Back at Cheney’s farmhouse, Henry found Cheney and Milo sitting on the porch. Milo was sagging in a cane-bottom chair and looked to be in pretty bad shape. He had been drinking hard and steadily for some time but had recently run out of liquor. His clothes were dirty and rumpled, and his hair was tousled. As Henry rode up to the house, Cheney came down off the porch to meet him.
“They’re all over the countryside,” said Henry. “I ran five of them off last night without firing a shot.”
“They’re a bunch of cowards” said Frank. “They won’t fight a man fair. I ain’t never heard of one of them fighting a man fair. Only if they can ambush you.”
Milo stirred in his chair and moaned.
“There’s too many of them,” he said, his voice a high-pitched whine.
“Yeah,” Frank agreed. “They’ve even been nosing around here.”
“Henry, I think you better get out of the country,” said Milo. “Your trail’s getting too hot.”
Henry pulled the saddle off his horse and heaved it over the porch rail. He put one foot up on the porch and leaned with his elbow on his knee.
“Well, Milo,” he said, “if my trail’s getting too hot for you, maybe you better go where you can cool your heels. I’m staying right here.”
“There won’t be no hard feelings?” whimpered Milo.
“No hard feelings” said Henry, leading his horse around to the small corral beside the house. “We’ll be seeing you around, Milo.”
“Yeah, well, so long, boys,” said Milo, getting up off his chair. He hurried inside and reappeared a moment later with a saddle roll. On his way to the corral, he passed Henry, who was returning to the house. As he did, he walked sideways so he could keep his eyes on Henry. Apparently Milo wasn’t quite certain that Henry had told him the truth when he had said that there’d be no hard feelings. Milo took his own saddle off the fence rail and saddled his horse. He mounted up clumsily and rode off without another word.
Henry Starr took the dipper off its hook on the porch and dipped it into the water barrel. He took a long drink and spat. The water was stale. He leaned on a post and stared after the fleeing Milo. Cheney had returned to his chair. Henry wondered if Milo would go back to being an honest cowboy or continue on the outlaw trail somewhere else, on his own or with someone else. It didn’t really matter. He didn’t belong in this Cherokee country anyway.
As Milo disappeared, Henry’s thoughts returned to the deputies he had encountered the night before. They must really want him bad, he thought, and for what? Robbing a few country stores? Killing that coward who had shot first and with no warning? That, as Henry saw it, had been self-defense. It didn’t seem worth it somehow. That is, what he had done didn’t seem to him to merit all the attention he was getting from the deputies. Things were all out of proportion—out of balance. Well, he would fix that.
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.”