by Phil Truman
I always told you, you need to get on with your life. If you did that with Mr. McGuinness, I would not blame you any.
Sincerely,
Henry
September 22, 1900
Dear Henry,
It is with a heavy heart that I pen this letter to you. It will probably be my last.
As you have surmised, I have come to depend heavily upon Mr. Thomas McGuinness since the passing of my parents. He has become a great friend to me, and I have grown quite fond of him, more so than just as a good friend. Subsequent to this, I have decided you are correct in that I need to get on with my life. Therefore, upon your advice, I have asked Mr. Birdsong to draw up papers of divorce between you and me. I suspect he will be contacting you before long with a set of those papers for you to sign.
Henry, it has never been my intent to hurt you. I have loved you dearly since we were children, and I suppose in some small way I always will. However, I must put away my childish ways. It has been almost ten years that we have been apart, during which I’ve suffered much hardship and longing.
You will always have a place in my heart, Henry.
Fondly,
Megan
Henry’s actions confounded Warden Coggin. He had no doubt the pounding Prisoner Dugan received from Henry was deserved. Dugan had deserved many in the five years he’d been there, although he was mostly the deliverer, not the receiver. Henry’s beating of Dugan was as surprising as it was confounding. Dugan was large and mean, always looking for a fight. Henry was about half Dugan’s size, smallish, skinny; and easy-going; even passive, you could say. Dugan was the yard bully; Starr was the compliant model prisoner. So the bloody unconscious heap that Henry made of Dugan surprised guards and prisoners alike.
The warden had no choice, of course. Fights between prisoners was a major infraction of the rules. Prisoner Starr would have to do time in the hole. But it confounded Coggin so much, he had to know why Henry did what he did.
“Starr, you confound me,” the warden said. Henry stood before him in shackles as he had almost a year and a half ago during their first meeting. “Up until today, your behavior here has been exemplary. You have been in every way a model prisoner, so you can understand why I’m confused about your fighting with Prisoner Dugan.”
Henry stood in silence, his head bowed. After a few seconds, Warden Coggin continued.
“Captain Tucker tells me witnesses say you struck the first blow; that you sought out Dugan and proceeded to beat the hell out of him unprovoked.”
Henry remained bowed and unresponsive. Coggin walked around to the back of his desk and seated himself. “Starr, I want you to tell me why you did this,” he said.
Henry shrugged and looked at the warden. “I was looking for a fight, Warden. Dugan seemed like the best choice.”
Coggin nodded. A package of legal papers from Starr’s lawyer in Indian Territory had come through his office for the prisoner to sign, divorce papers, so the warden figured he knew the source of Henry’s rage, although he questioned his wisdom on choice of opponent. Still, if he had to pick a fight with someone, he was glad it was Dugan; probably would turn out better for everyone all around. Still, rules were rules.
“Well, Starr, you broke a major rule. I’m going to have to put you in solitary for thirty days. When you get out, we’ll reevaluate your status.”
Henry said nothing. Coggin motioned for Tucker to take Henry away.
* * *
October 1902
“Warden wants to see you, Starr,” Boss Tucker said.
Henry, sitting at his workbench in the glove shop, looked up at the burly guard. He laid the materials in his hands onto the bench and rose to follow. “What’s this all about?” he asked Tucker. Except for his setback a year ago, there wasn’t a mark on his record. In fact, his bout with Dugan had turned out to be a good thing. Anytime Dugan started to cause trouble, all Henry had to do was show up and Dugan would back off. Henry had become a champion of the prison yard.
But a summons to the warden’s office was never a good thing.
Tucker shrugged. “Warden didn’t tell me. Just said to go haul your ass over there.”
The warden sat at his desk writing when Henry and Boss Tucker entered the office. Coggin glanced up at them and pointed his pen to a captain’s chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat, Starr,” he said and returned to his writing.
Henry, his brow furrowed with a question, looked at Boss Tucker. The prison guard looked back at him and shrugged.
“If it’s all the same to you, Warden, sir, I’d just as soon stand,” said Henry.
Coggin stopped writing and looked up. Setting the pen aside, he folded his hands one on top of the other and looked sternly at Henry. Then he almost smiled. “Well, I prefer you to sit.” He motioned with one hand towards the chair. “Please,” he said.
Henry nodded and complied.
“I’ll get right to the point,” the warden started. “You’ve received a pardon from President Roosevelt.” He waited for Henry’s response, but all he got back from the prisoner was a slack-jawed wide-eyed expression of astonishment and disbelief.
The warden continued. “Don’t know when your specific release date will be, but as soon as we get all the paperwork in order, you’ll be set free. I expect it will be shortly after the first of the year.”
Henry’s stunned mind finally allowed his voice to engage. “A Pardon? From the President? Why would he do that?”
Coggin picked up his pen and started writing again. “I have no idea. You’ll have to ask him that,” he said.
Chapter Eleven
March 1903
Tulsa, Indian Territory
Henry stepped off the train and looked around. Tulsey Town had grown since he’d last seen it. That had been almost ten years ago when he’d fenced those stolen diamonds to Feingold. He wondered if that old Jew was still in business. If so, Feingold would be the only person in town he knew. The streets had changed and the town had grown, but he thought he could still find the jeweler’s place.
The store looked a little more prosperous, but the old man behind the counter working on a watch still looked the same.
“Howdy, Feingold, you old skinflint,” said Henry.
The old man removed the loupe from his eye, and squinted in Henry’s direction. He turned his head slightly to one side then cocked it to the other. “Why, Henry Starr,” he said when recognition set in. “I thought you were in prison.”
“I was. Roosevelt give me a pardon.”
“A pardon? President Roosevelt?”
“Yep. The old Lion Tamer hisself.”
The jeweler shook his head and laughed. “Who can figure those damn Republicans.”
Henry looked around the jewelry store. “Looks like things are going good for you here in Tulsey Town.”
“Boom times,” said Feingold. “Town’s grown. They call it Tulsa now. Folks got money to spend.” He leaned back in his chair and pulled open a drawer, reaching in to put his hand on the butt of a pistol. “Hope you ain’t planning to rob me, Henry.”
Henry, who’d been examining a big brass eagle underneath a lampshade glowing with electric light, gave Feingold a hurt look. “Well, hell no, Feingold; I been rehabilitated. Aim to be an upstanding citizen now.”
“Good,” Feingold said. “Glad to hear that.” But he kept his hand on the pistol. “Last time you were in, you bought an engagement ring. You marry that girl?”
Henry turned back to the brass eagle lamp to study it some more. “She left me for some Irish farmer while I was in prison. I reckon she’s still got the ring, though.”
“Sorry to hear that, Henry. That was a nice ring. So what brings you in here today?”
“Looking for work. You’re the only person I know in Tulsey… Tulsa. Figured you could put me on to something. You said it was boom times. What’s causing the boom?”
“They struck oil over in Red Fork across the river. Talk is, there’s plenty more around here.�
��
“What kind of oil?” Henry asked, then turning his attention to a six-foot grandfather clock encased in mahogany wood.
“Why black oil, petroleum. Just about every kind of machine uses petroleum—trains, saw mills, river boats. There’s a new kind of machine called an automobile. They have an engine runs on something made from petroleum.”
Henry looked briefly at Feingold, then back at the clock. “Yeah, I seen one of them. Obnoxious thing. Damn glad their ain’t more of ‘em.”
“I don’t have work for you, Henry, if you’re thinking of that. But I know a fella might could help you out. Name’s Bagby. Sells real estate.”
“Real estate? You mean land?”
“Well, some of that, I s’pose. Mainly houses and buildings, I think. Lotsa new houses being built.”
“Where can I find this Bagby feller?”
* * *
Hiram Bagby said he’d come out from Saint Louis where he’d been in the real estate business. Heard about the oil strike and knew there’d be a growth in Tulsa; thought he could make a killing. As they sat talking, Henry sized the man up. He figured Bagby was as big a thief as he was, only better dressed. The man was a talker, that was evident, and as near as Henry could tell, about three-fourths of what the man said was bull crap. His smile was big, but his eyes weren’t sincere; more snake-like than honest. Yes, Henry thought he’d be able to work with Bagby just fine.
“So what kind of work have you been doing, Henry? You don’t mind if I call you Henry, do you?”
“Why, no, Hiram. Okay if I call you Hiram?”
Big smile. “Please do,” he said.
“Well, Hiram, the last ten years I’ve been with the federal government working in security up in Ohio. Before that I was self-employed, financial stuff, travelled a lot.”
Bagby’s eyebrows shot up; he smiled bigger. Henry wasn’t sure Hiram had bought what he was peddling. “No kidding?” Bagby said. “Why’d you leave gummint work? Hear that pays pretty well?
“Just felt sort of restricted; kind of locked into my position. Like you, I’d heard about the boom going on back here, and wanted to see if I could get in on some of it. Maybe make my fortune.”
“Ever done any real estate work?”
“Nope,” said Henry. “Don’t know a dang thing about it.”
“Well, any recommendation from Mort Feingold is good enough for me.
“I can teach you the business. Most of it is convincing people to buy what they don’t know they want. I’m pretty good at reading people, and I believe you can sell. It’ll be straight commission, but I’ll pay you a draw until you get on your feet.”
Bagby stood and extended his hand. “When can you start?” he asked Henry.
“Well, thank ya, Hiram. I appreciate you taking me on.” Henry stood and took Bagby’s hand. “Got some personal business I need to attend to first, so I’ll need a couple days.”
“Not a problem. Why don’t you plan on being here at eight Monday morning?” Bagby led Henry to the front part of the office stopping at the desk of his secretary. “You met my girl when you came in, right?”
Henry looked at the pretty young woman sitting at the desk and smiled. “Yes, we spoke,” he said. The girl smiled back and nodded.
“Well, this is Miss Ollie Griffin,” Bagby said. “Not only is she the best decoration in the place, she pretty much runs things around here, too. She’ll get you started Monday morning.”
Henry locked eyes with Miss Griffin and bowed slightly. “Pleased to meet you,” he said. When she looked back at him with her big soft brown eyes, Henry felt a small electric charge course down his left ribs.
* * *
As he rode northeast only the slightest spark of pink lined the eastern horizon. Feingold had spotted him ten bucks to get him through the next week, and he’d rented the horse and tack for a buck fifty. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, or why, or what he’d find, but he felt it was something he had to do. Nowata was about fifty miles away; the old Turley place a bit closer. He figured he could get there before sundown if he rode steady.
The house was fairly big, a two story structure with a wide porch on all sides. It sat on a flat stretch, maybe five acres, with hills behind it. It was wooded land, but a lot of it around the house had been cleared. A large painted barn with a big corral sat off to the west of the house and behind it some fifty yards. Eight or ten horses milled around in the corral. On the east side, straight rows of trees covered about an acre. From where he sat on the hill a half mile away to the south, Henry couldn’t tell if the orchard was apples or peaches. It looked like they were just starting to bud out in the early spring warmth.
A man was going in and out of the barn doing his evening chores, and a young girl was helping him. That’d be McGuinness, Henry thought, and his daughter. No sign of Meg. He suspected she was inside fixing supper.
He sat watching the scene some fifteen minutes or so. When the big red sun touched the top of the hills behind the barn, Henry gently spurred the horse and started him descending toward the farm house at a slow walk.
He smacked the trail dust off his hat with his left hand, then brushed the shoulders and lapels of his coat to do the same, before knocking firmly on the front door. After a few seconds, he knocked again, and waited. He could hear voices in the back of the house, then heavy footsteps—a man’s—approaching the door. A tall burly fellow in a green plaid flannel shirt opened the door. His red-haired and freckled forearms were massive, his face wind-burned, his short-cropped hair sat in tight red curls atop his large head like a tangle of briars. He looked to be in his mid-forties. He regarded Henry, not with malice, but curiosity.
Henry cleared his throat. “Uh, Mister McGuinness?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m Henry Starr.”
McGuinness pulled his head back slightly and narrowed his eyes. “What do you want?” he asked bluntly.
“McGuinness, I’m not here to cause no trouble. Honest. I just got out of prison a few weeks ago... Got a pardon from the President.” Henry hesitated, hoped adding that bit would help his case. But he could see McGuinness wasn’t impressed. “Anyway, I was wondering if I could speak to Meg, just briefly, and then I’ll be on my way.” He held up his right hand, and added, “As God is my witness, no trouble, I promise.”
McGuinness stood blocking the door, looking at Henry for what seemed like a long, long time. Henry, holding his hat in both hands and looking down, shuffled his feet, and then meekly looked back up at the big Irishman pleadingly.
Finally, McGuinness spoke. “I’ll ask her. It’ll be up to her.”
“Much obliged, sir,” said Henry.
McGuinness shut the door in Henry’s face. He waited. He could hear voices in the house, getting louder in the swirl of an argument. He turned and walked to the porch steps, looking out at the darkening woods a few hundred yards away with the dirt road cutting through it. Then he looked to his right where the top curve of the sun was just dipping below the hills there. Watching the sunset, he waited some more, turning the brim of his hat in his hands. He could hear no more voices inside the house. Clouds moved across the sky from the southwest, and darkness increased by degrees. Presently he sighed, put on his hat, and started down the steps towards his horse.
“Hello, Henry,” a woman’s voice said behind him.
Henry turned at the bottom porch step. He could see a woman framed in the doorway, but it was too dark to make out who she was. He didn’t recognize the voice, it was husky and low like she had a cold, nor the shape. This woman was greatly pregnant. Enough light remained to tell that for sure.
Henry took one step back up toward the porch. “Meg?” he asked.
“What are you doing here?” the woman responded, still with that husky voice.
“I… I don’t know. I just thought… I just wanted… Gosh, Meg, you’re gonna have a baby.”
“Yes, Henry. I know.”
“I mean… I didn’t think you wa
s going to talk to me, so I was just gonna leave.” Henry turned halfway back, looking down, as if that’s what he’d do if she wished.
“I didn’t either,” Meg said. “Think I wanted to talk to you, I mean. I stood behind the door a long time just looking at you.”
Henry studied the hat his hands fumbled with, and nodded. The silence between the two grew awkward. Henry put his hat on his head, and without looking directly at Megan said, “Well, I better be heading out.” He waited a couple more seconds to give Meg a chance to stop him, then turned and walked to his horse.
“I was starving, Henry. I was nearly destitute.”
Henry stopped, keeping his back to her. “I’m sorry, Meg.”
“Thomas saved me. He’s a good man, Henry. An honest, hard-working man.”
Henry turned back to face Megan. He looked her square in the face; he couldn’t see her eyes in the gathering darkness. “But do you love him, Meg?”
Meg hesitated slightly before she answered. “Yes… Yes, I do.
Henry looked up at the house, then out at the orchard. “Well, that’s good… that’s good,” he said. “You deserve all this. You deserve a good life… and a good man.”
Another silence grew between them, extending again into awkwardness. “You take care of yourself, Meg,” Henry said, turning to his horse and mounting.
“Henry, wait,” Meg said with some urgency. He relaxed the reins in his hands and put his palms on the saddle horn, watching her approach him.
“You should have this back,” she said, reaching up to him with her right hand.
Henry looked down at the diamond ring held up toward him. Reaching down to take it, he grabbed her hand, held it, squeezed it. She squeezed back hard, then jerked her hand away and ran back to the house and inside, slamming the door behind her.
Henry spun the horse towards the road, and kicked it firmly in the flanks.
* * *
