At just about the same time, Happy Jack had climbed onto the rear end of the caboose. He pulled out his pistols and started to make his way through the cars from that end, gathering up everyone he came across and herding them in front of him. Outside, the other four remained on horseback and rode up in a semicircle, firing their pistols in the air and herding the crowd like a bunch of cows up toward the train. As the people in the train were pushed toward the center from each end by Happy Jack and Henry, they were forced out to join the general crowd. Soon the train was empty, and Henry and Jack came out into the crowd. They were joined by Link and Watt. Kid Wilson and Frank Cheney remained mounted and held their guns on the crowd. The four outlaws down in the midst of the crowd pulled sacks out of their waistbands and began taking up a collection. As he moved through the crowd, Henry spotted two deputy United States marshals. He took particular delight in disarming them. The deputies, for their part, made no move to resist. Typical, Henry thought. Now and then Kid Wilson and Frank Cheney would fire a shot or two into the air to keep the crowd suitably intimidated.
The sacks full, the pockets of the crowd all empty, Henry made a flourishing gesture, and the four outlaws on foot all headed for their horses. Henry had to jump back through the engine to retrieve his mount. He climbed into the saddle and rode around the train to rejoin the rest of the gang, and as he did so, he saw Happy Jack riding from the rear of the train, having accomplished the same purpose. With everyone ready to go, Henry turned in his saddle to face the crowd one last time.
“Just so there’ll be no mistakes, I’m Henry Starr, folks,” he shouted. “See you later.”
He spurred his horse and headed out of Pryor Creek in the direction of Bud Tyler and the wagon with the rest of the Starr Gang following. They made it back to the wagon with no problems. Kid Wilson dropped back occasionally to check the back trail. No one from Pryor Creek followed, and Wilson was just a bit disappointed. The gang headed home, each one feeling high on the excitement and the success of their first venture. As they moved along a road at an arrogantly easy pace, they passed a small farm. The farmer, out working in the yard, looked up at the strange caravan. Suddenly he turned toward his house.
“Maw,” he shouted. “Maw, come looka here.”
A woman came rushing out the front door and ran to the farmer’s side. She was followed by several barefoot children.
“That there’s Henry Starr and his gang,” said the farmer.
“Henry Starr?” said one of the children.
Henry had noticed the family gathering outside of the farmhouse. He turned his head and looked at the farmer and his brood.
“Howdy,” shouted the farmer. “Howdy, Henry Starr. You’ns give them hell.”
Henry smiled and tipped his hat to the farmer as he rode on past. The farmer and his whole family stood still, as if for a family photographic portrait, and watched the Starr Gang ride on down the road and out of sight. When there was nothing left to watch but the dust, the head of the family spoke again.
“Ain’t no way the laws will touch them boys,” he said. “Hell, they’re too damn scared to try.”
16
The Starr Gang with its chuck and ammunition wagon moved along the road heading south. Henry felt good. He had planned carefully, and his plans had met with success. All the rigorous training to which he had subjected his gang had paid off. They were a crack outfit, he thought. Still, he felt alone among them, but that was all right, too. The leader need not, probably should not, be a part of the gang. He should remain separate, apart, aloof. Henry had not forgotten his promise to Mae, his plan to collect enough money for the two of them to go away somewhere, but he was enjoying life with the Starr Gang. It was exciting. It was romantic. It even somehow satisfied a vaguely nationalistic feeling that burned somewhere deep in Henry’s breast, for he felt that the law that he defied was the law of an invader. Henry kept trying to hate white people, but he kept running across whites he liked—or at least whites he could not really dislike. As he rode along the road with his gang, he realized that he was beginning to like one of them. He couldn’t really pin down what it was he liked, but there was something about the mysterious Kid Wilson.
Henry called a halt to his caravan.
“Let’s rest up here for a spell,” he said.
Bud Tyler pulled the wagon off the road, and the riders all dismounted and let the reins of their horses trail on the ground. Henry waited for everyone to stretch and get the riding kinks out, then he called them all together.
“Boys,” he said, “we did all right on that job, but I formed this group for things more serious than that circus back there. I’m talking about banks. Bud, just as soon as we rustle up some chuck and get our bellies full, I want you to head this wagon east. We’re going to Bentonville, Arkansas.”
Bentonville, Arkansas, in 1893, was a thriving town. It was larger than any of the towns in the Cherokee Nation or in Kansas that Henry had pulled jobs in so far. Bentonville was a busy town with heavy traffic on the streets. Men on horseback, men driving wagons, men and women in buggies, and many pedestrians were coming and going on the main street. Into this bustle the Henry Starr Gang prepared to ride and rob the large and solid-looking bank on Main Street.
From a hilltop just on the outskirts of Bentonville, Henry and his boys looked down on the unsuspecting town. Henry and Frank were in the wagon with Bud Tyler, their horses tied onto the back. The others sat in their saddles. Henry studied the street. He saw the customers coming and going through the front door of the bank. This job would call for all the discipline and precision he had been drilling into his small band of brigands. He gave a nod, and Tyler flicked the reins, starting the wagon down the hill, straight toward Main Street. Kid Wilson and Happy Jack rode as a pair off to the right of the wagon, Link Cumplin and Watt to the left.
In the bank, business went on as usual, while the Starr Gang gathered in a back alley. As soon as the wagon came to a stop, Kid Wilson jumped out of the saddle and ran to the back end of the wagon to pull out the rifles and distribute them to all the gang members. Henry, Wilson, and Cheney, rifles in hand, started for the bank at a trot. Link followed not far behind. They had left Tyler with the wagon, and Happy Jack and Watt to hold the horses ready. As Henry approached the bank, he found the front door open, someone having just gone inside. Before the door could swing to, Henry jumped through into the lobby, followed by Kid Wilson and Frank Cheney. They spread out and leveled their rifles.
“Hands up and hands steady,” shouted Henry.
Outside, Link Cumplin had taken a position just by the front door of the bank. He held his rifle ready and watched nervously the chaos of the street. Link should have at least lounged against the wall a bit casually. His posture attracted immediate attention, and the attention that he drew made Link more nervous. He pointed his rifle first in one direction, then in another. With all the people in the street, there was no way that Link could begin to keep track of their comings and goings, and someone had alerted the local sheriff. Bentonville was not like Pryor Creek. The citizens of Bentonville had no intention of allowing their bank to be robbed without putting up a fight. The sheriff, pistol in hand, came running toward the bank through the crowd on the street. Link saw him and threw his rifle to his shoulder, but before he could fire, the sheriff pointed his six-shooter and pulled the trigger.
Inside the bank Frank Cheney and Kid Wilson were busy gathering up money from the cashiers. Henry was keeping the crowd under control. When the shot was fired outside, all three looked toward the door, but before anyone could speak, there were more shots. Kid Wilson shouted.
“What’s that?”
“It’s Link,” said Henry, running to the door. “Hurry it up.”
One of the shots from outside crashed through the bank’s front window. The crowd in the bank started to panic. Wilson and Cheney grabbed what cash they could and stuffed it into their bags. Henry tried to get a look outside, but the bullets were flying too fast around th
e door. Link must be cut to pieces, he thought. He had to think fast.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Frank Cheney looked incredulous.
“Out there?” he said.
“Yeah. We’re taking everybody with us,” said Henry, turning his pistols back on the crowd of bank employees and customers. “Come on. You walk ahead of us, and you stay bunched up. Otherwise we’ll blast you. You got that? Now get going.”
The crowd pushed its way through the front door, but the shooting didn’t stop. Link was still standing, but it looked to Henry as if he were being held up by the bullets as they hit him. He was covered with blood and had been hit at least once in the face. It looked to Henry at a glance as if Link’s eye had been shot out. In the confusion, some of the hostages began to scatter, ignoring Henry’s earlier threat. It was just a threat, for Henry’s attention was not on the fleeing hostages, nor had he ever intended shooting any of them, no matter what happened. His attention was on Link and on those who were shooting at them. Henry grabbed Link by one arm.
“Come on,” he said.
When the people out in the street, including the sheriff and those who had been shooting with him, saw that Link had been joined by two of his cohorts who were now shooting back at them, they scattered for cover. Henry, dragging Link, and Wilson and Cheney made it around the corner and on over to the horses, where Watt and Happy Jack took Link from Henry and helped the wounded man into his saddle. As soon as Bud Tyler saw that the others had returned, he whipped up the team and started the wagon out of town and across the valley. The horseback riders were not far behind. At the end of Main Street, Henry, Frank Cheney, and Kid Wilson turned their horses to face the town and fired some shots to hold back pursuit and allow the others time to get some distance between themselves and Bentonville. When the others were about halfway across the valley and headed for the bottom of the hill, they turned and followed.
Back on Main Street the sheriff and some eager citizens raced for horses.
“Come on, boys,” the sheriff shouted. “We’ll catch them on that grade.”
Henry, Frank, and Kid Wilson were about to catch up with the others at the bottom of the hill as the posse was beginning its ride out of town. Henry saw it coming. He looked around quickly and saw off to his left a high bluff.
“Keep going, boys,” he shouted. “Hey, Kid. Come with me.”
He pulled his horse hard around to the left and headed for the bluff with Kid Wilson right behind him. The posse had to pass below the bluff to continue its way up the hill in the wake of the wagon. On the backside of the bluff, Henry and Wilson dismounted and quickly settled down with their rifles.
“Just get their horses,” said Henry.
Wilson didn’t like the order, but he decided that he’d better obey it. As the posse rode into easy range, Wilson and Henry began firing as rapidly as they could. Seven horses dropped, and their riders rolled and tumbled on the rocky ground. The horses that were untouched bucked and reared, and there was generally panic in the posse, with horses screaming and kicking and men yelling, cursing, and scrambling for nonexistent cover. Henry and Wilson mounted up and rode off after the rest of the gang.
17
Henry Starr and Kid Wilson were the last two members of the gang to arrive back from Bentonville at Cheney’s house. The wagon was there, and a quick look around revealed that everyone was accounted for except one.
“Where’s Link?” asked Henry.
“We dropped him off with some folks to look after him,” said Watt. “He’s shot up awful bad.”
Henry thought about Link and the number of bullets that must have been in his body. He could still see in his mind the image of the one eye shot out. A part of Henry felt bad for Link. Another part told him to reject the thought. Henry had never been close to Link, had never really felt anything for him. Link, like all the rest—all the rest except, perhaps, Kid Wilson—was a convenience. Link and the others were also part of the wave of unwelcome invaders who were changing the face of the Cherokee Nation. Henry could easily imagine a time in the not too distant future when his homeland would no longer be recognizable to him. He thought all of this in an instant, and he rejected any thoughts of concern for Link. The pause in the conversation was only a few seconds.
“Okay,” said Henry, his mind back on business, “let’s see what we got.”
All the loot sacks were produced and their contents emptied onto the table. A quick but careful count was made.
“Eleven thousand five hundred,” Henry announced. “Well, boys, it’s a fair haul. We’ll split it up, and then we’re going to have to split up this team.”
“What for?” asked Frank Cheney.
“Hell,” said Watt, “we just got started.”
“I know,” said Henry, “but we don’t want to push our luck. There will be deputies all over this country looking for us, and it’s only a matter of time before they get us. The Dalton boys have been wiped out up at Coffeyville, Kansas, and Cherokee Bill is sitting in jail over at Fort Smith waiting to hang. They don’t have anyone left to chase but us, and they want us pretty badly. We’ll each have better chances if we split up.”
Watt and Cheney seemed still inclined to argue, until Kid Wilson’s quiet but somehow commanding voice broke into the conversation.
“Henry’s right,” said Wilson. “We’d better split up.”
Henry Starr had only thought that the countryside had been crawling with deputies when they had gotten after him for the twelve-hundred-dollar reward. The Starr Gang did split up and ride off in different directions, but the deputies were on all of their trails. Henry, Frank, and Kid Wilson rode off together. Watt rode alone, as did Happy Jack. Bud Tyler, having grown used to his role of teamster, kept the wagon and drove away in it to vanish in the vast numbers of white squatters and renters who were swelling the population of the Cherokee Nation. In almost no time Henry and his companions ran into a posse of sixteen, but managed to elude it after some hard riding. The unfortunate Link Cumplin somehow survived his wounds and, covered with bandages, decided to light out on his own for parts unknown. Link, not at all ready for hard riding, bought a ticket and boarded a west-bound train. He was not heard of again. The following events all transpired in a matter of a few days.
Happy Jack, having noticed no one on his trail for a couple of days and being saddle weary, decided to make himself a small camp and enjoy a trail meal. He found a likely spot alongside a creek bed and unsaddled his horse, allowing it to graze freely. Tossing down the saddle to serve as a pillow, he unrolled his blanket, running it out from the saddle. After splashing some creek water onto his face, he built a small fire and put on some coffee to boil. He heated up some beans and fried some bacon. All these groceries had been part of Jack’s share of the supplies from the chuck wagon. He ate the beans and bacon and drank a second cup of coffee, then stood up there beside his fire to stretch. Four shots blasted out of the darkness, one after the other, but Jack felt only the first one as it smashed into the small of his back. The other three came rapidly enough, however, that they all found their marks before the lifeless body pitched forward to sprawl across the campfire. Two deputy marshals stepped out of the black of the night and walked up to the body. One of them gave a heavy shove with his foot and rolled the body over out of the fire, the shirtfront smoldering. The lawmen looked down at the face of their victim, then at one another.
“Happy Jack,” said the one with the heavy foot.
Riding alone down a country road, which, by the way, did not lead back to the run-down farm where the abandoned gray woman waited, not too patiently, Watt suddenly found himself face to face with two deputies. Not a word was spoken. Watt reached for the six-shooter in his belt. It had not yet cleared the belt when both lawmen had hauled out their pistols and fired. Two .45 slugs caught Watt in the chest, flinging him backward out of the saddle. He was dead before he hit the ground.
Henry and his two companions were still being
dogged by the posse of sixteen men, and the distance between them was getting less. Spotting some suitable high ground ahead, Henry led the way to it to set up an ambush. A similar plot had worked well outside of Bentonville.
“This thing has gone on long enough,” he said.
The three fugitives lay on their bellies, rifles in hand, waiting for the sixteen riders to arrive at a spot below them where they would be sitting ducks at easy rifle range. The posse rode into view, but before the members arrived at the appropriate spot, they suddenly veered off in another direction. Whether they anticipated the ambush or were simply following a wrong trail, no one could tell. Henry stood up.
“They just saved their own lives,” he said.
Frank labored to his feet and stood facing Henry.
“I think it was too damn close,” he said. “I’m heading south.”
“Well,” said Henry, “good luck to you.”
Frank gave a quick nod, climbed into his saddle, and rode off without another word or a glance back.
Tulsa, in 1893, was still much closer to its embryonic form of Tulsey Town, a small Creek Indian town not far from the border of the Creek and Cherokee nations, than to the city it would become, although it was already showing some signs of its future expansion. The Katy Railroad had reached Tulsa in 1882, and many local businessmen were looking forward to prosperous futures. Gooper Johnson was one of these. One afternoon, shortly after the Bentonville incident, Johnson stood behind the counter of his undertaking establishment in Tulsa counting the coins in his coffers, when the bell above his front door tinkled. He looked up to see a young Indian man walk in. Anticipating a customer, Johnson put on his best pasty smile.
“Good afternoon, sir,” he said. “How may I be of assistance?”
“My name is Henry Starr.”
“Oh, my soul, the outlaw,” said Johnson in a gasp as his hands reached for the ceiling over his head.
The Saga of Henry Starr Page 8
