Portlandtown: A Tale of the Oregon Wyldes (28 page)

“But why was it … alive?”

“Not alive. And not alone.”

Henry didn’t understand. And then he did. There were at least a hundred stones covering the gently sloping field atop the mountain. Many of the graves had been freshly dug (or dug up) and at least a few remained open. Henry found just such a plot thirty feet from where he stood. He could make out the mounds of dirt piled on either side of the marker and the dark hole in front of it. Something was in the hole, something moving—hands, digging at the soil, searching for a handhold, trying to find a way out. A pair of glowing eyes peered over the top edge of the hole.

Henry stumbled backward. “What did you do?”

The Hanged Man didn’t answer; he didn’t have one. He’d done nothing to disturb the eternal slumber of the local inhabitants, nothing intentional. It was possible he didn’t have a say in the matter. His presence alone might be enough to wake the dead. Either way, he didn’t know. Nor did he care.

The Hanged Man added one last shovelful of dirt and surveyed his work.

Henry stared at the hole. “It’s only half full.”

The Hanged Man tossed the shovel at Henry’s feet and walked away.

Henry stole a glance over his shoulder. The dead man was still struggling to escape the grave, but a second corpse, a woman in a tattered, light-colored dress, stumbled past on the right, arms dangling at her side, one leg dragging behind. Her head lolled forward, unable to stay upright. Henry watched the dead woman long enough to confirm that she was moving toward him.

Henry ran to his horse and pulled himself into the saddle. He half expected the Hanged Man to drag him down—or worse, to join him—but instead the dead man brought his own horse around. It was not dead, after all.

Except it was.

It was like him, or more accurately like the creatures in the forest, because that’s what they all were—dead. No living creature would have been drawn to the Hanged Man, but wherever he went the dead would rise and follow him, watch over him, protect him. Rodents, wolves, horses, people. They would rise from the ground, given new life as Henry had given the Hanged Man. His existence was a disease and it would spread wherever he trod. Henry knew this to be true because he had made it happen.

The living dead steed raised its head and spit out a red-and-black bundle of snot, which dangled from its nose briefly and then slipped to the ground. Its eyes glowed in the lantern light but there was no life in them.

Henry’s horse sidled away from its companion, sensing the creature was an abomination. Henry wished he could do the same.

The Hanged Man directed his horse through the cemetery. Henry followed.

*   *   *

The front door to the marshal’s house was locked, but the Hanged Man pushed it open without breaking stride.

Henry followed, bringing the lantern around to reveal a foyer devoid of furniture, wall hangings, or anything that might suggest a state of occupancy. The same was true for the front room, hall, and kitchen, save for a few mismatched plates stacked in an open cupboard alongside a single, cracked cup. The house was empty, abandoned.

“Not much left,” Henry said. “I guess the marshal ain’t coming back.”

The Hanged Man paused at the bottom of the stairwell, waiting for Henry and his light.

“He weren’t supposed to leave.”

The second floor was just as sparse, with only the back bedroom featuring more than a layer of dust. A short dresser, bureau, and bed frame made it seem lavish compared to the other rooms. The Hanged Man scanned the walls and was about to leave when something caught his eye. He held out his hand.

Henry handed over the lantern and watched the Hanged Man raise it above his head, illuminating a large brown stain on the ceiling. He studied it for a moment, then passed the light back to Henry and walked out of the room. Henry took one last look himself but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

Unlike the rest of the house, the attic was flush with boxes and furniture. The Hanged Man pushed his way through the clutter, opening several of the cartons, more out of frustration than a desire to find what lay within. None of them would have what he was looking for and he knew it.

“He probably took it with him,” Henry said, immediately sorry he’d opened his mouth.

The Hanged Man said nothing.

Henry turned to the nearest box and began flipping through a collection of papers. Many were legal documents—remnants of Kleberg’s law enforcement days, no doubt. Mixed in with the pages were maps and a few random photographs. A formal portrait caught Henry’s eye. It showed a man with a patch over his left eye, a handsome woman, and two children, a boy and a girl, neither of whom appeared to be more than ten. The woman must be the marshal’s daughter, Henry thought. He had never been formally introduced, but he’d seen her around town with her husband.

An ancient memory surfaced that suggested this man and the Hanged Man knew each other. Henry had no idea where it had come from, but it felt true.

“I found something,” he said.

The Hanged Man took the photo from Henry. He held it under the lamp briefly before turning toward a small window. The moon had risen, but Henry couldn’t imagine it offered more light than the lantern.

The Hanged Man studied the photo intently. His lips barely moved, but Henry thought he heard him say, “He lives.” The Hanged Man then flipped the photo over and read the inscription loud enough for Henry to be sure what he heard.

“‘The Wyldes of Portland, 1885.’”

The Hanged Man stared for a moment longer, then crumpled the photo into a ball and let it fall to the floor, which is where he found the marshal’s words carved into the wood.

WHERE IS HE?

“He was supposed to keep watch,” Henry said. He was familiar with the concept of watching over the dead man. Hadn’t that always been his job?

“You only came to me after he left,” the Hanged Man said, reading Henry’s eyes if not his mind.

Henry shook his head but found the words were true. The memories of that day hadn’t always been with him. They had returned less than a week earlier. And hadn’t Asa told him of Kleberg’s departure around the same time? He’d gone to live with his family. That’s why the house was so empty. That’s why—

Henry felt his chest suddenly tighten as the Hanged Man put a hand on his shoulder.

“The day I died, did you see the dark giant?” he asked.

Henry searched for meaning in the words but found none.

“I didn’t see anyone but the marshal and you.” There wasn’t anyone else …
was there?

The dead man opened his right hand.

“I can feel it,” he said, closing his eyes. “The grip in my hand, the weight of it, the heat … they took it from me.”

“No, I only saw the marshal.”

The Hanged Man opened his eyes, half expecting the red-handled gun to materialize in his hand. It did not.

“Joseph,” he said, his eyes finding Henry but for a moment seeing someone else.

A terrible wave of nausea enveloped Henry’s senses and for a moment he knew nothing but the dead man’s hate. And then it was gone.

“Stay here,” the Hanged Man said. “We ride for Portland before dawn.”

Henry never said a word as the Hanged Man disappeared down the stairs, leaving him alone in the attic. A minute later he saw him through the small window as he rode down the hill on a dead horse.

He was not alone.

Six men and two women in various states of decomposition slowly lurched after him. They appeared dazed, unable to control their movements, only their direction. These were not the same beings as the Hanged Man but rather mindless, animated corpses one step removed from death. Henry feared them just the same.

One of the dead men rolled his head across his shoulders until he appeared to meet Henry’s gaze. The man’s body jerked to the right, and soon he was staggering toward the house. Henry stepped back from the window and the dead man’s stride faltered. His head bobbled from side to side and then spun back in the direction of his companions. His body soon followed.

Unable to look away, Henry watched the group lurch toward town. Their spastic gait was both sickening and oddly hypnotic. When one of the dead shuffled through the gate of the nearest neighbor and then pitched forward onto the front steps, Henry finally turned his back on the scene. He made his way to the first floor, found a spot of moonlight beneath a window, and pulled the black book from his pocket.

All was quiet as he began to read.

*   *   *

Early Tuesday morning, Marvin Daniels was shot in the back, just below the neck, as he walked from his home on Seventh Street to his job at the Astoria Cannery. Miraculously, the bullet struck no major organs or arteries, leaving Marvin bloodied but alive. He never saw his assailant.

The first person to arrive on the scene offered no assistance but rather only the observation that the victim would survive his wound. This, Marvin thought, seemed to displease the man who never descended from his horse.

Gunplay would normally have caused quite a stir in Astoria, which, other than one infamous shootout eleven years prior, rarely saw scenes of violence.

This day would prove very different.

20

“I want to see it.”

Kate sat down on the edge of the bed next to her father. He eyed her suspiciously.

“Sure ’bout that?”

Kate took a deep breath and slowly let it go. “Yes.”

The marshal held his gaze for a few seconds longer before unwrapping the cloth-bound object in his hands.
Don’t let her touch it,
he thought but did not say upon revealing the Hanged Man’s red-handled pistol.

Kate had hoped seeing the pistol would blunt the power it held in her memories. It was, as Joseph reminded her, just a gun. But, of course, it wasn’t. It was part of the man who had nearly destroyed her family. It had bruised the skin of her newborn daughter and brought her husband to within a whisper of death. It was an evil thing. Had it not been for the suspicion that the gun would make her sick should she touch it, Kate would have flung the thing out the window.

“How could you bring this into our house?”

The marshal tightened his grip on the handle.

“I’m sorry.”

Kate studied her father’s face. He was a stubborn man, but she’d never known him to lie, not to her.

“I believe you,” she said, softening, though only slightly. “But I have to understand why you brought this from Astoria. Why did you even kept it?”

The marshal didn’t have an answer, not a good one, even though he’d asked himself the same question numerous times. He gave the best he had.

“I couldn’t leave it there. Not where somebody might find it, might use it.”

“That’s what you were doing in the cemetery. You were looking for a place to bury it.”

The marshal thought that might have been it. Or had he been looking for something else … or someone?

“I couldn’t find, I couldn’t…”

“That’s fine, Dad. I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

“What would y’ave done? Take away my shovel?”

Kate laughed. “No, but I should have visited more. I know you like your privacy, but isn’t it better having family close-by?”

“Course it is, Katie.”

Kate leaned on her father’s shoulder. The warmth of the gesture reminded him of why he’d spent so many years away from his family. He was protecting them. It’s what he’d always done. That his daughter would never understand made no difference.

“As for that,” Kate said, motioning to the gun, “Joseph told me what you plan to do after the festival. Thank you.”

The marshal blinked. He’d spoken to Joseph after the mayor’s party, when Kate was still too mad even to look at him. They’d come to a decision, an agreement, but what had it been?

“Throw it in the river,” he said under his breath. Had he really agreed to that?

Kate kissed her father’s cheek and then folded the cloth back into place, careful not to touch the revolver. She didn’t notice the marshal’s fingers were white from gripping the handle tightly.

“Bury it deep,” she said, motioning to the closet. “I don’t want the kids to find it. They know better, but they’re curious.”

The marshal nodded. “I’ll hide it good.”

Kate smiled and stepped into the hall.

“Katie?”

Kate leaned back into the room. “Yes?”

“Close the door. Don’t want anyone to see my hidin’ spot.

Kate nodded and shut the door. She stood in the hall for a moment longer, listening, but there was nothing to hear.

*   *   *

By Tuesday afternoon, downtown preparations for the festival were in full swing. Banners had been hung across Third Street at a dozen intersections, each painted with a different scene celebrating the city’s love of all things wet. Most of the local storefronts were showcasing rain-themed displays in their front windows, many featuring running water and elaborate dioramas. The block-long scene laid out in the picture windows of Meier & Frank Clothiers told the story of Lewis and Clark’s heroic journey down the Columbia River to the Pacific Ocean.

New to this year’s festivities were the copper umbrella-shaped lanterns that hung from every lamp post and telegraph pole in the business district. Each of the firestone-powered lanterns would burn continuously without oil or electrified power for the entire weeklong festival, regardless of the weather or time of day. After a baker’s dozen were stolen on the first day, organizers had the lights raised so as not to invite the criminal element. Only three had gone missing since.

The heart of the festival activity could be found at Foundling Square, where finishing touches were being put on the grand stage, as well as the numerous demonstration and entertainment booths that surrounded it. Each booth was constructed along a raised boardwalk and firmly anchored to the local terra firma. The main platform stood a good six feet above the waterline to ensure that no matter how much it rained, the stars of the festival could keep their feet dry, more or less.

Elsewhere in the downtown area, sidewalks and scaffolds were repaired and, in some cases, widened to accommodate increased foot traffic. A fleet of ten passenger barges was now anchored along Third Street, one at each of the major intersections. The usually deserted First Street blocks were filled with boatmen, testing their skills against the Chinese ferrymen who would dominate the races over the weekend. While betting on the official festival regatta was frowned upon, money flowed freely closer to the river.