Portlandtown: A Tale of the Oregon Wyldes

by Rob DeBorde

  The skinny man lowered the Hanged Man’s wrist and stood up. He looked at Henry, then at his boss.

  “There are methods of preservation that could account for the condition, methods that are not practiced in this part of the world. Not that I’ve seen, anyway.”

  Garibaldi frowned. “So, now you’re saying it could be him?”

  “I am saying it is possible the body could be a decade old. As to the identity, I have no conclusion.” The skinny man took another look at the corpse. “But if it is him, I would strongly advise against purchase. It’s not worth the trouble.”

  The skinny man left the tent without another word. Mason grinned, unable to help himself.

  “There you go. It’s him.”

  Garibaldi raised an eyebrow. “Not what he said, friend.”

  “Oh, then you’ve run across other cursed dead men with scars like this one here?”

  The apeman leaned close to his boss and whispered something in his ear.

  “Get him,” said Garibaldi.

  The apeman exited the tent, leaving Garibaldi and the small woman alone with Mason and his gang. If he was concerned about this situation, he didn’t show it.

  “Where’s the gun?”

  “What gun?”

  Garibaldi smiled. “That I have yet to pass on this obviously unique opportunity should not be taken lightly, Mr. Mason. Do not insult my intelligence. Where is it?”

  Mason looked at the weapon on his hip. He pushed back the instinct to draw and instead pulled the gun from its holster and handed it butt-first to the carnival boss.

  Garibaldi studied the pistol, turning it over in his hands.

  “This was buried with the man?”

  “Yup.”

  Garibaldi nodded. “A little paint on the handle would help sell it, son.”

  “You think I’m lyin’?”

  “Are you?”

  Mason held his tongue for a moment, then said, “I ain’t afraid to admit it. We dug the son of a bitch up for the pistol.”

  “Something beat you to it.”

  Mason shrugged. “That was all he had.”

  Garibaldi stepped around the corpse. “Body’s worth more with the real weapon. Hell, the gun’s probably worth more than flesh and bone all by itself.”

  Henry felt Mason’s stare fall on the side of his head, but didn’t turn. He wasn’t afraid of the man, not anymore, but Mason was still dangerous.

  “We’ve got his book,” said Charlie.

  Before Henry could stop him, Charlie had reached inside Henry’s coat and snatched the book from his pocket.

  “Here,” he said, handing the book to Garibaldi. “It’s got all his black magic in it, and such.”

  “No, that’s not part of the deal.”

  Henry lunged at the book, but Mason caught him by the collar and held him at arm’s length.

  Garibaldi waited for the scrum to end before opening the book. Satisfied, he flipped through the pages, stopping occasionally to study a passage. His eyes drifted across the words, following their meaning for a time before losing interest. He closed the book and flipped it back to Henry.

  “Two bits for the book.”

  “It’s not for sale,” Henry said, ignoring the hand on his neck that suggested otherwise.

  Garibaldi looked at the corpse, then at Mason. “I’ll give you ten dollars for it.”

  “Ten? I could get ten from a saloon down in Tillamook.”

  “Try your luck then. I got a fellow works for me says he met the man ’fore he was put down. He’s going to take a look at what you’re offering here and if he doesn’t call him risen from the grave, you’ll walk away with nothing, save for your friend, here.”

  Mason stared at the carnival master.

  “Twenty-five.”

  Garibaldi smiled. “Twenty. And for that I’ll keep the weapon, as well.”

  Hugh leaned in to Mason. “Take it and let’s be rid of the thing.”

  Mason glanced at Henry, eyeing the book in his hand. Henry clutched it even tighter.

  “Twenty, then,” he said, and held his hand out across the Hanged Man’s body. Garibaldi took it, shook once, and let go.

  “Mary?”

  The one-armed girl drew a small purse from her blouse and passed it to her boss. He drew forth a handful of coins and passed them to Mason.

  “Some fine shows on tap tonight. Stick around, if you like. No charge.”

  “Thanks,” said Charlie.

  Mason finished counting the coins and then nodded. “We could take in a show.”

  Garibaldi gave another half smile and then turned toward the exit just as the apeman returned with another man covered in mud up to his chest.

  The circus boss stopped the new arrivals and turned them around, but not before the muddy man got a look at the corpse on the ground. His eyes went wide and his mouth slipped open. Henry thought the words on his lip might’ve been it’s him, but he was shuffled out of the tent before they could be heard.

  * * *

  Mason, Hugh, and Charlie celebrated their successful sale by spending most of the profits at a drinking establishment in Tillamook. Henry joined in the first round, but soon retreated to a corner of the saloon that offered just enough light to read. Hugh and Charlie were content to let him be, but Mason eventually sought Henry out, a half-empty bottle in his hand.

  “You owe me two bits.”

  Henry looked up from the book. He’d just finished rereading the passage containing the spell he’d used on Charlie the night before. The words were still clear in his mind. Given the man’s inebriated state, it would be very easy to talk Mason into smashing the bottle over his head and then using the broken shards to slit his own throat. Henry could almost see it. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a single coin.

  “Here’s a dollar. Keep the change.”

  Mason snatched up the coin, grunting under his breath. He started to turn, but hesitated.

  “I can read, too.”

  “Can you?” Henry said, gripping the book a little tighter.

  “My mama taught me. Maybe I take me a read from that book, see if I can’t find out what’s got you so interested.” Mason leaned over the table. “What say you to that?”

  Henry tilted forward in his chair. Mason’s eyes were barely able to keep focus, but as the young man drew close, they seemed to still.

  “It’s like nothing you’ve ever known,” he said, his voice smooth and inviting. “It’s alive and speaks in the language of your soul. It speaks only the truth. Do you want to know the truth? Are you ready to hear it?”

  Henry set the book on the table.

  “Shall I read to you?”

  Mason felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. What senses weren’t buried beneath half a bottle of whiskey suggested he step back from the table immediately, but his legs refused to do their part.

  Henry cracked open the book. “I know just the passage.”

  Mason blinked and, for just a moment, saw clearly that Henry was dangerous, very dangerous. He would have to go, the sooner the better.

  Mason shook his head and used the bottle to push himself upright. “You’re not through with us, you know. You ain’t proved nothin’ yet.”

  Henry smiled and closed the book. “I wasn’t out to prove anything, Bill. I’m just along for the ride.”

  Mason took another long drink from the bottle and stumbled back from the table, catching himself before he fell.

  “Friends,” he said, addressing no one particular. “The circus is in town. Got a hell of a freak show, I hear.”

  “Seen it,” said a man at the bar.

  “Did you, now? Good for you!” Mason swallowed another tilt of the bottle. “But they got a new freak, just today. Might be worth a look.”

  Henry watched Mason stumble down to the other end of the bar, where a pair of young women lingered. He held up the coin Henry had just given him. Neither woman seemed particularly impressed, but one of them
took the dollar and led Mason down a hall and out of sight.

  The saloon was quiet for a time, more suitable for reading.

  * * *

  A thick fog bank had rolled over the coast by the time Henry and the others returned to the carnival. Despite the gloom, the midway was crowded with townsfolk eager to explore the many games of chance, live performances, and other oddities on display. Lit by torchlight, the colorful tents and attractions took on an otherworldly glow in the mist.

  On one stage, a man in a top hat introduced Mandu and Wattu, the Wild Men of Borneo. A diminutive, dark-skinned man in a tight-fitting suit scrabbled onstage to stand next to the barker. This was Mandu, the gentle savage, refined in the ways of Western man. His less-refined twin, Wattu, soon appeared through a trapdoor in the stage, shrieking and wagging his tongue (and other appendages) at the crowd.

  Across the midway, a broad-shouldered man with an even broader mustache balanced a long iron bar on his head weighed down on either side by squirming children. He shared his stage with an equally bulky woman who had snatched up two men from the crowd and now held them aloft with a single hand. The men squirmed more than the children.

  Content simply to sit and watch the faces of the locals react was Fanny Brown, the Big Foot Girl of Oregon. She reclined in a rocking chair, an afghan draped over her legs. When a patron drew near she pulled back the blanket to reveal a pair of puffed and disfigured size-36 feet. The more revulsion she engendered, the more her delight.

  A half-dozen similar performers and prodigies lined the path to the big top. There were other tents and trailers, some with small lines of people waiting to see the likes of Madame Morgana or the Human Flame. Henry was content to stroll the midway, but Hugh and Charlie soon went in search of a performer they’d encountered earlier, explaining that the “lady in knots” required their company. Mason, too drunk to keep up, lingered at Henry’s side.

  “Where’s the dead man?” he said, scanning the crowd. “There he is!”

  Mason staggered toward a small stage at the end of the midway, knocking a pair of children over in the process. Henry followed, though not so close as to be an obvious friend of the drunkard.

  Onstage, the skinny man stood beneath a sign proclaiming him to be the “Living Dead Dude.” He wore a long, hooded robe that covered everything but his sunken face. There were gasps of horror when the robe slipped to the stage, revealing not so much a man but a skeleton clad only in a short loincloth. He strode to the edge of the dais and spread his arms wide.

  “I am the living dead,” he said in a voice much deeper than what Henry remembered from their earlier meeting. “Do not fear me.”

  “You’re not the dead man,” Mason mumbled and then staggered off through the crowd.

  The skinny man eyed Mason, then slowly turned his gaze to Henry. “Do you fear the dead that walk upright, young man?”

  “No.”

  “A brave soul.” The skinny man cast his gaze upon a couple standing to Henry’s side, who quickly shrunk back. “Braver than most.”

  “He’s right, though,” Henry said. “You’re no dead man.”

  The skinny man’s eyed darted back to Henry. “Do not speak ill of the deceased, my friend.” He then dropped from the stage and was upon Henry in one swift, fluid motion. There were more gasps from the audience, many of whom backed away.

  Henry didn’t flinch.

  The skinny man leaned in, his cheekbone nearly touching Henry’s. When he spoke, his voice was a whisper that only Henry could hear. “Hold your tongue so far from home, Henry Macke. The dead hear more than you think.”

  Before Henry could respond, the skinny man slipped back onto the platform and climbed beneath his robe. He cast a sweeping gaze across the crowd and then disappeared into a small tent behind the stage.

  Henry stood for a moment as the crowd dispersed before going in search of Mason.

  * * *

  Henry found the man in front of a tent second only to the big top in overall size. A long line of people filed through the front entrance, a line that snaked its way halfway around the tent and then back onto the midway. A hastily made sign declared that for only a dime a person could view the corpse of the Hanged Man. John Garibaldi himself stood outside the tent, declaring that this attraction was required viewing for any man, woman, or child who wanted to see the real West.

  “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.

  “Son
s 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.