The big touring car sped down the narrow and winding Arkansas blacktop road leading into the bustling town of Harrison. Two men in business suits rode in the front, Henry Starr sat in the back alone. Tires squealed as the automobile took a sharp curve too quickly and started on the downhill grade with the outskirts of Harrison at its base. From the back seat Henry punched the driver in the shoulder and called out to him in a loud voice calculated to compensate for the roar of the wind and of the engine and of the loud whine of the tires on the blacktop.
“Slow this thing down,” he said. “We don’t want to call attention to ourselves on the way in.”
The driver did slow down, and the car rolled into Harrison drawing only incidental attention. He pulled up and parked in front of the bank on the main street and set the hand brake. The three men got out and walked to the front door of the bank. At a nod from Henry, the other two men reached under their suit coats and pulled out handguns. One of them opened the door and stepped aside, as Henry vaulted into the bank lobby, a pistol in each hand.
“Hands up and hands steady,” he called out.
His two companions were inside just after him, both holding their pistols out in front of them. There were few customers in the bank, and none of them panicked. They stepped back and put their hands up as they had been ordered to do. One of Henry’s companions held his pistol on the customers. The other moved quickly to behind the counter and began gathering cash up from the several cashiers’ drawers. Henry walked up to the window where a man stood with his hands up. The name plate in front of him said, “William J. Myers.” The big bank vault was behind Myers. Myers eyed Henry’s revolver nervously.
“Mr. Myers,” said Henry, “open that vault.”
Myers turned slowly and deliberately and stepped to the vault. The vault was not locked, for all he did was turn the handle and pull open the heavy door. It was a large walk-in vault, and Henry’s intention was to go inside and clean it out. He put a hand on Myers’ back and gave him a persuasive shove.
“Inside,” he said.
Myers went into the vault, and Henry looked over his shoulder to check on his two cohorts before following Myers into the vault himself. In that instant Myers, inside the vault, reached into a corner and picked up a double-barreled shotgun that had been stashed there for just such an emergency. Henry turned to walk into the vault and looked into the two big barrels. He didn’t have time to react. Myers pulled the triggers, and the roar filled the bank. The tremendous impact of the shot at such close range blew Henry back against the counter.
It was 1921. Henry Starr was forty-seven years old, and he was dying in Harrison, Arkansas, following an attempt to rob the bank there. His two unknown companions had escaped with the money they had taken from the cashiers’ drawers. They did not get the money out of the vault, for when Henry had been shot, they had immediately fled the scene. Woodrow Wilson was President of the United States. The League of Nations had been established, and the United States Congress had passed the Nineteenth Amendment to the United States Constitution, granting women the right to vote. Tom Mix starred in eight Western movies that year, and, that year, Gooper Johnson would perform the service for which he had been paid several years previous and bury Henry Starr in Dewey, Oklahoma. The twenty-nine-year career of outlawry had come to an end. Henry regained consciousness lying in what he knew would be his deathbed there in a cell in the Harrison jail. Johnson would earn the fee he had paid him for the funeral. He was confident of that. A doctor had seen him and treated him. He could tell. He was bandaged. He felt no pain. He felt tired—numb. When they discovered that he was conscious, a small crowd came into the cell and gathered around his cot—his deathbed. A photographer took his picture lying there. Henry didn’t care. He had seen photographs of the dead bodies of the Daltons taken at Coffeyville and of Ned Christie’s body roped to a slab and displayed in Arkansas. At least Henry was still alive. Someone spoke to him. He couldn’t tell who it was. The voice was faint and faraway sounding, but he did understand the question.
“Henry, do you have anything to say?”
It took all his strength and will, but Henry was determined to answer. He did have something to say, something he wanted everyone to hear, something for the reporters to write about, something for all the world to read. It didn’t matter who was there in the cell in the small crowd. It didn’t matter who it might be who had asked the question. He would give them his answer and someone would repeat it. It would be heard.
“I’ve robbed more banks than any man in history,” he said.
And that was the end. He died as he had lived—alone and in a crowd.