House of Purple Cedar

by Tim Tingle

  “Terrance,” said Maggie, lifting her skirt and thump-walking after him, “you already were arrested, remember…kidnapping, bank robbery, attempted murder.”

  “I didn’t murder nobody. And that bank got all their money back.”

  “You are right, Terrance. I am certain a jury would be glad to turn you back out on the streets of Spiro. You look innocent to me.”

  “I did before you did this to me,” he said, gesturing at his shaved head.

  “No, Terrance, you did not. You have never looked innocent. But you will someday. You have to kill the weeds before you grow a garden.”

  “I am not your dirt garden, Maggie.”

  “No, you are more like the dying weeds. The garden will come later.”

  Terrance had by now reached the jail. He touched the doorknob and froze, whirling about and pressing his back against the wall.

  “The marshal is awake. He saw me.”

  “Do not move a muscle,” said Maggie. She strode through the door and into the office, where a thin column of smoke billowed up from the wooden desktop. A lit cigar had rolled from the lip of the ashtray. In a bleary-eyed stupor, the marshal sat watching the snaking smoke.

  “I thought you were a ghost, Maggie.”

  “That calls for a drink,” said Maggie, filling his glass.

  “Ummm. Good day for whiskey,” Hardwicke said as he downed the drink and reached for the bottle. Maggie drowned the cigar fire with water from her pouch and poured him another drink. Four whiskey shots later, Maggie stepped out to the sidewalk. Hardwicke never opened his eyes.

  “Does he know I ain’t in the cell?” asked Terrance.

  “No, he does not,” Maggie said. “But the whole town will know it when church is over and his friends stop by for their Sunday social club. We do not have time for this.”

  “Sorry. Mother knows best.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said a Norther snows best.”

  “That’s what I thought you said. But if you want to see another winter, get out on the sidewalk. You look suspicious lurking in the shadows.”

  So on they went, Terrance hunched over and clinging to the building shadows and stouthearted Maggie dragging him back to the sidewalk. Nearing the station, Maggie heard church bells pealing and the soft murmur of conversation working its way down Main Street as first the Presbyterians and then the Methodists and finally the Baptists filled the street. Terrance glanced back and began to walk faster.

  They climbed the steps to the railroad platform and were met by John Burleson, who dropped the rag he’d been cleaning tables with and stared at Terrance like he was an overgrown monkey in men’s clothing.

  “John,” said Maggie, “when does the next train leave for Oklahoma City?”

  “One o’clock, Maggie,” said Burleson, never taking his eyes off Terrance, who slid behind Maggie. “How are things at the store?”

  “Fine, John. Mind getting me one round-trip ticket and one one-way ticket to Oklahoma City?”

  Turning to Terrance, she said, “Now, Daniel, I’ll take care of the tickets. Don’t you worry about a thing, you just have a seat out here and don’t talk to any strangers.”

  Burleson said nothing as he entered the stationhouse with Maggie a step behind. He unlocked the door to his office, slid open the frosty glass ticket window and placed two tickets on the counter.

  “One dollar and fifty cents,” he said. “You did say one round-trip ticket and one one-way ticket to Oklahoma City, Maggie?”

  “Yes, that’s right, John. I am taking my poor brother to Oklahoma City. We’ll spend a few days together before he continues on to California.”

  “Your brother?”

  “Yes. We have not seen each other in years, not since he returned from Panama. He worked on that canal, you know.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes,” said Maggie, “they dug that canal right through the jungle.” She paid with the exact change, all the while displaying a tight grin.

  “Maggie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would you think I could let you get away with this?”

  Maggie dropped her grin and met John Burleson’s gaze for a long moment. “Because you of all people understand about living alone. You don’t like it any more than I do, John. You will not, for this reason, deny me my chance at happiness.”

  “You plan on marrying him?”

  “He is a good and misguided man and that is my intention.”

  “What did you do to him?”

  “To Daniel, my brother?”

  “To Terrance Lowell,” said Burleson.

  “You must mean Daniel. I merely made him a suit of clothes. If you are referring to his appearance, he contracted a terrible disease in Panama.”

  “A disease?”

  “Yes. He can’t seem to kick it, even after all these years. He helped dig that canal.”

  “Yes, I know. Through the jungle. Your brother, I am guessing, has lost all his hair to this disease.”

  “His appearance, you must agree, is a fate worse than death,” said Maggie.

  “You shaved him,” said Burleson, shaking his head in soft laughter. “Where was Marshal Hardwicke?”

  “Funny you should ask. We did stop by to visit, but the marshal was passed out on his desk.”

  “Maggie Johnston, you are either the most brilliant woman I have ever met or the craziest.”

  “Possibly both,” said Maggie.

  “You do realize I cannot allow a man with a terrible disease to associate with my healthy passengers.”

  “I have already paid you for the tickets,” said Maggie.

  “And you may use them. But I will insist on a quarantine. You will have an entire car to yourself and you may not leave it.”

  “And no one else may enter the car?” asked Maggie.

  “Absolutely no one. You and your brother must avoid all contact with other passengers. You must travel in total privacy.”

  Maggie felt her chest heave in a sigh of relief. She leaned through the window and kissed John Burleson on the cheek.

  “How can I repay you?”

  “Make this work, Maggie. And let me know how you are. That will be enough.”

  Maggie nodded, took the tickets, and was turning away when Burleson said, “I have always cared for you, Maggie.”

  “Thank you, John,” Maggie said. “I have always respected you, the way you work, how kind you are.” She slowly turned to face him. At that moment the shrill whistle of the Oklahoma City train cut the air.

  “He’ll die without you, Maggie. Especially now, with what’s happened this morning. The marshal will drag him to the woods and gun him down like a coyote. You couldn’t live with that.”

  “We’ll be fine. We can make a good life together. It’s what I have been waiting for, somebody to take care of.”

  “Somebody to raise,” said Burleson.

  “You know me, John Burleson.” A bittersweet pause hung in the air, broken only by the hissing screech of the steam engine braking

  “Is this my train?”

  “It is the one you have chosen, Maggie.” She saw the train reflected in the gradual slumping of his shoulders. The softness left her face and was replaced by a more familiar look of determination.

  “One thing you should know,” she said. “Now that I’ve opened the cage, the beast is out.”

  “I wouldn’t go calling him a beast, Maggie. He’s to be your husband, you know.”

  “I am not talking about Terrance. I am talking about Marshal Hardwicke,” Maggie said, turning quickly and stepping onto the platform, where Terrance rose to meet her. Maggie and Terrance seated themselves in the final car of the train while Burleson spoke to the conductor. As they entered the car, a handful of passengers cast bold looks at the strange pink-skinned man in their midst. They huddled in whispering clusters till the conductor stepped to the front of the car and loudly cleared his throat.

  “This car is being quarantin
ed,” he announced. “Bring your belongings and exit through the door behind you. You may sit wherever you like in any of the forward cars.”

  When their car was empty, the conductor eased the door shut and hung a CLOSED sign over it. Strong-willed Maggie and misbegotten Terrance Lowell thus began their life together, a long and happy life that earned them the respect and admiration of all who knew them.

  Or so the story went.

  Wake-Up Call for Hardwicke

  Hardwicke was dreaming. He was chasing a strange and elusive someone or something through the river bottom. With every step he sank deeper into a boggy wetness of mud and stagnant water, so thick with life the odor clung to his clothes, his hair, even his breath. He scraped his tongue against his upper teeth and spat.

  Stung by the bitter taste, Hardwicke jerked himself awake. He gripped the edge of his desk and tried to stand, but his legs wobbled and he rocked back and forth. He felt a hard rippling of stomach muscles. He lurched to the back door, flinging it open as a thick rope of chewed steak and whiskey flew from his jaws and across the dirt path winding to the outhouse. Hardwicke grabbed his knees and steadied himself against the pine planks of the building, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

  He was still leaning against the wall ten minutes later, tilting his head in wonderment at the dizzying shifts of the earth, as four well-dressed Methodists, led by Agent Taylor, entered his office.

  “Smells like a saloon in here,” Taylor said, spotting the overturned whiskey bottle. “Looks like the marshal started a little early today.”

  A door slammed at the rear of the building. All eyes turned to the ragged sounds of Marshal Hardwicke weaving his uncertain way down the hallway. When he appeared in the door, his body tilted forward and his head and face, down to the fat skin of his lips, drooped to the floor. The agent and his companions stared at Hardwicke for a long moment before the marshal realized he was not alone.

  They watched him waver in his private stupor, gripping the threshold with both hands to keep from falling forward. When he shook his head and spat on the floor in front of him, the four men locked eyes in stone-clad judgment. Their eyes returned to the marshal at the precise moment Hardwicke discovered the open cell door twenty feet to his right.

  “Ahhh oooh,” he said, kicking the wall and staggering to his desk.

  “Marshal Hardwicke,” said Taylor, stepping forward and clasping one hand on the marshal’s shoulder, the other on his forearm. “Let me help you.” Hardwicke stiffened, but Taylor pushed him around his desk and into his chair.

  “Prisoner’s gone,” Hardwicke mumbled, his head bobbing against his chest.

  “What? What are you saying?”

  Hardwicke waved his arm in the direction of the cells.

  “See for yourself.”

  In less than an hour, the events of the morning fell into place.

  “Of course, it was unusual,” said the bartender, when questioned by Agent Taylor. “Till last night, I don’t recall ever seeing Maggie Johnston step a foot through that door,” he continued, pointing to the swinging double doors of the Salty Dog Saloon. “But she wasn’t trying to hide a thing. Even told me who the whiskey was for. ‘Marshal Hardwicke,’ she said. ‘For being there when I needed him.’ Who duh ever think she was planning on breaking that bank robber outta jail?”

  “No sir, I didn’t notice anything different about Maggie,” Hiram lied, when his turn for questioning came. “Same old Maggie. Bossy, hard-headed. Now, she didn’t care much for the marshal, not since he took after that Indian with a board. But she never liked him much before that, either. No, same old Maggie, most I could tell.”

  Agent Taylor was inclined to believe everyone he spoke to regarding Maggie, Marshal Hardwicke, and the prisoner, till he shared a table and coffee with John Burleson on the railroad platform. Even before the usually talkative stationmaster met his inquiries with cool detachment, Taylor sensed compliance with Maggie’s actions.

  How could he not know what was going on? Taylor asked himself as he stepped onto the platform. A slow Sunday morning, Maggie and the prisoner the only two passengers. John Burleson is neither a fool nor a drunk. He had to know. Then why?

  “Morning, John.”

  “Morning.”

  “Quite a mess.”

  “So I hear.”

  “Several people say Maggie Johnston and a strange-looking fellow were seen heading your way.”

  “I saw Maggie.”

  “You saw her. Was she by herself?”

  “Seemed that way at first.”

  “You want to tell me more?”

  Burleson stirred two heaping spoonfuls of sugar into his cup. He took a long, deep breath and looked from one end of the tracks to the other before replying.

  “Your honor, I never saw who she was with. Had no desire to see him. Maggie claimed he was her brother, come in yesterday on horseback from Fort Smith. She said he was dying, and he sure looked like walking death to me. I wanted to stay as far away from him as possible.”

  “Thought you never saw him.”

  “I saw the back of his head. He sat on that bench while Maggie bought two tickets.”

  “You never suspected he might be the same man who robbed the bank and held Hiram at knifepoint yesterday?”

  “Now why in dickens would I think that? That fellow was in jail, last I heard.”

  “You sold Maggie two train tickets?”

  “Yessir, to Oklahoma City.”

  “You didn’t see any danger to the other passengers?”

  “Oh yes, your honor. I did. I made certain the car was quarantined and all other passengers seated in other accommodations.”

  “Other accommodations.”

  “Yes, Agent Taylor. Other accommodations. That’s pretty much how a quarantine works.”

  “That must have been difficult.”

  “No, your honor, not once they got a look at Maggie’s brother. That prisoner, I mean,” he said with a wave of his hand.

  “Had you ever seen him before?”

  “Never. And I would have remembered. He was pale as death, and he sat all hunched over. Even from behind he looked strange. Sickly.”

  Agent Taylor looked away and Burleson continued. “I was here at the station all day yesterday, the day of the robbery. No way I could know what the bank robber looked like.”

  “Of course. Did Maggie say when she might be returning?”

  “Returning?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, she did buy a round-trip ticket. But no, she didn’t say when exactly.”

  “John,” the agent said, leaning over the table and lowering his voice. “Listen closely. I am going to ask you a very important question.”

  Burleson gripped his knees and lifted his brow in a look of slight surprise. “I am forthright with you, Agent Taylor.”

  “I am not here to assign responsibility. I am here in an effort to understand the most bizarre jail breakout I have ever encountered. So relax.” John sipped his coffee and stared into his mug. “Did Maggie ever appear to be in any danger?”

  Burleson’s response was simple and immediate and swept away any doubts Agent Taylor might have carried regarding the stationmaster’s complicity in the escape.

  “Never. No danger. Not a smidgen.” His beaming smile took Taylor by surprise.

  “They will both be captured. Maggie will go to jail.”

  “That might come to pass,” said Burleson. He placed both hands on the table, pushed back his chair, and with a ceremonious bow rose and turned to the door. “I pity the poor jailer,” he said over his shoulder.

  One week later, after assuring herself that Terrance was as softhearted as a new puppy, Maggie composed the following letter to the agent.

  Dear Agent Taylor,

  I know you to be, from the numerous times you have made purchases at the hardware store, a fair and even-minded gentleman. I know also you have borne witness to the cruel excesses of our current marshal. This previous Sunday I
prevented said marshal from exercising his meanness. His intent was to hang the man who now sits beside me, wishing he could read.

  I have committed a crime, probably several. I helped Terrance Lowell escape from jail. You will, of course, question how an otherwise logical and clear-headed woman could involve herself in an endeavor so foolish as to be doomed to failure from the start. I will deal with the latter assumption first.

  Terrance Lowell and myself have not failed. We have escaped. We are free and will forever remain so. Terrance has escaped a lifelong attempt to gain attention and notoriety by outlandish behavior. I have escaped a life of mediocrity and loneliness.

  Terrance Lowell is guilty of brandishing a bulletless gun at a bank teller, stuffing two hundred dollars in his pockets (all of which has since been returned) and threatening Hiram Blackstone with a butter knife, Hiram who has now reached the status he has longed for his entire life. He is one of the gang with a story to tell. Hiram has never been happier.

  Regarding Terrance, he is a hardworking man and good to the very core. For the first time in his life, someone needs him. I understand that, other than a dozen or so arrests for being drunk and disorderly, Terrance has no criminal record or past criminal history.

  Therefore, I am asking you to grant him a pardon for all crimes committed during the recent and unfortunate sequence of events in Spiro. Though we will never return to Indian Territory, I would like to someday inform Terrance he may hold his head high in the full understanding that he is a free man with all rights. If I have since been charged with any crimes related to helping Terrance escape, I request that the pardon extend to my crimes as well.

  If your heart dictates that you follow my request, please send a single notice to that effect within a month to the newspapers of Galveston, Texas; Santa Fe, New Mexico; St. Louis, Missouri; and New Orleans, Louisiana. You hold our lives in your hands.

  May God bless you,

  Maggie Johnston

  P.S. Please allow Mrs. Taylor to read my letter.

  Three weeks later the following notice appeared in the Galveston Daily News: