Henry Starr was sentenced to twenty-five years in the Oklahoma State Penitentiary at McAlester. He was forty-three years old. It was the year that Henry James died, and the United States Supreme Court decided that an Indian could still be treated as a ward of the United States Government and Congress could still regulate his affairs for him. During Henry’s second year at McAlester, William C. Rogers, the current nominal Principal Chief of the Cherokee Nation, died, and the Bolshevik Revolution occurred in Russia. In Henry’s third year at McAlester, Redbird Smith, the Chief of the Nighthawk Keetoowahs, died, and World War I came to an end. During his fourth year, he was granted a parole, having been, as before, a model prisoner and well liked by all.
Henry was in his cell waiting. He had already received word that his parole had been granted and in a few days he would be released. He tried to imagine what it would be like to be on the outside again. He had discovered that during these long prison stays, prison life came to seem to be normal life. Life on the outside seemed unreal.
Footsteps interrupted Henry’s thoughts. A guard came walking down the hall with a man Henry had not seen before. They stopped at Henry’s cell. Henry stood up from where he had been lying on the cot.
“Hello, Henry,” said the guard.
“Hello, Marvin.”
“Henry, this is Cooper Neal. He’s a reporter from Oklahoma City. He’d like to talk to you. The warden okayed it, if it’s all right with you.”
“Hello, Mr. Starr,” said Neal.
“Mr. Neal,” said Henry. “Sure, Marvin. It’s okay.”
Marvin unlocked the cell door to let Neal inside with Henry. He locked it again behind Neal.
“I’ll be back in a bit,” he said, then walked off down the hallway.
Henry gestured toward the cot.
“It’s all I’ve got to offer,” he said. “Sit down.”
“Thank you,” said Neal, removing a pad and pencil from his coat pocket and sitting on the edge of the cot. “Do you mind if I take notes?”
“Not at all.”
Henry sat down at the other end of the cot.
“To what do I owe this visit?” he said.
“Mr. Starr,” said Neal, “you’re a famous man. You successfully engineered the robbing of two banks at Stroud. Even the Dalton Gang failed to pull off that kind of a job.”
“But I didn’t walk away from it,” said Henry.
“Even before that job, you had robbed more banks than any man in history.”
“That’s what they tell me, although I’ve been given credit for some that I didn’t do.”
“Mr. Starr, you wrote your life story while you were in prison in Colorado. That’s been a few years ago now. Will you work some more on that to bring it up to date?”
“No,” said Henry, “I doubt that I’ll return to that task. I’ll leave it to someone else to put the finish to it—if anyone’s interested.”
Neal scribbled hasty notes.
“Well,” he said, “uh, you’ve had the experience of several prisons now. How do you feel about this one here at McAlester?”
Henry chuckled and leaned back against the cell wall. He crossed his hands behind his head.
“At least I won’t have far to travel to get back home when I finally get out of here,” he said, but having said it, he asked himself where his home might be. Oklahoma was home. Beyond that, he couldn’t say. He couldn’t get any closer to it than that.
“Yes,” said Neal, still scribbling. “You were in Ohio and in Colorado, weren’t you?”
“That’s right.”
“How do they compare?”
“I believe that they’d all do a better job,” said Henry, suddenly serious, “if they adopted Warden Tynan’s honor system.”
“Warden Tynan?”
“He’s the warden at Canyon City.”
“That’s Colorado?”
“He was first ridiculed and sneered at,” said Henry, “but his honor system is a success, and even those who knocked it now have to admit that the warden knew what he was doing. Now seven other states that I know of have adopted it, but not, unfortunately, Oklahoma. I don’t think that they’ll keep me in here any longer for having said that.”
“Um, I see,” said Neal. “Well, now, Mr. Starr, I have just a few more quick questions to ask, if you don’t mind.”
“Shoot.”
“What are your politics?” asked Neal.
“Haven’t any.”
“Your religion?”
“Same.”
“Do you think that you have led a correct life?”
“No, but it’s as good as some others that are holding office.”
“Don’t you think that it’s a great crime to take people’s money?”
“Yes. I know it’s wrong, but I am only a small thief. The lawyers take it all away from me, and still I go to the penitentiary. The big thieves never go to the pen, and they keep what they steal. For that reason, I feel much abused.”
Neal paused and cleared his throat.
“You, of course,” he said, “are an Indian.”
“I have never,” said Henry, “been mistaken for a Swede.”
“Uh, yes. Uh, what do you think about the treatment your people have received?”
Henry looked Neal in the eyes, and Neal, try as he might, couldn’t break loose from that gaze to return to his notes.
“If we believe in the law of compensation,” said Henry, “then the white folks of these United States are sure in for some bad luck. If not, why, then, the meanest and strongest get the biggest loaf, with no fixed or immutable laws, but a haphazard conglomeration that is liable to skid into oblivion.”
Neal went back to Oklahoma City and wrote his story. His editor was pleased. Neal also reread his copy of Thrilling Events, and he never got over the effects of his interview with Henry Starr.
On March 15, 1919, Henry Starr, dressed in a new civilian suit, stood at the front gate of the Oklahoma State Penitentiary. He handed a piece of paper to the gate guard.
“Well, Henry,” said the guard, “you going home?”
“I’m not exactly sure where that is anymore, Gerald,” said Henry.
Gerald opened the gate for Henry to walk through, then shut it again and locked it. Henry stood on the outside of the gate looking ahead.
“Hey,” said Gerald, through the gate, “how much time have you done?”
“Yeah.”
“Just over fifteen years,” said Henry.
“You got early outs, too, didn’t you?”
“For good behavior.”
“What if you hadn’t?” said the guard. “I mean, how much time would it have been?”
“I’ve been sentenced to a total of sixty-five years in prison—that’s not to mention the time I was sentenced to hang.”
Gerald shook his head.
“Hmm,” he murmured. “Well, I’ll be seeing you.”
“No,” said Henry. “No, you won’t. So long.”