Portlandtown: A Tale of the Oregon Wyldes (17 page)

“It’s true!” he said, projecting his voice well beyond the multitude already in line for the viewing. “After a decade frozen in the hardened permafrost of the great northern wilds, the vilest villain ever to terrorize the West has returned to pay for his sins. See with your own eyes the scar upon his neck left by the rope that could not hang him! Be amazed at the number of shots it took to finally fell the man. Was it one? Five? A dozen? Look and see!”

Garibaldi laid eyes on Mason and Henry. A sly smile crossed his lips.

“And don’t miss the cursed weapon of the killer, the red-handled pistol, its wood stained with the blood of a hundred victims, maybe more.”

Henry was impressed. Garibaldi had turned on his investment quickly and would probably make it back (and then some) in one night. It occurred to him that he hadn’t thought of the Hanged Man once since they’d left the circus, since the body had ceased to be in their possession. He saw no reason to join the line to remind him of what he was missing.

Mason had other ideas.

“You son of a bitch,” he said, his anger helping to smooth over the alcohol. “You’re gonna get rich off my dead man?”

Garibaldi eyed Mason coldly. “Just business, son. Go on and have a look, see how the professionals do it.”

Garibaldi lifted the front flap of the tent a bit wider and beckoned Mason to enter. Mason didn’t hesitate.

Henry did. He could feel the Hanged Man once more, a weight laid on his shoulders he no longer wanted to carry. Henry could see him dangling by a rope, his eyes wide open, laughing at God for thinking his death would bring peace.

“You coming?” Garibaldi asked. “It’s only free as long as I hold her open.”

Henry meant to say no, had every intention of turning on the spot and walking away, but instead he found himself moving forward into the darkness.

“He’ll haunt your dreams!” Garibaldi said as he let the flap fall back. “Who among you fears not the Angel of Death!”

*   *   *

Inside the tent, the line of people followed a roped path that circled past a collection of smaller displays showcasing various Western artifacts. Among them were numerous Indian weapons and tribal garb, a selection of unusual animal skeletons, and a large red-and-black striped lizard, very much alive, hissing at the onlookers from inside a slatted wooden cage. In the center of the enclosure, a round glass case displayed two shriveled fingers, which according to a carefully lettered sign were all that remained of famed lawman Charlie Lancaster. The case next to it featured a fist-size chunk of solid firestone crystal half buried in the sand and an open invitation to reach through the small hole in the top of the display to claim the stone. A pair of rattlesnakes curled up on either side of the stone ensured there would be no takers.

Henry cut across the queue, skipping the minor artifacts until he came upon the main attraction. Mason was already there, leaning over the ropes intended to restrain him. Henry reached out to pull Mason back, but never laid a hand on him. His eyes fell upon the Hanged Man and it was all he knew.

The body was not strung up but rather laid in a coffin stood on end. Torches on either side flickered in the dead man’s eyes, both wide open and uncomfortably alive. The body was naked from the waist up, revealing a lanky, unevenly muscular torso riddled with bullet holes. A noose tied loosely around the Hanged Man’s neck hung to his waist, where it frayed, as if cut in midexecution. Tucked into the front of his trousers was a pistol, its butt painted bright red. Even from ten feet away Henry could see that some of the pigment had rubbed off on the dead man’s stomach, looking very much like dried blood.

“Sons of bitches,” Mason said softly.

Henry blinked and was surprised to find his arm still outstretched, hand hovering over Mason’s shoulder. He pulled it back, managing to look away just that long before the dead man’s gaze commanded his attention once more. Nearly everyone who passed through the tent that night would claim the Hanged Man’s eyes followed them.

Only one would be right.

Mason leaned close to Henry. “This is your fault.”

With great effort, Henry forced himself to meet Mason’s glare. “We never should have sold him,” he said, and meant it.

“We never should have dug him up,” Mason growled. “And now he’s making these leeches rich. They even got his gun.”

“It’s not his,” Henry said, genuinely taking offense. To lay such an obviously false weapon on the body was wrong. He’d never felt comfortable with the sale and now he knew why. This was a great man. Yes, he was a villain, but what did that matter? To treat the Hanged Man as a nothing more than a prop in some sideshow museum was disgraceful, unthinkable.

“It’s a travesty, all of it,” Henry said. “We should definitely—”

Mason grabbed Henry by the collar. “What? Dig up another corpse? Find us another dead man worth more than the box he’s buried in? What?”

Henry searched for an answer, and found one, pulsing softly against his chest. It had been there all along, of course. When he spoke, his voice was calm and clear.

“Let’s rob the place.”

12

“The gate closes at ten,” Mason said. “Then we take it all.”

Henry nodded, as did Hugh. Charlie did not. After searching half the carnival, they’d found him lingering behind a tent belonging to a contortionist named Baby Sue. An illustration painted on the side of the tent suggested she was capable of twisting her body into any number of amazing and unusual shapes.

“Um, okay,” said Charlie. “But I don’t want to skip out on Miss Sue. She promised us a special show.”

Mason scowled. Since deciding to rob the carnival, his drunken stupor had been replaced by a headache that cut through the haze like a dagger. The pain brought the night into focus, but it also made the man very angry.

“You think she’ll twist her bits for you after you steal from her boss?”

Charlie hesitated. “She might if I paid her.”

Mason rubbed his temples with both hands. “Screw this up and I’ll gut you, Charlie.”

Charlie looked to Hugh, who quietly shook his head. Based on the brothers’ expressions, Henry suspected Mason had never seriously threatened either man, but he was now, of that there was no doubt.

Mason turned to Hugh. “That little one-armed freak, she was still collecting when we came back tonight, right?”

“Had a lockbox and big, dumb-lookin’ rube by her side.”

“Find ’em. That’s where the cash’ll be.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Henry asked.

Mason pointed in the direction of the Hanged Man’s tent. “You’re gonna walk back in there and light the dead man on fire.”

Henry shuddered. “What?”

Mason forced a smile. “Said it wasn’t right what they done to him, didn’t ya?”

Had he said that? Henry couldn’t remember.

“Here’s your chance to set things right. Ought to make for quite a distraction, eh?”

It would. Mason’s plan was simple enough. Henry would cause a ruckus, draw as many of the circus folk to him as possible, while Mason, Hugh, and Charlie collected the cash. The weakest part of the plan—as far as Henry was concerned—was how he would make his escape.

“And I’m supposed to just slip away after starting a fire in front of a tent full of people?”

“Once the fire gets rolling, ain’t nobody gonna stick around to point fingers,” Mason said. “You’ll be fine.”

Henry had his doubts, but said nothing more.

*   *   *

Hugh and Charlie found the one-armed girl floating above the crowd, riding the shoulders of an enormous brute whose smile was almost as big as her own. The front gate was closed, the cash box tucked under the brute’s arm. As the odd couple strolled the midway, they collected the evening’s receipts from the shows that charged additional admission. Their last stop was the Hanged Man’s tent, where they received a hefty pouch from Garibaldi.

Mason watched the giant and his rider exchange a few words with their boss and then disappear behind a tent.

“All right, crowd’s starting to thin out. Let’s make this fast. Hit ’em while there’s still some cover.”

Mason led the way between a pair of tents to the sparsely lit area just beyond the midway. A young couple strolled past and beyond them, slipping behind a row of wagons, their target.

“Five minutes,” Mason said, eyeing Henry. “Then I want to see smoke.”

Henry nodded. He watched the three men draw their weapons and cautiously move into the shadows, before turning back toward the main thoroughfare. The crowd was thinner, with most headed for the exit. Henry made his way to the Hanged Man’s tent, where the line was only a few people deep at the entrance.

Henry took his place at the end of the queue, paid his dime, and passed through the flap, which was soon closed behind him. There were fewer people inside than earlier, but Henry kept his place rather than cut ahead.

He was in no hurry.

Why should he be? He was in control now. It had been his idea to rob the circus, after all. Certainly, his and Mason’s visions of what they were stealing differed slightly, but when all the shouting was done, Henry was convinced Mason would see it his way.

The Hanged Man would make sure of that.

The idea of resurrection first occurred to Henry in a dream. He didn’t realize it at the time, but that was only because he didn’t understand. He did now. It was no coincidence that he skipped ahead in his reading to the passage detailing the returning of life to the nonliving. He was drawn there as clearly as he’d been to the Hanged Man’s grave. The fact that the words were easier to decipher, much more so than any other passages, served only to confirm his course of action. It was obvious. He was meant to bring the Hanged Man back to this world, to give him back his life.

And Henry would be his master.

That was how it worked. The book was very clear that a body returned to this world would be indebted to the living, specifically the one who did the deed. That would be Henry. The Hanged Man would be under his control and together they would … what?

Henry hadn’t worked that part out yet. In fact, as he stepped closer to the body, he found his determination slipping, ever so slightly. He’d felt that way all day—confident but confused. Had he really found a spell that would bring the dead man back to life? Was that really what he was supposed to do? And then he heard his answer.

(
always
)

Henry laid a hand over his chest, felt the square shape beneath his jacket beat in time with his heart, and knew it was true. He’d been meant to read those words today, just as he was meant to use them, here and now.

The resurrection curse was a lengthy one requiring elaborate preparation, hours of chanting, and numerous organic and inorganic items, some of which were completely foreign to Henry. Fortunately, there was a shortcut. When the living body had been prepared for death—such as when the living chose to curse themselves prior to death in order to preserve their remains, as the Hanged Man had obviously done—resurrection required only three things: the curse words, a belief in them, and blood.

Henry was in possession of all three. He would speak the words, believe them, and, since he was unlikely to put his knife to another man, he would bleed. It would hurt only a little.

The tent was nearly empty. Henry kept his head down, his eyes otherwise occupied, not wanting to see the dead man before he was ready. He made the last turn in the line and moved to the center of the display.

An old woman stood in front of him, staring up at the body. She murmured something under her breath, made the sign of the cross, and then moved away. Henry stepped into the vacant space and slowly let his gaze rise to meet the Hanged Man’s.

Garibaldi’s hand fell on Henry’s shoulder at the exact moment he locked stares with the dead man.

“Can’t keep your eyes off him, eh?”

Henry didn’t respond—he couldn’t. Every one of his senses was focused on the propped-up corpse. The world around him passed into a fog and all he knew was the depth of the black-eyed stare. There was only himself and the Hanged Man, standing before him, standing beside him. When he finally did feel Garibaldi’s touch, it wasn’t the carnival master’s hand he imagined on his shoulder.

“Tried to stare him down myself once we got his eyes propped open,” Garibaldi said. “Had to put a bit of face paint on him, too, make him look more the part of the deceased. Didn’t figure he’d mind.”

Henry saw the carnival boss, saw him lying on the ground bleeding, the knife that had stuck him held firmly in Henry’s hand. He saw this clearly and then it was gone.

Garibaldi stood at his side, his hand on Henry’s shoulder. Henry blinked, surprised to be staring into the eyes of a living man.

Garibaldi smiled and shook his head. “Intense feller, ain’t ya?”

The knife was in Henry’s pocket. He’d plucked it from his saddle pouch without thinking just prior to returning to the carnival. Its purpose now known, Henry chose not to use it. He spoke quickly before his mind could be changed.

“You’re being robbed,” he said, returning his gaze to the Hanged Man. “My acquaintances are, as we speak, trying to decide the best way to separate that large feeb from his diminutive charge and, more importantly, the small treasure chest he carries.”

Garibaldi looked at Henry, searching for some sign that his words were for amusement. He found none.

“I daresay someone might get shot.”

Garibaldi pointed a finger at Henry. “Stay here,” he said, and ran for the exit.

“No place I’d rather be.”

Two men who had been watching over the display trailed after their boss as he ran out of the tent. With no one to stop him, Henry stepped over the rope and approached the Hanged Man’s body. Up close, he could easily make out the ashen makeup applied to the dead man’s face.

“They’ve tried to make you a clown.”

“Looks more like a scarecrow,” said a young voice behind Henry.

Henry didn’t have to turn to know it was the boy he’d stood behind in line.

“Does he frighten you?” Henry asked.

“Course not.”

“He will,” Henry said, drawing the revolver from the dead man’s belt. A moment later, he was alone.