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.