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.
“Take it easy,” said Henry.
“I have very little cash here,” said Johnson, lying, “but you’re welcome—”
Henry cut him off in mid sentence.
“Hold on there,” he said. “I’m not here to hold you up.”
“Uh, you’re not?”
“No, I’m not. I’m here to do business with you.”
“Uh, business?”
Gooper Johnson was still not quite at ease.
“A friend of mine,” said Henry, “told me that you are the most honest man of your profession in Tulsa.”
“I, uh, do pride myself on my professional integrity,” said Johnson, his smile returning, his chest puffing out, and his hands coming back down to the counter before him.
“Well,” said Henry, pulling some cash from his pocket, “I want to pay you for a funeral.”
“May I ask—whose?”
“Someday,” said Henry, “you’ll read in the paper that Henry Starr has been killed. When you do, give me a decent burial.”
Papers were drawn, and money was paid, and Gooper Johnson felt himself to be one of the most fortunate of men just to be alive.
Two days later Mae Morrison was walking down the main street of Nowata. As she approached a corner, Henry Starr stepped out and took her by the arm. He led her around the corner and back to a side street where Kid Wilson sat on the seat of a covered wagon, waiting. Henry helped Mae into the wagon, then climbed in after her, and Kid Wilson slapped at the team with the reins. The wagon lumbered out of Nowata heading north. The trip to Emporia, Kansas, was long, slow, and wearisome in a covered wagon, but there were no deputy marshals seen along the way, and the three travelers reached their destination with no incidents of concern. At Emporia they abandoned the wagon and purchased three railway tickets to Colorado Springs, Colorado. Henry was keeping his promise to Mae.