It was January 1903. Henry Starr, twenty-nine years old, had been in prison for nine years. After all of the appeals had been exhausted and the issue had finally been settled, Henry had been sent to the federal prison at Columbus, Ohio. He had used his time in prison to his advantage. He spent much time in the prison library, and he secured a job in the prison bakeshop. He was a model prisoner and was well-liked by guards and the warden, as well as other inmates. All in all, he took his prison time well, but it had been a crucial nine years. Henry was no longer a kid. He even had a touch of gray hair. And the world had changed around him. While Henry was still at the Fort Smith jail, Judge Parker had been deposed by his political enemies. For that, Henry had rejoiced. Parker had not lived long after his loss of power, and Henry had been sent to Columbus by the Hanging Judge’s replacement, Judge Rogers.
It was 1903. The Cherokee Nation had a new Principal Chief, Samuel Houston Mayes, and the Cherokee courts had been abolished by an act of the United States Congress. The Cherokee voters, most of whom were of mixed blood and known as progressive, as opposed to traditional and mostly full-blood, had voted in favor of the allotment of tribally owned lands to private individuals. It would be the major step in the dissolution of the Cherokee Nation. In Europe, Bismarck, Oscar Wilde, Lewis Carroll, and Queen Victoria had died. In the United States Stephen Crane had passed away. The Boxer Rebellion came to an end, and the Boer War began and ended. Joseph Conrad published Lord Jim. Gorky’s The Lower Depths and Strindberg’s A Dream Play were produced, and the United States Supreme Court ruled that it was perfectly all right for the Congress to ignore Indian treaties if it is in the best interest of both the United States and the Indians to do so. Of course, Indians would not be consulted in the process of determining whether or not such an action would be in their best interests.
Henry Starr had lost nine years of his life, and the world had gone on without him. He was twenty-nine years old. It was January 1903, and Henry had been summoned to the warden’s office.
A prison guard accompanied Henry to the office, opened the door, and motioned Henry to go on in. The warden sat at his desk, studying a piece of paper in his hand. He looked up as Henry stepped in.
“Henry,” said the warden, “you’ve been a model prisoner the years you’ve been here. I almost hate to see you go.”
“Am I being transferred, sir?” said Henry.
“I’ve got a letter here,” said the warden, leaning back in his chair, “saying that you’re to go free. It’s a full pardon based largely on your bravery in securing Cherokee Bill’s gun during that incident at Fort Smith. And it’s signed, ‘Theodore Roosevelt, President of the United States.’ ”
Henry was incredulous.
“The President?” he said.
“Congratulations, Henry. You’ve got a lot of years ahead of you yet. Make something useful out of them. You’ve got what it takes.”
So at twenty-nine, Henry Starr walked out of prison a man nine years behind the rest of the world, yet a free man, a man with a second chance, a man full of hopes and dreams, and a man absolutely alone.