Portlandtown: A Tale of the Oregon Wyldes (5 page)

“Waist-deep by the looks of it,” said the marshal. Kick laughed, earning a smile from his grandfather.

“One can only hope,” said the mayor, not at all sarcastically. “Of course, we also like to showcase other things that elevate our state, including our citizens. I daresay a notable figure such as you would make a fine addition to the celebration. Folks always enjoy meeting their historical heroes.”

The marshal shot a look at Joseph. “Do they, now?”

“Absolutely! Your mere presence would be enough to draw a crowd, but perhaps you could also offer a demonstration of that legendary marksmanship.”

A gunshot rang out in the marshal’s memory, the last he’d ever taken. It was gone by the time he found his voice again.

“It’s been a long time,” he said. “Doubt I could hit the river from the backside of that boat.”

“Then share a few tales of adventure. I know of at least one story that would keep any audience riveted, especially a firsthand account.”

Kate took her father’s arm. “It might be fun, Dad.”

Joseph felt the marshal look to him for help, and for a moment he wasn’t sure what to offer. He could have found an excuse, something to keep the marshal occupied through the festival, but in the end he didn’t have to.

“All right, I’ll do it.”

“Excellent!” said the mayor, once again shaking the marshal’s hand. “Avery will fill you in on the details.” The mayor deftly passed off the marshal to his assistant and turned his attention to Joseph. “A moment, Joseph, if I might.”

The mayor walked Joseph down the pier, his deputy trailing at a discreet distance.

“I’m surprised you found the time to retrieve your father-in-law. I can only assume that means our business is well undertaken.”

“Nearly completed, sir. I only have to confirm my suspicions, which shouldn’t take more than a day.”

“You found the culprit so quickly?”

Joseph nodded. “Send a man around to the bookstore on Thursday and I’ll have your answer. Send someone you trust.”

“I’ll send Bart,” said the mayor, motioning to his deputy.

Joseph knew the deputy was listening and was impressed that the man didn’t flinch at the mention of his name.

“You’ve really got this figured out in a week’s time?”

“I’m afraid you’re not as popular as you think. It was a close election.”

“And the next one is going to be even closer, which is why I need this resolved. Perhaps you should just give me a name right now.”

“Thursday. And, now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to attend to my newly extended family.”

Joseph strode up the pier, leaving the mayor and his deputy to wonder how much he’d actually discovered.

*   *   *

Twenty minutes later, Joseph found himself floating up Yamhill Street on a small flat-bottomed skiff loaded with the marshal’s belongings. The waters had receded slightly since he’d left on his errand, although not enough to make the business district passable to anything with wheels. The boat would carry them as far as Sixth Street, where a cart would be waiting to take them the rest of the way home.

A young Chinese man deftly maneuvered the vessel through the waterlogged streets using a long wooden pole. There were dozens of similar craft spread about the city, each under the command of a similarly skilled Celestial boatman. The local Chinese population kept mostly to itself, rarely venturing out of the Second Avenue neighborhood that had become the nation’s second-largest Chinatown. But when the streets filled with water each spring, it was Chinese boats that offered the fastest (and cheapest) transport across the city. Not surprisingly, the Rain Festival’s annual regatta had been won by a Chinese national four years running.

The young man directed the craft around another water taxi heading in the opposite direction and then steered back into the center of the canal. Joseph scanned ahead and caught a glimpse of Kick darting across a raised scaffold stretched over the next intersection. He stopped in the center of the slender plank and waved at his father. Joseph waved back. Kick raced on, followed closely by Kate and Maddie.

“I thought you were a bookseller,” said the marshal.

Joseph turned to the marshal, who sat leaning against the saddle he’d refused to leave in Astoria. He hadn’t said a word since leaving the pier.

“I am. Store’s just around the corner, in fact.” Joseph craned his neck. “I think you can see it if you look, just past the smoke shop. There’s the sign, see? ‘Booksellers and Navigation.’”

“Navigation?”

“Maps and such.”

“Oh,” said the marshal. “That what the mayor was after? He lost or something?”

Joseph smiled. “Not exactly.”

The marshal stared at Joseph, waiting for more. Joseph considered the boatman’s presence before continuing, ultimately deeming the man an unlikely spy.

“The mayor has a problem and I agreed to help.”

“What kind of problem?”

“The kind that doesn’t want to be addressed in public.”

The marshal’s brow furrowed. “He a crook?”

“No,” Joseph said, suppressing a grin. “I wouldn’t work for the man if I thought he was flaunting the law. It’s simply a delicate situation, something that requires a certain amount of flexibility that local law enforcement can’t provide.”

“What?” said the marshal, leaning a little farther back against his saddle. “Like the Pinkertons?”

“Definitely not. Those men are too up front with their tactics. We offer a more discreet investigation.”

The marshal’s attention refocused on Joseph. “‘We’?”

Joseph smiled. “You know as well as I that Kate is more than capable of handling herself.”

“Do I?”

“Yes, Marshal, I believe you do. Besides, we’re not exactly going after hardened criminals. Most of what we do is simply to help folks uncover the truth.”

It was the marshal’s turn to smile. “It’s been my experience that gettin’ the truth outta someone is a lot harder than chasin’ some half-wit road agent.”

Joseph laughed. “Can’t say as I disagree, but that’s what makes a service like ours particularly valuable.”

The marshal nodded. “I’m guessing you don’t advertise in the local paper.”

“Word of mouth, mostly.”

“So, how do you spread the word if all your clients want to keep their secrets?”

Joseph considered this. In the past five years he and Kate had done perhaps three dozen jobs for various residents of the city, most connected by family, friends, or local politics. A few clients had arrived without a reference, but Joseph assumed they were simply being discreet.

“We rely on a certain amount of shared information among our clients,” he offered. “We’re not trying to hide. The folks we help are free to discuss what we’ve done.”

“You trust ’em?”

“I think you’ve dealt with too many criminals in your time, Marshal.” Joseph braced himself as the boat came to a stop in the shallows of the Sixth Avenue intersection. “Most people are trustworthy. The ones that aren’t are easy to spot.”

The marshal got to his feet and stepped out of the boat into six inches of water. Kate and the twins were already there, sitting on the edge of the buckboard cart. The marshal turned back to Joseph.

“You might think you can see ’em, the bad ones, but they’re not always so obvious. Sometimes they look pretty good.”

Joseph remembered a much younger man, a man with no scars about his eyes, no family, and no fears save for those that came with running from the law every day and night. What did he look like? Did he look like a bad man or just a man?

It was a question Joseph had long since answered, but one that someone, somewhere, asked every day.

3

Henry Macke was having a bad day.

He was tired and his head hurt. Bad dreams had once again forced him to rise before the sun rather than suffer another minute lying in bed afraid to close his eyes. The nightmares didn’t make a lick of sense, but Henry was certain he knew what they meant.

The dead man was his responsibility.

The reason why he’d suddenly recalled every detail of the Hanged Man’s demise bothered Henry more than the memory itself. Everyone knew the story—half the town of Astoria had witnessed the bloody shootout on Second Street, if local accounts were to be trusted—but Henry knew more. He knew what had happened after the smoke cleared. He’d seen the confrontation and the last shot fired. He knew the body was buried on the hill without a marker, and he knew exactly where to find it.

Five times he’d caught himself climbing the hill with no recollection of starting the journey. On two of those trips he’d been carrying a shovel. Was he supposed to watch over the body? Bury it deeper? Move it? None of these seemed like good options to Henry, who in his seventeen years of living in the same small town had visited the cemetery only once that he could recall. He doubted that paying his respects with a shovel would go over well with the caretaker, especially given recent events.

If Henry had been less preoccupied, he might have found it intriguing that a major player in the Hanged Man’s death had been caught digging in the very ground that now demanded so much of his attention. The old marshal’s nocturnal adventures were still a subject of local interest, but Henry heard little of it. He was concerned only with the dead man buried on the hill. The body was his responsibility and he would take care of it.

Plus, his head hurt, he was tired, and a man with a gun was threatening to shoot him. Henry was definitely having a bad day.

*   *   *

“Give me the cash, friend, or we’ll be repainting the walls bloodred,” said the tall man with uneven sideburns.

Henry suspected that the man, whom he recognized as a semilocal scofflaw named Bill Mason, meant every word, except perhaps for the part about being a friend. It was Henry’s dumb luck he’d come to work early. He wasn’t supposed to be at the store before noon, but here he was, having barely finished his breakfast, held at gunpoint. There were actually three men with guns, but only Mason’s was pointed at Henry. One was enough.

“That’s all right, Henry,” said Asa Langdon, trying his darnedest to sound calm. “Give him what he wants.”

Henry glanced at his boss. Asa owned three of the storefronts along Main Street—Asa’s Fine Tailoring, Asa’s Hardware, and Asa’s General Mercantile. The later was where he spent a good portion of the day, greeting neighbors, gossiping, and touting the merits of his latest merchandise. It was Asa who three years earlier had given Henry a job after his father died, leaving little behind but debt. Henry had always been grateful and, until three days ago, would have called the man a friend, possibly even a father of sorts.

Today, he didn’t want to hear from Asa Langdon.

Henry looked in the till. It didn’t take long to add up the contents.

“Three dollars and thirty-seven cents,” he said, scooping the cash out of the drawer and handing it to the man with the gun. “That’s all we’ve got.”

Mason looked at the meager offering in Henry’s hand and then slapped it away, scattering the coins across the store’s wooden floor.

“Where’s the rest of it!” he barked, aiming his gun at Henry’s face to underscore his displeasure.

Henry backed up slightly, not out of fear but concern that the agitated outlaw might accidently fire his weapon, thus making it impossible for him to take care of the body on the hill. Henry found this line of thinking odd.

“That’s all there is,” said Asa, taking a step toward Mason.

Mason swung his gun toward the owner. “Don’t lie to me, old man. I know there’s a safe—there’s always a safe.”

“No, there isn’t,” said Henry. “At the end of the day he takes the cash down the street to the bank—’cept on Fridays. That’s when he heads down to Dillard’s lookin’ to get drunk and buy a couple whores.” Henry saw the surprise on Asa’s face, and discovered he didn’t care.

“I didn’t ask for no damn biography,” said Mason. “I want the money.”

“Try the bank,” said Henry.

“Bank is closed,” said Hugh Dryer, the shorter of the two other robbers. “Both of ’em.”

Henry didn’t even try to hide the smile.

“That’s it then, there’s no money,” said Asa. “Why don’t you take some merchandise and be on your way. Those silver buckles are worth twenty bucks each. Have ’em all.”

The third man, Hugh’s younger brother Charlie, stuffed his gun into its holster and leaned over the glass case to examine the contents. “Hey, these look pretty nice. Got to be ten, twelve here. At twenty apiece that ain’t bad.”

“You think?” said Mason. “I bet he marks them up to twenty, but buys them for … what?” Mason looked from Asa to Henry. “Three dollars each?”

“Two,” said Henry.

“Dammit, Henry, shut up!”

Mason laughed. “No, friend, keep talkin’. There must be something in this store worth stealing.”

Henry scanned the room. Two freestanding shelves took up the center of the store, stocked on both sides with merchandise, mostly housewares. The walls on three sides held floor-to-ceiling shelves that contained dry goods, assorted liquids, and other daily necessities. A display case running the length of the store on one side was filled with the more valuable merchandise, but Henry doubted that much under the glass was worth more than ten dollars.

“That pocket watch is worth maybe fifteen. I wouldn’t give a spit for the rest of the crap on hand,” Henry said, looking directly at Asa. Nothing in his gaze suggested he was sorry for his assessment.

Mason laughed louder. “I like you,” he said, letting the gun dip momentarily before bringing it back up to Henry’s face. “Unless you’re lying to me. You sure there ain’t one piece of merchandise in this whole damn store worth a spit? Not one thing of value?”

Henry hesitated. A thought occurred to him—not just a thought but an idea, perhaps even an answer to the problem he wasn’t sure he had. Before he could think better of it, he opened his mouth.

“Not in this store.”

Mason cocked his head. He lowered the gun all the way this time and circled the counter to stand next to Henry.

“But you know where there is something of value.”

Henry nodded.

“Well, friend,” Mason said, sounding a little more like he meant it. “Do tell.”