated me like a common criminal. Like a murderer. Why? Why did Eaton do that to me after I looked after his horses?”
“Sit down and try to relax,” snapped the old rancher. “Henry, when that deputy put you in jail, he got one hundred and twenty-five dollars. Then he got forty dollars for mileage. He got fifty cents a meal for feeding you three meals a day while on the way here.”
“He gave me one hunk of sausage and some crackers, was all. One meal—if you could call it that.”
He didn’t bother to mention the spoonful of beans.
“Eaton got twenty dollars for mileage and a buck fifty a day while waiting in Fort Smith for your trial,” continued Charlie, “and they probably got a cut of what that lawyer took from you.”
“You mean they just used me to make some extra money? They arrest people for that? Just to make money, and they don’t care whether a man’s guilty or not?”
“Pocket money, I believe they call it,” said Charlie. “You were handy.”
“Well, Uncle Charlie, it’s not right. Remember back a few years—how different things were? Back then we looked down on white people. Now it’s the other way around.”
Charlie Starr sighed. Of course, he could remember back a good many more years than could his nephew, but he had, he believed, learned to accept things the way they were. That didn’t mean that he had to like them. It just meant that he knew when to fight back and when not to. Some things, Charlie knew, couldn’t be changed. But he could also remember the impetuousness of youth and the idealism, and he felt sorry for his nephew having to learn a lesson about the world in such a hard way.
“Yeah,” he said, “things have really changed from the days when the only whites in the Cherokee Nation were wagonloads of poor white trash moving in one week and out the next. It’s a different breed now.”
“A different breed, huh?” said Henry. “Well, they’re still trash.”
Charlie spread his blanket and tossed one to Henry. Then he sat down to pull off his boots.
“Just try to put it out of your mind, Henry,” he said. “When we get back home, go back to work and just forget all this.”
Charlie rolled over on his side and settled himself into the ground to sleep. It was obvious to Henry that his uncle had said his last word on the subject. Henry picked up the blanket he had been tossed, but he didn’t immediately spread it on the ground. He stood looking at the form of his uncle there before him, and when he spoke, it was more to himself than to Charlie.
“Forget it?” he said.
Henry turned his back on his uncle and paced a few steps away. He was feeling exasperated with the old man. He was grateful to Charlie for his rescue, but Charlie was shrugging it all off much too easily for Henry’s sense of terrible injustice. He spread the blanket on the ground and sat down on it, his elbows on his knees, his chin in the palms of his hands. There was a rage inside Henry Starr, and he couldn’t figure out what to do with it. Finally he stretched out on the blanket, and in spite of his internal wrath and turmoil, he was soon asleep in the fresh night air. It was the first restful sleep he had experienced since his arrest in Nowata.
7
Henry did go back to work at the Todd Ranch, but it just wasn’t the same. No one ever said anything or did anything related to Henry’s scrape with the law, but Henry felt as if they all looked at him just a bit differently. He couldn’t quite nail it down. It was just a feeling that he had. Maybe, he thought, it was just his imagination, but he didn’t really believe that. He did his wor
k, and he spent his off time mostly in the bunkhouse with his fiddle. His fiddle tunes were always the mournful ones.
One evening as he moped in the bunkhouse, Charles Todd came in to see him.
“Henry,” he said, “there’s someone up at the house to see you.”
Henry carefully laid aside his fiddle and bow and got up off his bunk.
“Who is it?” he asked.
“Why don’t you just run on over there and find out?”
On the large front porch of the ranch house, Henry found Mae Morrison waiting for him. His feelings were mixed, for he had missed her desperately, yet he was ashamed. For an instant he thought of running away to hide from her, but before he could do that, Mae had seen him. He had to face her. He walked on up and stood close to the porch.
“Hello, Henry,” she said. “Remember me?”
“Hello, Mae,” said Henry, digging the toe of his boot into the ground and avoiding her eyes. “I …”
“Why didn’t you come to see me?”
“I wanted to, Mae. I really did. But I was—I don’t know—too ashamed, I guess. I’ve been in jail, Mae, for stealing a horse. With criminals. Real criminals. I’m a convict.”
Mae walked over to Henry and slowly put her arms around his shoulders. Henry still avoided her eyes, and she shook him gently.
“Henry,” she said, “no one who knows you believes that. And they let you go, didn’t they? It was all just a bad mistake. Don’t let it bother you anymore. Okay?”
For a moment Henry’s voice caught in his throat, and his eyes felt watery. He was glad that tears didn’t run down his cheeks. He took a couple of deep breaths to maintain his composure. Then he allowed Mae’s gentle pull to draw him up close to her in an embrace. He put his arms around her and held her tight.
“Okay,” he said.
“Don’t keep hiding from me.”
“I won’t anymore.”
Mae stepped back from Henry, a little embarrassed because of the setting. She smiled.
The Saga of Henry Starr Page 3
