Portlandtown: A Tale of the Oregon Wyldes

by Rob DeBorde

  * * *

  “This I might keep,” the Hanged Man said, repeating the echo of the last words to filter through his living head.

  “Keep what?”

  The Hanged Man grabbed Henry around the collar, although this time with less deadly intent.

  “Where is he?”

  “The marshal? I don’t know! He left—no, they chased him off. ’Cause of all the graves he dug up.”

  The Hanged Man opened his hand and Henry scuttled backward, putting some distance between himself and the unpredictable outlaw.

  “That’s when I remembered where you were buried. He left … and I remembered everything.”

  The Hanged Man eyed Henry. “Once he was gone?”

  Henry nodded.

  The Hanged Man remembered the grave—his grave—and the final moment of his previous life. There wasn’t much of it left at the time, but enough to survive had the marshal not shot him eleven times with his own weapon. He had it still. He must.

  “Somebody in Astoria probably knows where he went,” Henry said, getting to his feet. “Try the general store.”

  The Hanged Man motioned for him to come closer. Henry’s feet were moving before he could stop them.

  “I told you everything I know,” he said, gripping the book tightly to his chest. “I don’t know what else you expect me to do.”

  The Hanged Man leaned over Henry, tapping the book lightly with the pistol.

  “Keep readin’.”

  14

  The mayor’s garden party was in full swing by the time the Wyldes arrived. The guest list had swelled to nearly a hundred, most arriving with guests of their own. Not that the mayor objected. A happy guest was a happy voter.

  The garden portion of the party was on an acre of gently sloping, extensively landscaped grounds, dotted with trees and bushes. A large fountain sat in the middle of a courtyard that stretched from the mayor’s residence to a raised stone stage in the center of the grounds. Carefully pruned hedges on either side of the stage resembled the city’s two new bridges. Most impressive was the rose garden, a curling line of three dozen large bushes, each either a different color or style. All but a few were in full bloom, adding a heady floral fragrance to the air and offering a welcome respite from the boggy stench that hung over much of the city.

  Joseph could smell the roses a block from the estate, but now that he was among them the aroma was overwhelming. He and Kate had been to the mayor’s home on a handful of occasions, but this was a first for the kids, both of whom were drawn instantly to the flowers.

  “Holy crow,” Kick said. “Look at all the colors.”

  “Agatha preens over every bush,” said the mayor. “I must say I hardly ever see her in the spring as she spends more time out-of-doors than in.”

  The marshal sniffed loudly. “Smells like a perfume shop.”

  The mayor nodded. “Wonderful, isn’t it?”

  The marshal raised an eyebrow but kept his tongue in check. “Maybe you oughta have another festival for your flowers.”

  “Oh, don’t let Agatha hear you say that. She’s already after me to make the rose our city’s official flower. Thankfully, she can’t decide on which one.” The mayor bent down between the twins. “In fact, I’m sure she could use some help. Why don’t the two of you inspect each one, and see if you can’t pick out the flower that best represents our fine city.”

  “Okay,” said Kick and ran straight to the nearest rose, from which he breathed deeply.

  Maddie hesitated just long enough to get a subtle nod from Kate before following her brother into the garden.

  “Now,” the mayor said, turning back to the adults. “Let’s introduce you to a few of our special guests.”

  * * *

  The mayor’s special guests included an explorer just back from the Yukon Territory, a professor of history from Willamette University, a geologist, a volcanologist, the owner of the largest local brewery, three bankers and two bankers’ wives, a pair of Chicago businessmen who had invested in the festival, and numerous local and national politicians, including senators from California, Missouri, and Ohio.

  It was an eclectic bunch and it took Joseph only a few handshakes to realize none of them was the star attraction. The very special guest, the guest the mayor took pains to introduce to everyone in attendance, was the marshal, who, according to the mayor, had single-handedly cornered and killed the Hanged Man, saving the West and every man, woman, and child living in it.

  For his part, the marshal tried several times to revise the mayor’s story, before realizing it was a lost cause. He found the less he protested, the sooner the mayor moved on to the next introduction. Given the number of people standing around eagerly waiting for the mayor’s attention, a nod and a shake seemed the best course of action.

  It wasn’t that the marshal objected to being branded a Hero of the West, something he felt he’d earned after thirty years’ serving his country. What bothered him was that his career could be distilled to one event—the killing of one man. That his life had meaning only because he put an end to the vile and despicable acts of the Hanged Man diminished everything else he’d accomplished. The idea that he would be forever linked to the man was repulsive.

  He also suspected it was true.

  Kate could see the meet and greet wearing on her father and was glad when the mayor promised the next introduction would be the last. By the time they got to the three men lingering just far enough from the crowd to make mingling a bother, Kate was more than ready to join them.

  “Gentlemen, you’re not trying to hide from me, are you?”

  “We’re trying, Jim,” said the oldest of the three, a well-dressed man with a wide, curled mustache. “But you aren’t making it very easy.”

  The mayor laughed, boisterously as ever. “This is my very old friend Oliver Olsen. Mr. Olsen is a longtime writer for the Sacramento Bee and is not to be trusted.”

  “Ah-ah,” Mr. Olsen said, wagging a finger at the mayor. “Telegraph lines run both ways, remember? I can have you calling for tax on California olives in tomorrow’s edition.”

  The mayor rolled his eyes. “See what I mean?”

  “Pay him no mind, madam,” Mr. Olsen said, taking Kate’s hand. “Your mayor is not but a rogue with good taste in men’s fashions. Now, unless I am misinformed, you would be Mrs. Wylde, yes?”

  “I am. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Olsen.”

  “Call me Ollie, please,” he said, bowing formally. He then offered a hand to Joseph. “And that would make you Mr. Wylde.”

  “It would.”

  “Well met,” Ollie said, smiling broadly. Despite his practiced manners, there was a jovial quality to his voice that made most people feel at ease. Kate and Joseph were no exception.

  “I’m pleased to say Jim has spoken very kindly of you both in our correspondence.”

  Joseph wondered what kind of correspondence might include such a mention, but thought it best not to ask in present company.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” he said instead.

  Ollie took Joseph’s response and the slight pause that preceded it exactly for what they were and smiled.

  “Mr. Olsen and I often share opinions on matters of a political nature … and such,” said the mayor, perhaps a bit off his game given the stresses of so many guests.

  Several uncomfortable seconds later, Ollie clapped his hands and redirected the attention to the well-fed man standing to his left.

  “And please allow me to introduce my new acquaintance, Dr. John Gillman, director of your recently opened medical school on the hill.”

  “Hello,” said the doctor.

  Kate brightened. “Oh, the son of one of our neighbors—Andrew Kinsey—will be coming to study with you this fall. He’s very excited.”

  “Good. Then he will study very hard.”

  Kate smiled politely, but was glad when Ollie gestured to the slender, clean-shaven man on his right.

  “And this fine yo
ung man is Mr. Samuel Edmonds of Monterey, California.”

  Edmonds tipped his hat. “Hello, sirs, madam.”

  “Mr. Edmonds and I have shared a most interesting journey from California, isn’t that right, Mr. Edmonds?”

  “Oh, um, yes, it was very pleasant.”

  “You traveled together?” asked Kate.

  “Met along the way,” said Ollie. “And what a fortuitous meeting it was, given our common destination. You see, Mr. Edmonds will be, in my humble opinion, the most important man at the festival.”

  It was at this moment that Joseph realized the mayor had yet to introduce the marshal. His newspaper friend had knocked him off his game, had done so easily, which Joseph thought was not an altogether bad thing.

  “So,” said Kate, “what is it that will make you so popular, Mr. Edmonds?”

  “He’s a weatherman,” said Ollie.

  Joseph cocked an eyebrow. “A what?”

  “Technically, I’m a meteorologist,” the younger man said. “I collect data on atmospheric conditions and then forecast probabilities based on observed weather phenomena.”

  Ollie chuckled. “What he means to say is that he can predict the future!”

  “Oh, no,” said Edmonds. “Just the weather—sometimes—it’s not an exact science, not yet.”

  “How fascinating,” said Kate. “Can you really tell us what’s going to happen tomorrow?”

  “It’ll be sunny, I think.”

  “You think?” said the doctor, unimpressed.

  “I’ve only been in Oregon for a few days and haven’t had a chance to collect readings for an accurate forecast.”

  “Yes, yes,” Ollie said, “but tell them the good news—Jim, you’re going to love this.”

  Edmonds hesitated, then blurted out with more enthusiasm and volume than he intended, “It’s going to rain!”

  A brief silence was followed by clapping as numerous people who had drifted closer to follow the mayor’s conversation broke out in applause. The mayor practically beamed.

  “You’re certain?” he asked.

  “I would say there’s a sixty percent chance that Portland should experience an extended period of precipitation beginning no later than Thursday.”

  “First night of the festival,” said Ollie. “Very fortuitous.”

  “Cutting it a little close, but I’ll take it,” said the mayor, patting Mr. Edmonds on the back.

  “How exactly do you arrive at your prognostications?” Joseph asked.

  “It’s very interesting, actually. By studying recent local conditions and coordinating them with observations from other locations, it’s possible to build a model of the weather on paper, on a map, but with weather instead of rivers and mountains.”

  “And then what?” said the doctor. “You divine the results by mixing a few raindrops and snowflakes in a lab?”

  “Actually I don’t have much use for a laboratory. The weather is outside, so I spend most of my time in the field, measuring the temperature, wind, humidity, even pressure. Given enough information, I can forecast what the weather will be like up to five days in advance with at least fifty percent accuracy.”

  “Only half the time?” the doctor said, grinning. “I believe I can match those odds for predicting sun or rain.”

  Ollie put a hand on the weatherman’s shoulder. “My dear Dr. Gillman, I believe it’s more complicated than that. Isn’t that right, Mr. Edmonds?”

  “Well, there are different kinds of rain,” said Edmonds, only a little deflated. “As are there many kinds of clouds, snow, hail, sleet, and wind. It’s very exciting, especially in a place like Oregon, where you have plenty of local weather to follow.”

  “Pardon my skepticism,” said the doctor. “I’m afraid my tolerance for the new sciences is rather low.”

  “Actually, the study of meteorology is very old. And most of the devices I use to take measurements have been in use for centuries. In fact, I’ve got a barometer in my personal collection that’s almost one hundred years old. It’s quite beautiful—and it still works!”

  Joseph was not at all surprised to hear there were fluctuating pressures in the air. He’d known for years—could feel them, in fact—and was known to predict the odd thunderstorm or heavy rain well before it arrived. He generally kept such information to himself, however, and was curious to see if his heightened senses were in tune with the young man’s scientific equipment.

  “I’d be very curious to see that, Mr. Edmonds.”

  “It’d be my pleasure, Mr. Wylde. I believe I’m to have a booth at the festival, isn’t that right, Mr. Mayor?”

  “Yes, definitely.”

  Ollie leaned closer to Kate. “I told you he would be a man of considerable interest.”

  Kate nodded. It was then that she noticed her father standing just outside the circle. He’d drifted slightly, having received no formal introduction.

  Ollie picked up on her discomfort and its direction almost immediately.

  “Jim, it appears you’ve been holding out on me. Is this who I think it is?”

  The mayor, briefly caught off guard, recovered quickly.

  “Just saving the best for last. Gentlemen, forgive my tardiness, this is Marshal James Kleberg, formerly of Astoria, but now a proud resident of Portland.”

  The doctor raised an eyebrow. “Of the U.S. Marshals?”

  “For a time,” said the marshal. “Retired.”

  “Retired, but not forgotten,” said the mayor. “Gentlemen, you are standing in the presence of greatness. Marshal Kleberg is the man who brought the vile Hanged Man to justice.”

  “Who?” asked Edmonds.

  The mayor scoffed. “The Hanged Man! Surely you’ve heard of the most despicable, murdering scoundrel ever to prey upon the good people of the West. The Dead Man? The Man with the Red Gun?”

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  “You’ll have to pardon my young friend, here, Marshal. He’s originally from New York,” said Ollie. “If there’s not a James or a Hickok in the headline, chances are they’ve never heard the story.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “But yours is quite a tale, if I recall, one worth repeating. It involved a fairly bloody shootout, did it not?”

  “It did,” said the marshal. He waited a beat for the mayor to jump in, but when the man didn’t, the marshal continued. “Wasn’t just me, though. Took two or three dozen men to corral the son of a bitch. I just got to put the last bullet in him.”

  An image popped into the marshal’s head—his hand before him, the Hanged Man’s gun in its grip, firing, again and again.

  “Ah, but that’s not the first time you encountered the man, correct?” asked Ollie.

  The marshal caught up to Ollie’s words a little late.

  “What? Oh … that’s right. I chased him up and down creation for years ’fore I put him down.” The marshal’s eyes drifted to Joseph. “Me and a few other good men.”

  “Of course,” said Ollie. “But I was referring to the hanging, the first one. The day the cretin got his name.”

  The marshal blinked. This fellow knew some things. Fortunately, the marshal remembered.

  “Yeah, I was there when they tried to hang him.”

  Those gathered around the mayor’s group, who up to that point had been casually eavesdropping, gave up the ruse and seemed to lean in en masse as the marshal continued.

  “Couldn’t quite kill the bastard, but they did make him famous.”

  Ollie nodded. “This was in sixty-eight, yes?”

  “Sounds about right.”

  The marshal was surprised to find his memories of the botched hanging clearer than those of the Hanged Man’s eventual demise, especially considering they were nearly a decade older.

  “I missed the actual hanging. Some townsfolk took matters into their own hands and decided to string him up before I could process him upstate. He weren’t nobody at the time, just another delinquent with courage enough to steal from fo
lks that ain’t got much.” The marshal paused, letting his story sink in. The truth of the Hanged Man made the bastard seem less important somehow. The marshal didn’t know why but that made him feel better.

  A question came from the crowd: “What did he steal?”

  “Twenty-seven dollars and a horse wasn’t worth half that,” said the marshal, smiling just a little. “Don’t suppose it was his first crime, but definitely the first time he got caught. Put him in a foul mood.”

  “Which he would never relinquish,” said Ollie.

  The marshal’s expression darkened. “No, but there weren’t no sign of the man he would become, neither. I’d a known, would have strung him up myself.”

  More questions came from the crowd, faster than the marshal could answer.

  “Is it true he cut himself down from the hanging tree, even after he was dead?”

  “Was he buried first?”

  “Did he rise from the grave?”

  “Did he always wear the noose?”

  The scowl he’d worn for much of the previous week returned, but only until the marshal caught the eye of his grandson. Kick had silently drifted back to his mother’s side along with his sister and was now watching his grandfather, eyes wide and ears open. He was just starting to look like his father had the first time the marshal met the man who would ultimately marry his daughter. It was a hard to frown at a face like that.

  “Weren’t nothing supernatural about it,” he said. “Fools that strung him up didn’t know a damn thing about tying a noose. Unraveled ten seconds after the drop. Surprised the hell out of ’em, which was just long enough for the man—who weren’t dead—to bolt into the bushes.”

  “But then why did they call him the Hanged Man?”

  “He called himself that,” said the marshal. “Had a bit of scar ’round his neck, which was enough for most folks.”

  “And it was after this that he truly made a name for himself,” said Ollie.

  “He started killin’ folks, if that’s what you mean.”