Portlandtown: A Tale of the Oregon Wyldes (33 page)

Despite the continued sunny weather, the marshal had chosen his favorite riding coat for the day. It wasn’t a particularly effective defense against the elements, hot or cold, but it was long—long enough to cover the weapon holstered on his hip.

The Hanged Man’s gun was heavy but not uncomfortably so. It belonged there. It felt right. Kate would surely balk at his wearing it in public, but the marshal needed to get used to the gun if he was going to be shooting in front of an audience.

And perhaps his daughter didn’t need to know.

When the show was over, the festival done, he would pack it away. He would dismantle it. He would destroy it. He’d promised. No matter how good it felt on his hip … or in his hands.

The marshal considered sliding his right hand inside his coat to feel the butt of the gun, but it was already there. It felt good.

Thus distracted, he missed the scruffy young man’s arrival and subsequent attempt to gain entrance to the bookstore. Failing, the man saw the marshal and approached him.

“Hey, you work here?”

The marshal slowly withdrew his hand from beneath his coat and turned to his questioner.

“Excuse me?”

“The bookstore—you the owner?”

“Not me,” he stuttered. “Family owns it, my daughter and her husband. I’m just here for special negotiations.”

“Oh,” said the courier, not fully understanding, or caring. “I got this telegram needs signin’ for, and this was the address they gave me. Addressed to … Kate Wylde.”

“That’s my daughter.”

“You can sign for it then,” the young man said, passing over a register and a pen. “Right on the dotted line.”

The marshal hesitated but then went ahead and made his mark. The courier glanced at the signature, then handed over a folded sheet of paper.

“Good day, sir. Enjoy the festival.”

The marshal watched the man slip between a pair of pedestrians and then dart over a scaffold walkway to the other side of the street. Once the man was out of sight, he unfolded the telegram and read the words printed on it.

And then he read them again.

He was still staring at the message several minutes later, when Kate arrived.

“Sorry I’m late, Dad. I ran into the mayor.”

Kate unlocked the front door and pushed it open, but the marshal had yet to join her. He remained standing at the sidewalk’s edge, his attention elsewhere.

Kate took a step toward him. “Did someone send you a telegram?”

The marshal looked at the paper in his hand and said, “From home.”

“Astoria? Is it from Joseph?”

“Well-wishers,” the marshal said quickly. “News of my festival appearance has reached the ears of my neighbors. Seems I’m a celebrity.”

The marshal tucked the telegram into a pocket and walked past Kate into the store.

“The preparations went well, then?”

“Yes, fine,” Kate said, following him inside. “Rain or shine it should be quite a show tonight, which apparently you are to be a part of.”

“Tonight?”

“It was news to me, as well. The mayor plans to speak to you about it.”

The marshal stepped behind one of the half-height bookcases. He wasn’t looking for a book but rather cover as he slipped a hand into his jacket. He saw no reason to alert his daughter to what lay under his coat. She might try to take it away. The marshal could not have that.

“What about Joseph?” he asked.

“The mayor wants to see him, too. He has big plans for you both.”

The marshal said nothing. For a moment, all he heard was the sound of skin tightening around polished wood and metal locking into place. There was no mistaking what it was.

“Marshal?”

The marshal looked at Kate, letting go of the pistol beneath his coat, unsure even why he’d been gripping it so tightly.

“What is it, Katie?”

Kate glanced down, catching a glimpse of something shiny beneath her father’s coat.

The marshal saw the recognition in her eyes and moved swiftly to the front door.

“Takin’ a walk,” he said and left before she could stop him.

*   *   *

By the late afternoon, a slow-moving avalanche of billowing white plumes began rolling over the western hills. The long reign of the sun was nearly over in Portland and every citizen knew it. It would be a few hours before the sky truly opened up, but the rain would come. There was no stopping it now.

The approaching storm was good news for the festival, which was officially open for business. The crowds around the plaza continued to swell as out-of-towners poured into the city. Every berth along the downtown waterfront was occupied by steamer, ferry, or other river-borne transport. Travelers streamed from the boats, delighted to find their time on the water would continue as they transferred from riverboat to water taxi for their first journey around town.

The roads leading into Portland were likewise congested, notably from the south and west. For those catching their first glimpse of the city from atop the western slope, the view was particularly spectacular. All of the city could be seen, as could ten miles of the Willamette River, most of the surrounding valley, and, for a few hours more, the three great mountains, Hood, Adams, and St. Helens.

Henry Macke had never seen such a thing. His only previous trip to the city had been when he was too young to remember, and since then he’d rarely traveled outside county limits. Portland, spread out across a vast landscape with enormous volcanoes reaching into the sky beyond, was truly a remarkable sight to see.

“I didn’t know they made cities so big.”

The Hanged Man brought his steed in line with the younger man’s, much to the displeasure of Henry’s horse.

“You should see one burn.”

Henry grimaced at the Hanged Man’s voice. Neither had spoken for two hours, which was almost enough time for Henry to forget that his riding partner was a monster. Almost.

Henry glanced over his shoulder at the approaching clouds.

“Looks like rain. Hard to start a fire if everything’s wet.”

The Hanged Man eyed Henry.

“You’d be surprised.”

Henry felt his stomach churn and twist. His horse must have sensed its rider’s discomfort and trotted forward without command. Henry didn’t correct the animal.

The path cut down the hillside a short distance to a wider road already clogged with traffic. Henry was surprised there were so many travelers. On this road, as well as several others visible from the hill, he could see hundreds of riders, carts, and pedestrians all moving toward the center of the city.

Henry waved to a man on horseback as he passed by.

“Where’s everyone going?”

“Festival,” said the rider, not slowing down. Sensing Henry’s confusion, he stopped and drew his horse back to Henry. “You know, the Rain Festival?”

Henry shook his head.

“They do it every year. Big party downtown—lots of folks, drinkin’ in the rain. It’s great fun.”

“Getting wet is fun?”

“Sure, why not?”

It was then that the Hanged Man came down the hill. He didn’t join Henry but stopped ten feet behind. It was close enough for the rider and his mount to take notice.

“Everyone’s invited,” he said, immediately wishing he hadn’t. His horse bucked and whinnied. “Whoa, now! Settle down.” The rider pulled his horse around and let the animal carry him back into the flow of traffic. He glanced back at Henry and the dark figure but didn’t say another word.

Henry didn’t look around. He didn’t have to. He turned his horse and climbed back up the hill until he was once more at the Hanged Man’s side.

“There’s some kind of festival. Looks like a big crowd. I don’t see how we can make a play for the old man with so many people around.”

The Hanged Man ignored Henry and instead turned his head to the south.

Henry followed the dead man’s gaze to a hillside cemetery on the edge of town. The knot in his gut grew tighter.

“I don’t know,” he said. “We’ll have to wait until dark with so many people about. And then what? More digging?”

The Hanged Man closed his eyes and breathed in the air—or at least appeared to. Whatever it was, it seemed to please him. Henry doubted he’d feel the same but asked the question anyway.

“What is it?”

“Death,” said the Hanged Man, pointing at a large building on the hill just beyond the cemetery. The dead man then pulled his beast to the right and directed it off through the hillside brush. He crossed the road shortly after, eliciting a wide berth from the other travelers.

Henry felt his own horse lean in the opposite direction—a course he was very tempted to follow. It would be so simple. Ride down the road, blend in with the crowd, and disappear.

(
find you
)

He’d go to the authorities, then. Tell someone who’d believe enough of the story to take up arms against the dead man. He wouldn’t last against so many men. He couldn’t.

(
he would
)

Henry sighed. He’d already lost the argument a hundred times since leaving Tillamook. Nothing was going to change. There was only one voice that mattered now, and it told Henry to follow his master. It told him everything would be all right.

The pain in his belly subsided and Henry hoped, as always, that it wouldn’t return. He turned his horse against its will and directed it to follow the path laid down by the Hanged Man. The cemetery loomed directly ahead. Henry began to prepare himself for the digging that would surely come soon.

It never occurred to him there might be something worse.

23

At five minutes to seven, the first report of thunder rumbled overhead, earning a cheer from the assembled masses. The crowd at Foundling Square had swelled to nearly four thousand, less than what festival organizers had hoped for but still the largest turnout ever for opening night. Many stood on the large raised platform built over the center of the festival square, with the rest lining the boardwalks, rooftops, and boat docks surrounding the plaza. A few had brought waders so they could stand in the water, which was now below the knees of most patrons.

Mayor Gates climbed onto a raised stage at one end of the platform to respectable applause. A seven-piece band played a slightly off-key version of “Hail to the Chief” until the mayor finished glad-handing those closest to him.

“Welcome to the Portlandtown!” he said, his voice projected throughout the plaza by a two-foot-long megaphone. “I officially declare the Rain Festival of 1887 open for business!”

Another cheer went up from the crowd. Right on cue, the first drops of rain began to fall. A murmur turned to clapping as more people felt drops hit their faces.

The mayor beamed. “Let it rain! Let it rain!” he cried, to more cheering and hooting.

The rain soon found its rhythm, settling into a light but steady sprinkle that was cool and quite pleasant. A few umbrellas popped open—out-of-towners, no doubt—but most in the crowd simply smiled and drank it in.

Joseph climbed onto the platform at its southern end, oblivious to the rain and the mayor’s overzealous encouragement. He’d already been to the bookstore, finding it locked up for the night, and was about to head home when Mr. Williamson asked if he was going to join his family at the festival. The smoke-shop owner had met Kate on her way barely an hour earlier. He said she’d been in fine spirits.

Joseph pushed through the crowd, searching for anything that might reveal his family’s position. In particular, he listened for a high-pitched whistle Kick had used to torment his sister for the better part of a year when the twins were eight. He’d eventually found better ways to bother Maddie, but whenever it rained, Kick now whistled. Joseph had no idea why but found it useful for keeping track of his son, especially in bad weather.

Nearly to the stage, he finally heard it.

“Kate!”

Joseph wrapped both arms around his wife, the strength of his embrace enough to alert her that something was wrong.

“What is it?”

“Why are you here? Didn’t you get my message?”

Kate shook her head but then understood.

“The marshal got a telegram.”

Joseph held his tongue.

“I knew he was hiding something,” Kate said, shaking her head. “He didn’t show me. Said it was well-wishers.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Joseph said, still holding back the name he didn’t want to speak aloud. “I have to tell you something.”

“That my father lied to me? That I know.”

“No, Kate, listen: he’s alive. The Hanged Man is alive.”

The words caught Kate by surprise. She smiled, thinking them a joke. They must be, she thought, though they weren’t particularly funny. She was about to say so when her husband’s name echoed across the square.

“Joseph Wylde, there you are!” said the mayor through his megaphone. “Get him up here!”

“No, I can’t,” Joseph managed before being hastily ushered onstage. He lost Kate in the crowd but soon discovered he was not the only man Jim Gates had called out.

“About time,” the marshal whispered. “Thought you were gonna make me go through this alone.”

Before Joseph could respond, the mayor put an arm around his shoulder and led him forward.

“Folks, I want to share a mystery with you,” the mayor said, letting his words linger in the rain. “Many of you know Mr. Wylde as one our finest booksellers, but I’m here to tell you he’s more than that—he’s a man of intrigue. Why, just this past week he solved a puzzle that had scientists from around the country stumped. Show them, Joseph.”

The mayor passed a length of rope to Joseph.

“Go on. Give it a good tug.”

It dawned on Joseph that the large object positioned on the stage behind him, an object he’d ignored, was in fact the storm totem under wraps. The mayor had brought it outside against his instructions and now wanted him to unveil it in the middle of a rainstorm. Joseph was dumbfounded.

The mayor frowned and turned back to the crowd. “It appears our hero needs a little persuasion, folks. Give him a hand!”

The applause exploded in Joseph’s ears, effectively blurring his concentration. He quickly tried to regain focus, reaching out to steady himself on the totem, but his hand found the marshal. He knew at once what lay beneath the man’s coat.