by Phil Truman
With no further word, the warden turned and went back through the door in the wall.
When Henry entered his cell, he found it already occupied by a tall skinny man with dirty blond hair and rheumy blue eyes. He lay on his bunk and looked at Henry impassively.
“Howdy,” Henry said. He threw the draw sting bag, containing the clothes and linens he’d been issued, onto the unoccupied upper bunk. He extended his open hand toward the man. “Name’s Henry Starr.”
The man waited an uncomfortable ten seconds before he responded. “Bodeker,” he said taking Henry’s hand in a weak grip. “Most around here call me Dutch.”
Henry released Bodeker’s hand and said, “Well, Dutch, looks like you and me are going to get to know one another. What brought you here?”
“Killed a man,” Bodeker said. “He took something from me. What about you?”
“Well, I killed a man, too. But only because he tried to kill me first. Jury didn’t see it that way, though, and called it murder; then I got a re-trial and got manslaughter. But that’s only part of it. I robbed some banks and such, too.
Bodeker, still lying on is back with his hands clasped behind his head, gave a small nod.
“What did that man you kilt steal from you?” Henry asked.
“My wife. Shot her, too, but she didn’t die. Got convicted of aggravated assault for that; which was true enough, as I was plenty damn aggravated when I shot her. Found both of them lying together naked in my own bed.”
Henry stood leaning against his bunk, shaking his head. “Well, yes sir, I could see where you could be upset.”
February 21, 1899
Dear Meg,
I have been here a little over a month now and am settling in. This is a much bigger place than the Ft. Smith jail, and not near as rat infected. I believe there is about 500 men in this prison. Most is white men, but there seems to be a fair amount of Negros. I do not see many men of Indian blood. I suspect most of that nature have already been hung, or put in a separate place. As to why I’m here and not in that other condition is only by the good luck of Judge Parker dying, and Judge Rogers’ kindness.
It is very cold here. More colder than the Territory. It appears to me some of the boys I come up here with will not survive this cold country.
I hope this letter finds you in good health.
Your loving husband,
Henry
March 13, 1899
My dearest Henry,
I was most pleased to receive your letter, and to hear that you are adapting to your new surroundings. Although it is colder there in Ohio, I believe your conditions will be much improved over those of the Fort Smith jail. And spring is just around the corner.
News here is that my father died late last month due to an accident. He was kicked in the head while shoeing a mule. He lingered unconscious for five days before he passed on. My mother is greatly grieved, and I suppose I’m saddened, too. Father was never an affectionate man and was prone to bouts of anger. When I remember him, it’s mostly about his meanness to my mother and me. I don’t recall him ever telling either of us he loved us. But he was my father.
Please stay out of trouble, Henry. If you show yourself to be a model prisoner it’s possible they may shorten your sentence. Mr. Birdsong told me that, and he wants me to tell you he is working to gain your pardon.
I will always love you, Henry. I believe you are a good man at heart.
With affection,
Megan
Warden Coggin frowned at the papers as he read them. Henry didn’t feel good about this audience he’d been called to with the warden. In his experience, such interviews didn’t bode well for those summoned. He waited silently while the warden read and frowned, seemingly ignoring Henry’s presence. The only sound in the room came from the slap of a billy club into Boss Tucker’s open left palm. Henry glanced nervously over his left shoulder to see the guard behind him rhythmically slapping club-to-palm as he rocked flat-footed to the balls of his feet and back. He smiled back at Henry maliciously.
“You killed a man, Starr.” The warden looked up at Henry with cold eyes. “A law enforcement officer.”
Boss Tucker’s club slapping stopped. Henry glanced quickly back at the guard again noticing the mean smile had been replaced with a look of pure hatred. Henry swallowed, and addressed the warden. “Yes sir, Warden Coggin, sir… But it was in self-defense. He shot at me before—”
“Shut up!” Boss Tucker shouted, jabbing the end of the billy club sharply into Henry’s ribs. Henry winced and shut up.
Coggin continued giving Henry that cold look for several seconds, before consulting the papers once again. “It says here in your file that you are not to be assigned hard labor.” He looked at Henry again. “Men sent to this prison are all sentenced to hard labor. Why shouldn’t you be? You seem to be worse than most. After all, you killed a lawman.”
Henry started to speak, but quickly reconsidered having been conditioned by Boss Tucker’s billy club. He only shook his head, and tried to look contrite.
The warden laid the paper back in the open folder, then closed it. “Fortunately for you, Prisoner Starr, I know Judge Rogers. We served together in Congress. And if John Rogers said you’re not to have hard labor as part of your sentence, then I must assume he had good reason.
“So you will not be assigned hard labor at this time. But let me just say that if there is the slightest infraction by you of any of the prison rules, I will slap you on the chain gang. Do you understand?”
Henry opened his mouth to speak, but looked back at Boss Tucker before he did so.
“The prisoner may speak,” Coggin said, as much to the guard as to Henry.
“You won’t get no trouble out of me, Warden. I swear that on my dear mother’s grave. Thank you, sir.”
The warden waved his hand, palm down, in a gesture of dismissal, and Boss Tucker jerked and prodded Henry out of the office none too gently.
* * *
May 23, 1899
Dear Meg,
I am sorry to hear about your Pa. I know he never liked me much, but like you said, he were your pa. I hope you can find some peace in his passing.
Prison life ain’t so bad now that warmer weather has come. I am doing as you said and keeping my nose clean. The warden is not too hard a man. When we arrived he told us all that if we followed the rules and didn’t cause no trouble life would be a lot easier for us here and I vowed that I would do that. Birdsong said the last time I saw him that I could probably come up for parole in a year or two if I did so.
They have put me into the bakery to learn bread making. It ain’t hard work and I think it will be a good trade to learn for when I get out. Judge Rogers put in my sentence that I did not have to do hard labor. The warden said he would honor that as long as I obeyed the rules which I aim to do, as I said.
I hope this letter finds you in good health.
Your loving husband,
Henry
July 25, 1899
Dearest Henry,
High summer has come here to the Territory. The days are very hot and the nights warm and sultry. We have not seen a rain storm in several weeks, and dust and flies abound.
Mother and I have been quite busy with the canning. We had a bountiful garden this year. Mother had not much interest in planting in the spring after Father died, and I could not do it on my own, although I tried as I was quite anxious that we should have something put up for the winter. Mr. Thomas McGuinness, a gentleman farmer in the area, noticed my poor efforts at plowing and planting our small garden, and determined to lend his helping hand. With that, and the spring rains, our harvest became most generous.
We sold Father’s livery and smithy business to a man named Ridge Watie for a sum less than we’d hoped. The man could see two women in straits for income, and took full advantage of the situation, choosing miserliness over compassion. The amount will see us through a year, perhaps a little more, but even with my teaching wages we will hav
e to pinch every penny.
It is pleasing to hear you are learning a good trade. I have not heard from Mr. Birdsong on the progress of your pardon.
I remain,
Affectionately yours,
Megan
Nobody in the prison population was sorry to hear that Ironhead Crutchfield had died, or Miner Hadley, or Eustus Reiner. No men were hated or feared more than those gangsters. But the cause of their death caused alarm. One day they were bullying the inmates as usual, the next they were laid up with fever and delirium. And two days after that, they were dead. That kind of fast-spreading disease created more terror than any marauding those three could manufacture.
“I hear there’s mebbe a hunnert others got this jail fever,” Dutch said. He stood at the bars of their cell looking out.
A wail echoed from somewhere in the cellblock followed by a long incomprehensible babble. It had the sound of a lament, a sorrowful sobbing dirge from the dying. The prison infirmary had long since filled to overflowing; the remaining sick were left in their cells.
“Hard to tell how many’s got it,” Henry said. “Most likely it ain’t as many as you heard.
“Yeah, I guess if you’re one of the dead, it don’t matter how many others got it,” said Dutch.
September 12, 1899
Dear Meg,
I have waited to hear back from you since my last letter of August 15th, but will go ahead with another anyhow. I suspect you was busy getting the canning done with your Ma, and did not have time to pen me a letter. Maybe my last letter did not make delivery.
I do not recall the man you call McGuinness. It could be he arrived around Nowata after I departed. At any rate, I am glad a kind man such as him stepped forward to assist you and your mother with the planting.
As I wrote in my last letter, there was a spread of typhus in the prison this past summer. I did not catch the disease, but many did. Because it is spread by lice and fleas it is thought one of the work gangs sent out to clear a wooded area brought the disease inside. There was about twenty or so fellas that died of it. We have spent a lot of time dusting down our bedding and clothes to get rid of the nasty little bugs, and it appears we have gotten past the worst. There are now many new rules in place for all inmates to have better cleanliness.
I suppose you have started up your new school year by now. It don’t seem that long ago when you and I first met as kids in that school house.
I look forward to hearing from you soon.
As always,
Your loving husband,
Henry
September 28, 1899
Dear Henry,
I’m so sorry I haven’t written you sooner. I did receive your letter of August 15, but I was pre-occupied with the business of running this household. Mother isn’t much skilled in that area, nor much inclined to do so. We had some live stock transactions, plus the matter of Father’s livery to settle. But I don’t offer that as an excuse. Time just slipped away from me, and I do apologize.
Mr. McGuinness bought the old Turley place south of town, that of about 600 acres near the Verdigris River. He moved there with his family three years ago, using half the land to raise wheat and the rest for a small cattle operation. You wouldn’t have known him. He has a seven year old daughter, Emily, who attends my school and a young boy of about four. He’s called Tommy, being Thomas Junior. The poor man is now a widower, his wife having died of the cancer about two years ago.
He has been most kind to help with the work around our place. He is such a dear man. I had mentioned to you his help with the garden, and he graciously took up the tasks of fixing some things that needed it around the house and barn. He also lent his expertise to assist me with the aforementioned livestock sales. Also, although the deal had already been struck with Mr. Watie for the livery, Thomas was able to persuade him to append some additional funds to the final price.
I was so distressed to hear about the epidemic of typhus there, but relieved to know you didn’t contract it. I hope you stay well through this coming winter.
Affectionately,
Megan
“Dutch, when your wife was cheating on you, did she give any indication what she was doing?” Henry lay on his bunk staring at the ceiling. He held Megan’s latest letter in his right hand. When he got no response from his cellmate, he inquired again. “Dutch?”
“What?” came the groggy reply.
“I said, your wife. You know, before you shot her. Did she let you know in any way what she was doing?” There was another extended silence, and Henry decided to drop it, thinking Dutch had drifted back to sleep. He put the letter back in its envelope, then into the tin cigar box where he kept all of Meg’s letters. He rolled onto his side and punched his pillow.
“I thought about that a lot,” Dutch said in a low voice. “There was times when she’d say things I didn’t pay much attention to then, but after, they come back to me. For instance, she’d tell me how a man would flirt with her, how another would even make improper suggestions, but she’d tell it in a laughing manner, like it was nonsense and she didn’t pay no mind to any of it.
“Now when I look at it, I think she was telling on herself. And that man with her who I kilt probably wasn’t the onliest one she’d bedded down with. Even so, it’s still a puzzle why she’d do such a thing. Tell me, that is. Mebbe she felt guilty; mebbe she just wanted to check to see if I’d get jealous; mebbe she figured if she talked about those doin’s out in the open with me, I wouldn’t get suspicious. Whatever the case, it all made me feel like a damn fool when I did finally figure it out, though.
“But it’s a funny thing, now that it’s all said and done. In the heat of the moment, I thought shooting her would make me feel better, about being made to feel the fool and all. Truth is, it didn’t. Not as much as I’d hoped, anyway.”
Henry laid there on his side staring at the cell wall, not caring to respond to Dutch’s testimony, his mind a-swim with thoughts. On the one hand, he was fretful and jealous and angry at what he feared he knew; on the other, it was what he’d told Meg she needed to do all along—get on with her life and forget about him. He loved her, but she was too young and pretty to waste her time waiting around for the likes of him. Sounded like that McGuinness was the kind of feller Meg had always hoped Henry would be. It was a good thing, right?
A fist had balled in the pit of his stomach punching at him from the inside. He drew his knees up and bowed his back to try to ease the pain of it, but it didn’t help much.
December 28, 1899
Dear Meg,
It appeared we wasn’t as much out of the woods as I said on the typhus, as shortly after I last wrote you I come down with it. For the past 6 weeks I have been laid up in the infirmary. It does not appear that I will die from it, though. The doc sent me back to my cell yesterday.
I thought I had rid all the bugs in my bunk and cell, but apparently I was flea bit from one jumping off my cellmate Dutch Bodeker. He come down with the sickness a day before I did. Unfortunately for him, though, he died.
Due to my being laid up so long, I lost my job in the bakery. They have moved me into another shop learning to make gloves.
It sounds as though your acquaintance with Mr. McGuinness came at the right time. You need someone of his station and experience to help you in your hour of need, and I am happy about that. He has done things I could never have did for you. If you’ve made him aware of our relationship, please convey to him how much obliged I am. I am sorry I weren’t that kind of man for you.
It has got cold here already. Winter comes early in these parts. There is already a foot of snow on the ground. I am surely looking forward to the new year and the new century. I can only believe both will bring us better conditions in our lives.
I remain,
Your loving husband,
Henry
April 13, 1900
Dear Henry,
It has been a most difficult winter. We had an abundance of ice and snow, more t
han we’re accustomed to, and the cold seemed to seep into the very marrow of my bones. It appears quite reluctant to loosen its grip on the land. Only in the last week have we started to a gradual warming and signs of spring.
The winter seemed to take its greatest toll on Mother. Since Father’s death she had descended into a deep depression, and nothing would draw her out of it. When she caught a cold in January, she could not or would not rid herself of it. It deepened into pneumonia in February, and by early March she was gone. It’s almost as if she willed it that way.
Now I have this little house, and what is left of the rest of the estate, all to myself. Even in her gloomy state of mind, Mother was still a companion. I truly miss her.
Thomas has been a welcome friend these past few months, especially through the ordeal of Mother’s illness and passing. I don’t know how I could have survived without his help. She required a lot of care, especially toward the end, but I could not stay with her and keep my job at the school, so Thomas sent his housekeeper, an Indian woman called Aylisee Smallhawk, to stay with her and help. Both she and Thomas gave kindnesses for which I’m thankful beyond my words to express.
I hope this letter finds you in good health and spirits.
Affectionately,
Megan
May 10, 1900
Dear Meg,
I received your letter just today with the news of your mother. I am very sorry to hear of her passing. I know that must have been a blow to you. You have certainly had your share of hardships in the past few years.
I know the old woman you call Smallhawk. We all called her Grandmother (that is what Ay li see means in Cherokee) when I was a boy. She must be a hundred years old by now. I remember her as a kind and gentle soul, although she was not agin taking a switch to small boys in need of one. I believe your mother was in good hands in her final days.
Meg, I know it must be difficult to live there on your own without no man to support you. And I know that your friend Mr. McGuinness has been especially helpful in looking after you and your ma. It is a difficult thing for me to say this, but if you decided to take up with that man, I would understand. You deserve someone like him, and it will likely be several more years before I get out of this here prison.