Portlandtown: A Tale of the Oregon Wyldes

by Rob DeBorde

  “Neither do I, but would you have me ignore it?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Nor should you think it,” Andre said, flipping the trunk lid closed. “I know you were not with me then—I am thankful for that—but this is not a trivial matter.”

  “I know.”

  Andre sat on the bed next to Naira. She was beautiful, a fact he’d been keenly aware of since the day he’d found her lying unconscious in a creek bed on the north side of Mount Rainier. Now, as then, his first instinct was to take care of her, to protect her. There was love between them, but it was that of a father and daughter and nothing more.

  Naira felt the same, although she might have disagreed as to who was head of the family.

  “I do not know why it has resurfaced,” Andre said. “I do not know how. I was very careful to bury it deep, not only in the earth, but the mind as well. If that mind is lost, then so too should the book be.”

  “But it’s not.”

  Andre nodded. “Of that I am certain.”

  “Has it been read?”

  “I think not,” Andre said, hoping this was true. “But it will be soon enough. This is a book that wants to be read, after all. Whether or not it is understood—this is where our good fortune will live or die.”

  “You speak of it as if it were alive.”

  Andre lifted the trunk onto the bed. It was heavy, though not for him.

  “Not alive,” he said. “But it does derive its power from the living. Without a soul to turn the page, it is but ink on paper.”

  Andre could tell that Naira had more questions, but he wasn’t ready to answer them. He barely had time to process the memories that resurfaced along with feelings about the book. Trying to explain his actions, even to his friend, would be difficult. Fortunately, Naira knew enough of the story not to press Andre for more when he wasn’t ready to tell it.

  Andre peered out the window.

  “Is it still raining?”

  “Waning,” Naira said, twisting her hair into a bun. She tucked it beneath her hat and got to her feet. “The sun will be shining by the time we leave port.”

  “Then there is no reason to wait. I would prefer to be onboard before any other passengers arrive.”

  Andre retrieved a worn duster from a coat rack by the door. Despite the custom cut, the jacket barely reached his knees. He snatched up his trunk and a wide-brimmed Stetson from the rack and turned to Naira.

  “Shall we?”

  Naira looked Andre up and down.

  “You wear your fear well,” she said.

  “Always have.”

  * * *

  The fast steamer Año Nuevo left San Francisco en route to Portland at 7:17 A.M. on Thursday, May 19, 1887. According to the Oregon Steamship Company, which owned and operated the line out of San Francisco, the journey would take between forty-eight and fifty-six hours, depending on sailing conditions. The trip was intended to be nonstop to Portland, but soon after leaving port the captain announced the ship would make an unscheduled stop in Astoria. No reason was given.

  5

  The marshal sat on the edge of his new bed, fully dressed but not yet ready to join the family for breakfast. In his lap was the empty but suspiciously heavy, wooden box with a rose carved into the lid. The belt he’d used to secure it for the journey to Portland was once again around the old man’s waist. It was the only belt he’d brought and the marshal needed it to keep his pants from falling down. He had reminded himself of this twice already.

  In the morning light, the marshal could pick out the faint orange and yellow coloring of the rose. The paint was mostly gone now, but the artistry in the carving was still apparent. The strokes were smooth and well defined, cut into the wood by hands that knew how to use a knife. Once upon a time, he’d been good at something besides chasing outlaws.

  “Don’t open it,” he said, just to hear the words aloud.

  The marshal hesitated, then opened the lid anyway. The box was still empty. He felt around for the sweet spot and then released the hidden pressure latch with a single deft touch. Carefully, he lifted the false lid out of the box to reveal an additional three inches of space. The compartment was separated into five sections, the largest of which took up the top half and bottom right third of the box. Four of the cells held individual items: a small, oblong flask, a U-shaped wrench, a press mold, and a two-inch bar of solid lead. Tucked tightly into the largest subdivision was an object wrapped in cloth. The shape was unmistakable.

  The marshal lifted the Hanged Man’s pistol from the box and unfolded the cloth, letting it fall around his hand so as not to touch the object within. This he hadn’t forgotten.

  In his thirty-plus years as a lawman, Jim Kleberg had encountered more ways to kill a man than he cared to remember, but few things did the job more definitively than a Colt Walker pistol. Designed for the Texas Rangers in 1847, the Walker was powerful enough to bring down a horse from a hundred yards. No revolver before—or since—had been forged to deliver such firepower, a fact the marshal took some comfort in. Only God should be allowed to carry so much deadly force in one hand.

  The marshal tested the gun’s weight. He guessed five pounds, more than double that of a typical revolver. The length was equally absurd, with the barrel, a gleaming black tube of hardened steel, accounting for two-thirds of the almost foot-and-a-half total. The cylinder, hammer, and loading lever were scorched, rendering them nearly as black as the barrel, and even the trigger guard held little of its original brass luster.

  Only the plow-shaped handle displayed any color, though undoubtedly it was not the original factory finish. According to numerous stories, the handle’s red hue was painted with the blood of the Hanged Man’s victims. The marshal thought the crimson grip was more likely the result of a few coats of cherrywood stain. Dried blood would have produced a much darker, almost brown tone.

  In addition to the color, there were other modifications not mentioned in any of the legends. Some changes were practical, such as the small latch attached to the underside of the barrel’s muzzle to hold the loading lever in place. Others, like the strange symbols etched into the cylinder, served no obvious purpose, at least none the marshal could see.

  “This ain’t no Colt,” he whispered, hoping the sound of his own voice would dispel the unease in his chest. “Not anymore.”

  The Walker itself was a rarity. Samuel Colt had made only a few thousand, before moving on to more successful designs. The hidden compartment in the rose box had originally been built to hold the marshal’s Colt Navy, a smaller but much more practical weapon than the Walker. The marshal had used the gun for nearly twenty years, even after the cartridge revolution made cap-and-ball revolvers relics of the past. As far as the marshal was concerned, modern six-shooters, with their swing-out cylinders, speed loaders, and double-action triggers, were the chief reason why unnecessary gunplay had become so prevalent in the West. Any idiot could shoot a so-called Peacemaker, but it took a professional to properly prime, load, and fire a percussion revolver.

  Despite a few newspaper reports that suggested otherwise, the marshal had only once needed to reload his weapon immediately after emptying all six chambers. That was during the altercation in Astoria, and even then he’d been supported by three dozen men. He’d had plenty of time to reload.

  There had already been so much shooting that day. By the time the marshal found himself on the hill, alone (was he?) it was after midnight. He would bury the dead man—

  “He wasn’t dead,” said the marshal. “Not yet. Not until…”

  He shot the bastard with his gun—this gun. That was how the weapon ended up in the marshal’s hand, how it came to be in his possession. He needed it to finish the job. There wouldn’t be time to reload, and this weapon—

  “Never needs reloading.”

  The marshal blinked and was shocked to find the Hanged Man’s pistol sitting comfortably in his right hand. When had he taken it from the left? Why was his finge
r on the trigger? The gun felt heavy, but without the cloth barrier between the weapon and his skin, it somehow felt better, right.

  “Safe.”

  That was why he’d kept the gun eleven years ago. It was the right thing to do—the safe thing. It would have been too dangerous to leave such a weapon out in the open, so he had taken it, and replaced it with his own.

  Why had he buried his own gun?

  Before the marshal could come up with a suitable answer, he noticed that the empty cloth in his left hand wasn’t actually empty. A tiny, conical object lay in the middle of the wrap—a bullet. That made sense; there’d been only one round left in the gun after he’d fired it eleven years ago. One round was all it took.

  The marshal examined the bullet more closely. There were flecks of orange crystal in the lead, most likely the result of mixing black powder with firestone, a tactic some shootists claimed produced a bigger bang. It was the marshal’s experience that mixing orange and black usually resulted in a ruptured cylinder and the loss of several fingers.

  Despite the scorching on the body of the gun, there was no evidence the Hanged Man’s revolver had ever disobeyed its master.

  The marshal dropped the bullet into the small compartment with the lead already in it, and then laid the cloth in the larger space. He considered setting the pistol back in the box, then decided to hold on to the Hanged Man’s weapon awhile longer.

  “Mine, now.”

  * * *

  Kate’s hand froze an inch from the bedroom door. Had she just heard a voice? She allowed herself a moment of worry before deciding that talking to himself probably wasn’t the worst thing her father could be doing. She knocked.

  “Breakfast is on.”

  Kate heard a few muffled noises followed by the sound of something solid hitting the floor.

  “Dad!”

  Kate opened the door to see the marshal on his knees in front of his bed, holding a wooden box.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes. I’m fine.”

  Kate went to her father to help him up. She reached for his hand but got only an elbow. The marshal kept both hands on the box.

  “I just dropped this. Clumsy is all.”

  Kate looked at the box. She recognized it immediately.

  “I didn’t know you still had that.”

  Kate ran a hand across the surface of the box, suddenly recalling a time when she was eight years old and wanted nothing more than to play in her mother’s room.

  “I was going to surprise you,” the marshal said.

  Kate let her hand linger a little too long near the lip of the box. She was about to open it when the marshal took a step back.

  “I thought I’d give it a new coat of paint.”

  “Oh. All right.”

  Kate considered asking why the marshal wanted to keep the contents of the box to himself, but bit her tongue. She’d promised not to pry any more than was necessary, and since Joseph had already gotten much more out of him than they’d expected, this was not necessary. When her father was ready to share more, he would. If he needed to keep some secrets, that was fine with Kate. For now.

  Kate walked to the window and pushed the curtains open. Downtown Portland spread out below the house, its waterlogged streets gleaming in the early-morning sun.

  “How do you like the view?”

  “Too many buildings.”

  “Well, it looks like another beautiful day. Not a cloud in the sky.”

  “Your mayor will be disappointed.”

  Kate laughed. “Yes, I suppose he will.”

  “Odd bird, is he?”

  “He’s a politician.”

  Satisfied that the box was buried deep enough in the closet, the marshal turned back to his daughter.

  “I’ve known my fair share of politicians. They weren’t all cheats and liars—most were, of course—but not all of ’em.”

  “Jim Gates isn’t a bad man.”

  “Doesn’t have to be. Might be the guy standing next to him is dirty, or the fella behind him. Don’t usually have to dig too far to find someone wants that kind of power for the wrong reasons.”

  Joseph had mentioned the marshal’s interest in their investigations, but until now her father hadn’t broached the subject with Kate. She’d spent so much time worrying about what kind of a burden he was going to be, it had never occurred to her that her father might be an asset when it came to the family business.

  “If you want to know more about the investigation, just ask.”

  “I’m not lookin’ to stick my nose in where it’s not welcome. I’m just saying be careful, is all.”

  “I’m not stepping in front of the trolley, Dad. It’s only an investigation. And it’s done, or nearly so. Joseph’s going to finish things up this morning. You don’t need to worry about it.”

  “I’m your father. The hell else am I supposed to do?”

  “How about eat some breakfast?”

  “I could do that.”

  * * *

  Breakfast was buttermilk biscuits, sausage, coffee, and a bowl of blackberries picked from a bush growing outside the kitchen window. The coffee was lukewarm but otherwise it was the best meal the marshal had eaten in months. Having slept through the morning’s offerings the day before, the marshal made a promise to himself never to do that again.

  “Blackberries are sure good.”

  “They grow like weeds around here,” said Kate. “And these are early this year. You’ll be sick of them in another month.”

  “I doubt that.”

  The marshal popped another berry into his mouth as Kate cleared his plate from the table. His was the only setting left, as the rest of the family had already eaten and gone about readying themselves for the day.

  Kate finished rinsing the plate in the sink and put it on the drying rack on the counter. In addition to running water, the kitchen had a gas stove and an electric icebox, one of the first of its kind in Portland. Joseph found the technology fascinating, but had suggested such a device might not be a worthwhile investment given the temperate climate. Kate was confident that come summer, the first glass of iced lemonade that found its way into her husband’s hand would help him see the light.

  Kate offered the last of the berries to the marshal, which he snatched from the bowl with violet-stained fingertips.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “There’ll be more tomorrow.”

  The marshal tossed the last berry into his mouth just as Joseph came into the kitchen. He was wearing a loose-fitting brown coat with short lapels and rounded hems over a vest and trousers. All three garments were made of the same dark, checked material, which made for a clean but casual look.

  The marshal stared at Joseph.

  “Think your tailor forgot to cut the arms off your waistcoat, son.”

  Joseph fastened the top button of the coat, leaving the others undone.

  “You don’t like the style?”

  “Busy, don’t you think?”

  Kate grabbed her father’s berry-stained hand before it could feel the hem of Joseph’s coat. She passed him the damp cloth in her hand and then turned to admire Joseph.

  “It’s a sack suit,” she said. “And it’s supposed to be more casual. Men living in Portland don’t feel the need to take themselves so seriously, thus they’re allowed to dress more comfortably.”

  The marshal nodded. “It does look like a couple of burlap sacks sewn together. How much you pay for wares like that?”

  “Thirty-eight dollars,” said Joseph.

  The marshal coughed loudly, but Kate shot her father a look before he could say a word.

  For Joseph, the silence was proof that the family dynamic was not going to change as much as they had feared.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, Joseph walked out the front door of the house his neighbors had affectionately nicknamed the Pumpkin Palace. It was by no means a palace, certainly not when compared to some of the Gothic behemoths in the P
ortland Heights, but its steeply pitched gabled roof, decorative spindlework, and solitary location atop the southwestern slope gave it an attractive profile. The fact that it was predominantly orange with green and black trim also made it look somewhat like a giant, Victorian pumpkin.

  The view from almost any spot on the property was spectacular. A covered porch ran the length of the house on two sides, framing a panorama of the entire Willamette Valley. Joseph’s “view” was just as spectacular due to the countless hours he’d spent absorbing every detail Portland and the surrounding valley had to offer. When he turned to face the city, every building, block, and back alley was at his disposal, stored as part of a mental map that constantly updated as Joseph’s senses collected new information.

  Joseph breathed deeply. The air was dry and unseasonably warm. The smell of fetid water drifted on the breeze, threatening to overcome the pleasant combination of barley and hops that greeted him on most mornings, courtesy of City Brewery. If the temperature reached eighty degrees, as Joseph thought it might, downtown would become unbearable for those with an average sense of smell.

  Joseph turned back to the house.

  “Kick, Maddie, let’s go!”

  A moment later, Kick burst through the front door and slid to a stop before his father.

  “Are we taking the trolley?”

  “I thought we’d rough it today,” Joseph said, motioning to a winding wooden staircase that descended 211 steps from beside their home to Montgomery Street at the bottom of the hill.

  A cable railway had recently been built one ridge over in an attempt to attract more home builders to the Portland Heights. At little more than a quarter mile, the line didn’t cover much distance, but the altitude adjustment made it a worthwhile ride for those on their way up the slope.

  “Can we ride it later, on the way home?”

  “Maybe.”

  Kick smiled and sailed down the path toward the staircase.

  “Wait up,” Maddie yelled, rushing past her father.

  “Thought you might want this,” Kate said, placing a black bowler hat on her husband’s head.

  “Thank you.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want me there?”