The Saga of Henry Starr

by Robert J Conley

  He spoke to Frank Cheney without turning around. “Frank, I’ve got something on my mind.”

  “What’s that?” asked Cheney.

  “The Caney Valley National Bank in Caney, Kansas.” Cheney leaned forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees. He raised his eyebrows and looked intently at Henry.

  “We going to rob it?” he said.

  “That’s my intention, Frank,” said Henry. “We’re about to graduate to the next level of outlawry.”

  14

  Henry Starr and Frank Cheney rode at a comfortable pace toward Caney, Kansas. They rode common cow ponies, but they were leading two fine thoroughbreds, which they had obtained just for this occasion at the small cost of only a couple of hours of their time. Each man carried two .45 Colt pistols and two Winchester rifles. They were only a little way out of Caney when Henry selected a spot beside the road. They led the thoroughbreds off into a clump of trees and tied them, then moved on toward Caney.

  It began to drizzle. Henry called another halt. They dismounted, wrapped the four rifles to protect them from the rain, and hid them beside the road. Then they rode on into Caney, making their entrance by a back street. They hitched the cow ponies. Henry looked at Frank, gave a nod, and they walked off in different directions. Circling the block, the two men met at the front door of the Caney Valley National Bank. They did not acknowledge each other. Henry opened the door and stepped inside, standing against the wall, the rainwater running off the brim of his hat. Frank Cheney passed him by and walked to the teller’s window. Henry made a quick survey of the situation inside the bank.

  There were two cashiers and a bank officer behind the wicket and two customers at the counter. Frank, standing behind one of the customers, looked over his shoulder at Henry, who gave him a nod. Both men drew their pistols at once, and one of the cashiers bolted into the large vault. The officer ran through a door into a back room. Henry, reacting quickly, made for the latter, and poked the barrel of one six-shooter in between the door and the door-facing just in time to prevent the officer from closing the door after himself. Henry pushed the door on open to find the man reaching for a rifle that was standing in a corner of the back room. Henry stepped into the room and shoved his two pistols menacingly toward the banker, who responded appropriately by freezing in position with his right arm extended toward the rifle. Henry gestured with one six-gun toward the main room, and the banker obediently went back out behind the cage. Frank had corraled the teller who had run into the vault. Frank was watching the whole crowd and awaiting Henry’s return.

  As Henry took over the job of watching the crowd and gave a nod, Frank Cheney pulled a two-bushel sack out of the waistband of his trousers.

  “I’ve kept this sack on my farm seven years,” he said, “just for this purpose.”

  He stepped inside the vault with the sack. Henry, keeping one pistol pointed toward the crowd, moved behind the counter and began to gather up the bills from off the counter and from the tellers’ drawers. A customer approached the front door, and Henry quickly whipped off his hat and used it to cover his weapon on the counter. The customer stepped inside and turned his back for an instant to shut the door behind him. Henry moved the hat over, so that when the man turned again, he found himself staring at Henry’s Colt.

  “Just come on over here with the others,” said Henry.

  The man did as he was told, and just then Frank came out of the vault with his sack about two-thirds full. He saw the money Henry had gathered up on the counter and moved to add it to his collection. Henry went to a back door and opened it to see where it led. He found a high stockade-type fence enclosing a small area behind the bank and allowing no exit into the alley. Leaving the door open, he turned back to the crowd in the bank.

  “All right,” he said. “Everyone out. Right through here.”

  “Get going,” said Frank.

  The three bank employees and three customers were hustled out the back door into the small enclosure, and Henry pulled the door shut and latched it from the inside. He made a quick side trip into the back room and picked up the banker’s rifle, then moved to the front door, where Frank was waiting for him. They gave each other a look, then Frank opened the door and began walking toward the end of the block. Henry followed, holding the rifle ready for action. A few onlookers on the sidewalks paused to watch curiously, but no one made a move toward the two bank robbers. When Henry rounded the corner to walk on to where they had left their horses, Frank already had the animals untied. They mounted up and started for the edge of town at a gallop.

  Once out of town, they spurred the mounts and raced full-speed down the road. Soon they reached the spot where the rifles were cached, and they pulled their cow ponies to a halt. Frank moved to uncover the rifles, while Henry took the banker’s rifle by the barrel and smashed it over a rock. Taking up their own extra rifles, they mounted up again. After a quick glance back toward town, the fugitives continued their ride. A few men had mounted horses back in Caney and were starting their pursuit.

  Henry, with Frank following, spurred his pony toward a scrub oak-covered knoll just ahead but off the road. As they topped the rise, they disappeared into the shadows of the scrub oaks from the view of their pursuers. Riding down the other side of the knoll, Henry led Frank in a sharp turn to the right, heading back for the road. The makeshift posse from Caney followed in hot pursuit over the knoll and through the scrub oaks, but then continued straight ahead. Henry’s ruse had worked.

  Back on the road, it wasn’t long before Henry and Frank came back to the spot where they had hidden the two thoroughbred horses. They dismounted, unsaddled and turned loose the worn-out cow ponies, threw the saddles on the fresh mounts and continued on their way at a leisurely pace, joking and laughing with each other at the ease with which they had evaded those Kansas hicks.

  Later, back at Cheney’s farmhouse, they emptied the contents of the sack onto a table. Cheney marveled at the pile of money in front of him.

  “There must be fifty thousand dollars there,” he said.

  Henry said nothing. He sat down and started counting. He had noticed something that bothered him. Frank, still eager, decided to lend a helping hand, and when the count was finished, Henry leaned back in his chair as he tossed down the final stack of bills.

  “Four thousand nine hundred,” he said.

  “Damn,” said Frank, scratching his head. “That’s all?”

  “It’s all small bills,” said Henry. “They foxed us, Frank.”

  Henry chuckled. He enjoyed a good joke, even when it was on him. He had planned the robbery carefully with the extra horses and rifles. In fact, he mused, if anything, he had overplanned. The extra rifles had been totally superfluous, and so might have been the thoroughbred horses. Even though he had planned every move, the sly bankers had somehow secreted all the big bills. When he had relished the humor in the bankers’ trick and stopped chuckling at himself, Henry sat for a moment in silence. Frank hadn’t seen the humor in the small bills, but he could see that Henry was in deep thought, so he kept quiet and waited. Finally Henry spoke again.

  “There’s too many people in a bank,” he said. “We can’t watch them all—just the two of us. Frank, if we’re going to be successful in this business, we’ve got to go about it the right way. What we need is a band of outlaws.”

  15

  Henry Starr and Frank Cheney sat up late discussing possibilities for recruits into their gang, and early the following morning they rode out together, Cheney, for a change, taking the lead. They rode up to within view of a shabby farm. Cheney had guided Henry to this place. They stopped to survey the scene before them. The farm was generally run-down. The small house needed painting, but before that could be done, it needed some other, more basic, repairs. Tall weeds grew all around, and the fence had fallen down in several spots.

  A man of about thirty-five, with a sallow complexion, watery blue eyes, and dark brown hair, was drawing water from a well with a rusty and
squeaking pulley. Although Starr and Cheney were not far off, the man had obviously either not seen them or was purposely not letting on that he had. He went about his task seemingly unconcerned. After taking in the scene, the two riders urged their mounts on into the farmyard, Cheney still in the lead. The man set the bucket down and reached for a nearby rifle. The rifle, too, showed signs of being ill cared for. As Henry Starr rode in closer, he thought to himself, Squatter. When they got well into the yard, the man lowered his rifle.

  “Hello, Frank,” he said.

  Cheney nodded.

  “Watt,” he said, “I want you to meet Henry Starr.”

  “Henry Starr?” said Watt.

  “That’s right,” said Henry. “The outlaw.”

  “We’d like to talk to you, Watt,” said Cheney.

  Watt glanced toward the house. The front door swung open, and a wretched, washed-out-looking woman stepped out. Her skin, hair, and dress all seemed to have been made out of the same basic gray material. She looked with curiosity toward the men.

  “Not here,” said Watt, and he started walking toward a barn that looked as if it were leaning about as far to one side as it could without falling over. Henry and Frank followed him. So did the woman’s gaze. She wondered what the men were talking about. She could see them out by the barn, but she could not hear anything they might be saying. The two strangers still sat on their horses. Watt stood on the ground before them. Soon Watt turned and walked into the barn.

  “Watt?” the woman called out. “Watt?”

  Watt did not respond, and the woman did not move away from the house. She stood straining her eyes toward the two horsemen and the barn. Soon Watt emerged from the barn leading a horse, saddled. When he had gotten back to where the others sat horseback waiting for him, he climbed into the saddle.

  “Watt,” the woman cried.

  The three riders turned their mounts and started toward the road. Only then did the woman move. She took three hurried steps toward the riders, wringing her hands.

  “Where are you going?” she said. “Watt?”

  Henry Starr’s recruiting process had begun. The three rode back to Cheney’s place, where Henry gave the other two instructions to practice shooting. They set bottles and cans up on the fence posts and fired at them. If he was going to lead an outlaw gang, Henry decided, they would have to be good. Their lives would, after all, depend on each other.

  Henry left the two at Cheney’s and went off alone. Frank and Watt waited for two days for Henry to return, and, now and then, according to Henry’s instructions, they would set up their bottles and cans and shoot. They were engaged in this process when they heard riders approaching. They turned, guns ready. Three riders came into the yard, but Frank and Watt put away their pistols when they recognized that Henry Starr was in the lead.

  “Boys,” said Henry, “meet Link Cumplin and Happy Jack.”

  The strength of Henry Starr’s gang was now at five, but he was not yet satisfied. He left them all to practice their shooting and continued to scout the countryside for more recruits. Another week passed, and the four began to grow restless. They had done nothing but shoot, until Henry had added a riding drill to their daily routine. They practiced riding in a line, like a cavalry charge. They practiced riding by the targets on the fence posts and shooting at them from horseback at a full gallop. Link Cumplin said that he could have joined the army for this, but Henry assured him that the pay would be better. He also assured them all that soon they would see some action and some profit. The main thing, he said, was that in order for this scheme to work, they all had to agree to accept his decisions without question. He had to be the boss of the outfit.

  One day not long after that, Henry took them all out on a practice ride. They rode abreast across country when the country would allow that formation. When the woods grew thick and they had to keep to the road, they shifted to single file. The men had no idea where they were going. As far as they knew, Henry was just putting them through the motions once again, so they were a little surprised when he led them into the small town of Coweta and halted at a hitching rail across the street from the jail. They all dismounted and hitched their horses, then leaned against the rail waiting—for what, no one knew but Henry Starr.

  Across the street, inside the jail, the sheriff unlocked the cell door and motioned to the prisoner who was lounging inside on the cot.

  “All right, Tyler,” he said. “Come on out.”

  The man called Tyler roused himself up from the cot in the cell, put his hat on his head, hitched his trousers up, and walked out of the cell with a swagger. The sheriff walked around behind his desk and opened up a drawer. He pulled an envelope out of the drawer and tossed it across the desk at Tyler.

  “Here’s your things,” he said.

  “What about my horse and saddle?” asked Tyler.

  “Just outside,” said the sheriff. “I had him brought up from the livery. You’re free to go now. Take my advice and watch your step.”

  “See you around,” said Tyler as he stepped to the door and opened it.

  “I hope not,” said the sheriff.

  Tyler shut the door behind himself, and the sheriff heard a voice shout from somewhere outside.

  “Bud Tyler,” it said.

  The sheriff got up from his chair and moved to the window. Looking outside, he could see five men, real hardcases, he thought, lined up at the hitching rail across the street. He watched as Tyler untied his horse and ambled across the street to meet the others. He had a brief conversation with one of the men, an Indian by his looks, then mounted up with the rest of them and rode out of town.

  “God damn,” said the sheriff, walking heavily back to his chair.

  Now they were six. Tyler’s was the final name on the list that Starr and Cheney had compiled. Henry was satisfied. Another week or so of training to get Tyler in step with the others, and they’d be ready to go.

  It was after dark a few nights later, and the Henry Starr Gang was lounging around inside the cabin of Frank Cheney when they heard something move outside. All eyes looked toward the door. Henry Starr eased a pistol out of a holster and cocked it. The door creaked open, seemingly by itself. Outside was dark, and the men inside could see no one in the doorway. Henry held his pistol ready. There was silence for a few long seconds.

  “Step inside and show yourself,” said Henry.

  A young man about nineteen years old with sandy hair and piercing green eyes stepped to just inside the door. He was short and thin. Henry thought, in fact, that he seemed even slightly anemic in appearance, but hanging from the crossed cartridge belts that he wore around his slim waist were two very large and well-cared-for .45s. The slight stranger’s eyes shifted around the room as the men sat up, their eyes all intent on him.

  “Which one is Henry Starr?” asked the intruder.

  “I have that dubious distinction,” said Henry, still holding the cocked pistol. “And who might you be?”

  “They call me Kid Wilson. Word’s out that you’re recruiting. I come to join up with you.”

  “What do you say, boys?” said Henry.

  “I’ve heard about him,” said Happy Jack. “He’s all right.”

  Henry eased the hammer down on his Colt and holstered the weapon. He stood up and offered his hand to Kid Wilson. Wilson took it, and his eyes were fixed on Henry’s. Staring into another’s eyes made Henry just a bit uncomfortable, but he knew that it was a common practice of whites, so he returned the stare.

  “Well,” he said, “I think that this will just about fill up our ranks, boys.”

  Now the number was seven—a good number, Henry thought. To the Cherokees, a sacred number—a number of power. Seven. Himself and six more. And the six were all white. He would not lead an Indian down the path to trouble. Henry thought, with a sense of irony, that here with these six men around him, he was more alone than ever. He had no one except Mae. He would whip this gang into shape, rob a few banks, build up a substanti
al money roll, and then take Mae and leave the country. And the sooner the better.

  He intensified the training, taking on the role of drill instructor. Target practice with both pistol and rifle was every day’s business. And he added to their repertoire a riding drill in which the gang formed up in a fan shape, the men on either side firing to the right or left, and those in the center firing straight ahead. They also engaged in fast draw practice.

  One day Henry took Bud Tyler with him, leaving the others at Cheney’s house. They were all lounging around the front of the house, following some target practice, when Henry rode back into the yard beside a wagon.

  “What the hell?” said Link Cumplin, rising to his feet.

  Henry and the wagon came on up to the house. Bud Tyler was driving.

  “What’s that?” said Frank Cheney.

  “Gentlemen,” said Henry, “this is our chuck and ammunition wagon, fully fitted out. Mr. Tyler is our teamster. Now we are ready to go.”

  The next morning the Henry Starr Gang started out on its first job. Bud Tyler drove the wagon, and the other six rode along beside it. They made the trip to within a few miles of Pryor Creek, where Henry called a halt. He ordered Bud Tyler to stay with the wagon and wait for them. Henry and the other five headed for the town at a trot.

  In Pryor Creek the train was just pulling in, and a crowd had gathered at the depot. Henry Starr rode for the engine. He caught up with it easily, pulled himself from the saddle onto the engine, and stepped inside with the conductor. He pulled out a .45 and leveled it at the man.

  “Just ease it on in like nothing’s wrong,” he said.