Cole Younger

Cole Younger

The rhythmic closing of the cell doors, heavy iron slamming against heavy iron makes me cringe as the closing doors echo throughout the compound. The doors slam in order as the guards proceed away from my cell, the sound of footsteps and closing doors diminishing as the guards move away from my new "home". The key closing the lock may be a gentle click to the prison guard, but it is a loud reverbing clang that slams on my heart, the sound echoing and penetrating into my very being. Heavy iron against heavy iron brings the cold reality that my freedom has been relinquished for a term stated as; "...to the end of your natural life." or, until we die in here. However, our lawyers at our trial in Faribault, Minnesota assured us if we plead guilty, my brother's Jim and Bob Younger and myself, will only serve ten years of that life sentence, so we must be patient and endure whatever comes our way.

And cold, yes it is November and it is cold in Stillwater Prison. I'm not used to being this cold. It gets cold in Missouri during the winter months but here, five hundred miles north of the climate I am accustomed to... well, I am chilled to the bone for the first several weeks until my body becomes acclimated to the cold and damp, and then it is just downright cold.

The guard is standing outside the bars, with a wry smile he states, "Don't get any ideas of trying to break out of here Cole Younger. Even if you manage to scale the walls, outside sheer cliffs will slow you down and give us a good target. We are prepared for anything you or your gang may attempt." The large bearded guard chuckles, "We've heard rumors about your gang planning to break you out of here. We will shoot you and your friends, so just get used to being with us a long time." He is smiling through his bushy beard, or is it a smirk? All the guards are large burly men between the twenties to fifties in age. They are armed with clubs attached to their belts as well as manacles to restrain the prisoners.

"I gave up attempts to escape in Madelia." I whisper. With a sly chuckle he disappears down the dark hallway, the thud of his footsteps diminishing until the iron door to the cellblock closes loudly behind him.

I am alone. This is reality, this is reality?

The stone walls are cold and damp as is the floor. I pull my hand back from the wall and wipe my fingers on my prison garb. My cot is the same length as my height, six foot wide. A sink with two tin cups is against the outer wall. There is no window, no way to see the outside world. This is my cell, this is my home.