by Stephen Bly
“I turned my back for only a moment,” Sylvia said.
“Mine,” he repeated. Lanigan’s voice had a whooshing edge, a sacrifice of diminishing breath. He clasped the box of gold between his knees. Each hand grappled with a firearm.
“What are you doing?” Brannon aimed his rifle at Lanigan.
“Earp… Cody… are they here?” Lanigan wheezed.
“No, they’re in Gearhart.” Brannon turned around to the photographer and dime novel author. “But Hawthorne Miller’s here.” A bullet zipped past him. Brannon whirled towards Lanigan, ready to fire.
Both Lanigan’s arms crumpled, spraddled across his chest. “God…” His face relaxed into a ghoulish grin. “I’m the hero… I am somebody.” His last word was a hiss. His eyes shut into slits. Two long gasps escaped him.
Brannon walked over and waited a moment. A couple more jerks shook Lanigan’s shoulders. “He’s gone.”
Sylvia stared down at the shell of the man, as though mesmerized. “It doesn’t help. I thought it would. This death doesn’t bring Papa back. That’s the only real victory. Maybe there is no way to experience true justice. That is, to feel vindicated.”
“Not always. That comes later. In the next life.”
“Lanigan tried so hard to gain respectability, yet remained a rake. Selfish. Depraved. It led to murder and his own destruction. End of story.”
“He couldn’t break the greed habit on his own.”
“I do not understand a man like that.” Sylvia’s words shuddered with force, slow and deliberate.
Brannon closed Lanigan’s lids. “Only God does.”
Forty-six
Neighbors of the region gathered by foot, horseback and wagon to help contain the fire to the clearing. Soon, Sheriff Linville and a posse from Astoria arrived. They took down statements from all of them and hauled off the bodies.
“Hope you’re leaving my region soon,” was the sheriff’s parting barb at Brannon.
Miller tried to rescue the remnants of his photography equipment. Brannon picked up Lanigan’s Kodak that had been left on the lawn nearby.
They prepared for the long ride back to Gearhart. They took it slow, steady, to save their mounts. Bueno and Hack both rode close to Brannon. “Boys, I know you’re weary. You’ve been troopers.”
He looked over at Tanglewood. “Brave warriors,” he affirmed.
Hawthorne Miller rode one of the gray mules they had recovered, paper and pencil in hand. “So Tom Wiseman suspected that Lanigan skimmed monies from his various enterprises.”
“Miller, are you goin’ to try to get the details right this time?” Brannon said. “Actually report the facts?”
“I always do,” Miller retorted. “Then Wiseman planned to confront Lanigan after the meeting with the Panama engineers. He told the President he’d send him a report right after, but it never came.”
Lord Fletcher chimed in. “Your President may have imagined intrigues of an international sort. With the Exposition as a perfect cover.”
Sylvia sounded close to tears. “Ironic, isn’t it? So many possibilities, yet the motive for Papa’s death amounted to plain old thievery.”
Miller kept reciting. “Lanigan devised many ways to gouge the railroad. He forced men like the Rincon brothers to give him a part of their take or he’d turn them in.”
“That’s conjecture,” Brannon said. “Don’t accuse him until you can prove it.”
“Brannon, one trait of yours both irritates and thrills me,” Lord Fletcher began. “Your inability to ever, under any circumstance, back away from confronting evil.”
“There’s some things in life a man’s got to do.” Brannon scanned the horizon. The Tillamook Lighthouse beacon slivered a warning through the shrouded mists. “I’ve learned something though. In the old days we tried to tame an uncivilized land. But we never could purify a heart. Not a single one. And that hasn’t changed.”
“Why does a man like Wax Lanigan happen?” Sylvia asked.
Brannon didn’t know if the question was addressed to him or not, but he gave a stab at the answer. “One fertile ground for evil to me is a person who only and ever looks out for himself. No one else matters.”
Lord Fletcher pulled off his hat and fanned his face. “May God have mercy on us all.”
Later that night when they returned to Gearhart, Lady Fletcher hustled the boys to a hot meal and bed. She wrapped a fresh, tight bandage on Brannon’s arm.
“Mr. Earp and Mr. Cody are eating and playing cards in the lobby,” she said. “They tied the tournament, 101 to 101. It lasted longer than usual, because Mr. Earp kept breaking his clubs over his knee and the caddie had to scout for replacements. He claims Mr. Cody purposely harassed him with ill-timed, loud comments, jingling coins, coughing and taking practice strokes when he tried to swing or putt.”
“We missed quite a show,” Brannon noted.
“Stuart, I don’t suppose I could talk you into doing a make-up game tomorrow afternoon?”
“If you can get enough other players.”
Brannon pounded boot heels across the wooden floor to return weapons to Earp and Cody. Smoke from Earp’s cigar rippled over their table. Half-eaten plates of sirloin steak had been pushed aside. Cards were scattered around.
“Hello, Wyatt, Buffalo Bill,” he greeted.
“I’d prefer you call me Will,” Cody said. “Never have liked the name Bill.”
“Okay, Will, honored to know that. Here’s your guns.” He laid down Cody’s .36 caliber Colt pistol and handed Earp his Buntline Special on the table. Then he recounted the story of Lanigan’s demise.
“We knew you could do it,” Cody said. “No one can outsmart Stuart Brannon.”
“And it’s so nice that we don’t have to be the heroes anymore. We can rest on our laurels, tell our stories, enjoy life,” Earp remarked. “Come join our game. It’s friendly and low stakes.”
“Sorry, I’ve got a previous appointment. Thanks for your participation in that tournament. The orphans and the rest of us are grateful. See you tomorrow?”
“No, we’re both leavin’ at dawn,” Earp said. “My brother, Virgil, is sick with pneumonia in Goldfield. He don’t seem to be gettin’ better. I’m goin’ back as quick as I can.”
“And I’ve got to catch up with my show,” Cody said.
Brannon waved to them and headed out the front hotel door.
He could hear music from the gazebo at the park, the strains of After the Ball and Maple Leaf Rag.
“Go to the dance with me?” Tanglewood had asked Laira.
She was adamant. “Only if Nicholas invites Darcy.”
Brannon decided to take a peek at the event before he gravitated to the golf course.
Curious whether Laira will dance with Tanglefoot or Yancy more. Maybe I’ll see The Cakewalk number she was so excited about.
Cordelle Plew had been waiting for Sylvia on the hotel deck when they returned. Brannon now caught them in a hug and kiss. He turned his head and scurried past them, but with an inner smile.
One thing Brannon had learned through the tragedy and trial of life: the earth heals quickly. Not so soon the human heart. But shared laughter, the labors of love and the grace of God help mend the wounds.
The real tragedy of Tom Wiseman filtered down to the frustration of no opportunity to save him and no satisfying, proper way to tender a last farewell.
Even in the twilight, with the blessing of the full moon, Brannon could detect the golf ball pull to the left. He rolled another ball in front of him and re-gripped his club. This time the ball jumped off the clubface with a crack and sailed into the dove gray sky.
As did the next one.
And the next.
Harriet got the bandage just right. Hardly feel the wound.
One after another, he brought the club back low and slow, twisted his hips, then slammed down through the ball.
I don’t like anyone dying… not Tom Wiseman, not Chuy Carbón, not Tally Rebozo, not even
Wax Lanigan. Not the man washed up on the beach. It doesn’t seem right.
Like a slow metronome, the repeated thwack of the ball kept steady time as the green grass merged to gray, then black.
But it’s more than agony over the loss of friends, foes and strangers. I should be doing something that’s more eternal.
Thwack.
I don’t know my goal. My heavenly one, that is.
Thwack.
I accept some things I don’t understand. I just can’t figure out why You left me here on this earth without Lisa and our baby.
Thwack.
She’s had another life with You these thirty years. Her life here ended. But I will go to her someday.
Thwack.
I have managed to find a purpose to go on.
But some days can sure play out lonely.
Thwack.
And if Victoria was part of the purpose…
Thwack.
I really messed up.
Thwack.
By the time a man figures out what’s really missing, what’s of true importance, it’s too late. Or is it?
He could no longer watch the ball in flight, but could feel and hear the crack of the club every time he swung. He didn’t know if they flew straight. He didn’t care.
If I can get one good golf swing in a round, I’ll have a fair game overall. One last shot before I go.
Later, after a bath swim in the ocean and lying warm in clean clothes beside the dying embers of his campsite, his gaze was drawn to the rim of Tillamook Head. He jumped up and looked more intently. A flaming torch moved forward across the rim. Brannon watched until it reached the cliff edge and slowly faded away.
Catcher-Of-The-Sun.
A victory run.
One story’s end.
Others still left to complete.
Forty-seven
Sunday, June 18
Brannon loved Sundays. On this day he could rest or play, could forget the relentless routine of the rest of the week and not feel guilty. Sundays meant church. He had grown over the years to appreciate churchgoing and the community of believers.
And now he sensed a really good day about to happen.
He hoped the date was already logged into God’s book, a day worthy of eternity’s notice, as well as his own.
The whole town had been invited to a Sunday School picnic at the Gearhart Park after their own services or family activities, sponsored by friends of the orphan farm. Deer meat was announced for the main dish. Besides the make-up golf tournament there would be games of “catch the duck,” a boys’ swimming race, plus comic diving contest, tub race, single and double paddle canoe races.
Lord Fletcher met up with him there. “I couldn’t sleep last night, as exhausted as I was. I was in no mood to adjourn.”
Brannon chuckled. “You’ve missed the adventures, haven’t you, old boy? But just think, you and I have the opportunity to saddle up this very day and ride it into our memories. But that means staying awake.”
Lord Fletcher yawned. “I’m bushed.”
“You wear your Sunday best everyday,” Brannon opined. “I feel like a struttin’ peacock, like everyone’s gawkin’ at me, ready to roll in the grass over the way this ole cowboy is dressed.”
“You take it too personal. Keep in mind why you’re doing this, then hold nothing back. Every time you swing a club or hit a ball in that tournament, you’re providing an overnight stay for an orphan.”
“The funny thing about those dime novels. Puts everything out of proportion. When they take the great photograph of mankind’s family reunion, I’ll be the one in the tenth row from the back, fifth from the end, partially blocked by the lady in the feathered hat. I’m the one who stares down at my scuffed, dirt-colored boots, the one listed as ‘unknown.’ ”
“But that doesn’t mean you haven’t had a shining moment or two.”
“Yes. Every once in awhile, we catch God in action, directly involved. By mistake, we get the credit.”
At the after-church picnic, Sam Smythe introduced social worker Cordelle Plew as a special friend, then surprised Brannon by asking him to give the grace before the meal.
“I can tell from your prayer you have a big view of God,” Sylvia whispered.
“He makes the rules. This whole earth and beyond is his ranch.”
“I’m just surprised that a man like you seems so at ease talking with the Almighty.”
“Maybe that’s ’cause I talked to Him before I knew His name. Long before we were properly introduced.”
A large birthday cake had been prepared for Sylvia, at Lady Fletcher’s direction. The Royal Hawaiian Band played hymns. They had a concert later that evening at the Chautauqua. As Sylvia cut the cake, Cordelle Plew announced that she had agreed to be his wife.
“Here’s my birthday present from him.” She showed off a simple, but sparkling ring. “We’re eloping tonight.”
Sylvia opened several other gifts… a travel bag from the Fletchers, a brush embedded with gems from Brannon. The one from her father: a small model of the U.S.S. Maine ship. Tears flowed.
“He knew,” she whispered. “He knew all along.”
Applause and congratulations were extended to the happy couple.
“She’s going to start training, as soon as we return to New York, to become a social worker,” Plew affirmed.
“It’s one way I can become a sort of mother,” Sylvia said. “But after we get married, we’re returning to Tillamook Head to place a marker on my father’s grave, before the location’s lost.”
After she hugged the couple, Lady Fletcher declared, “There will be another golf tournament to benefit the Willamette Orphan Farm this afternoon, starting in one hour. Get your tickets at the golf course. Buy tickets for the team you think will win. At the end of the tournament we’ll randomly draw a name from those who picked the winning team.”
Lady Fletcher looked straight at Brannon. A mischievous grin crawled across her face. “The prize will be dinner with Mr. Stuart Brannon and a picture with the famous gunman taken by none other than the esteemed photographer Mr. Hawthorne Miller. And since his own camera is under repair, he will be using a modern Kodak instead.”
Murmurs of approval and excitement buzzed through the crowd. Brannon wanted badly to protest, but Lady Fletcher had that look in her eyes that let him know it would be futile. Besides, he felt that he still owed her for all the ripped jackets, dirty faces, bloody lips and tardy appearances in recent days.
“And please don’t tell anyone the Kodak belonged to Wax Lanigan,” Lady Fletcher whispered to Brannon. Aloud she said, “Pass the word around town. All the money is for a worthy cause,” she paused for effect, “and will be in honest hands.”
Before the crowd dispersed, Lady Fletcher yelled above the din, “Because the rest of our players are gone, we will play only twosomes, who will be chosen from the following. Those who are called please step forward: Lord Edwin Fletcher… Stuart Brannon… Deedra Lazzard… Darrlyn Lazzard… Hawthorne Miller… and Lady Harriet Reed-Fletcher.”
“My word, Harriet, you have the ladies playing?” Fletcher fussed.
“We practiced yesterday while you and Stuart were out playing hero,” she replied. “Ted Fleming gave us lessons. There’s really nothing to it. Hit the ball. Get the ball to the hole. Repeat. Repeat. Oh, I did forget to mention we’re only playing three holes. We ladies determined that the others are redundant.”
“Redundant? It’s how a full game’s played.”
“Oh, posh, this is for charity. It should be fun, not work. Now, let’s get started. The caddies will be Keaton Tanglewood for Stuart, Darcy Lazzard for her mother, Laira Fletcher for her father, Nicholas Yancy for me, Bueno Diaz for Deedra and Hack Howard for Mr. Miller. We will do that scramble game. After teeing off, both players on a team hit from where the best ball lands.”
She turned to Edwin. “I forget. Is it highest or lowest score that wins?”
Lord Fletcher grumbled somethin
g to himself and pointed his thumb down. Brannon didn’t know if that was to signal that the winners had low points or to indicate his opinion of the whole proceedings. Perhaps both.
“But who will be the teams?” Deedra Lazzard asked.
“I’ll pick them from a hat… Stuart’s hat.”
Brannon handed her his Stetson and she tossed in six pieces of paper. “Here’s the teams, drawn at random.” Lady Fletcher pulled slips of paper out one by one. “Let’s see… myself and Edwin… Mr. Miller and Deedra… that leaves Stuart with Darrlyn.”
The players looked at each other as if searching for a reason to object to the team assignments, but Lady Fletcher plowed forward.
“Please head over to the golf course straight away. We want to be there to shake hands and help sell tickets. Remember, the more tickets purchased, the more money raised for the orphans.” Lady Fletcher herded them along, without verbal protest.
After thirty minutes of shaking hands and smiling for prospective ticket purchasers, Brannon’s patience was gone. Let’s get this over with, Harriet.
Forty-eight
A signal from Lady Fletcher brought the players to the first tee. The crowd, which began as a couple of dozen, but now swelled to two hundred or more, filled in behind. A man walked up to the players and Lady Fletcher introduced him as “Portland outgoing Mayor George Henry Williams, who will officiate.”
Mayor Williams gave a slight bow. “The teams will tee off in the order they were selected. After three holes, the team with the lowest score wins. In case of a tie, the tied teams will play additional holes until there is a winner. Good luck.”
As Mayor Williams moved to the edge of the crowd, Lady Fletcher stepped forward and teed up her ball. She addressed the ball, made an awkward swing and bobbled it several feet. Without pause, she marched to the ball, picked it up and placed it back on her tee.
“You can’t do that,” Lord Fletcher said. “It’s not in the rules.”
“That was my practice shot.” Lady Fletcher turned around to all the players. “I forgot to mention that you each get a practice shot from the tee for every hole, if you so choose.”