Portlandtown: A Tale of the Oregon Wyldes (22 page)

Joseph shrugged. “I never saw him be generous with anyone else, but there were times when he spoke to me as would a friend. Can’t say the feeling was mutual. He was a hard man to like.”

Kate shook her head. “He was a killer, Joseph. I don’t believe he cared for anything or anyone.”

“Oh? Why do you think he was so mad that I chose you over him?”

“You refused his help?” Ollie asked.

“Worse. I stood against him. Backed up the marshal.”

“I imagine he didn’t like that.”

“He did not,” Joseph said, squeezing his wife’s hand.

“But he escaped.”

Joseph nodded. “Not sure how. Last I saw of him he was a bloody mess. Took a bullet myself, though it wasn’t serious.”

Kate smiled. “I patched him up.”

“That you did.”

Ollie let the information settle. He knew more about the story than Joseph was aware, but nothing the man had said contradicted the facts. There was more to know, however, and Ollie found it never hurt to ask.

“You said this was before he became overtly violent, before his villainy became legend. Did you ever meet the man again?”

Ollie saw Kate react first, tugging on her husband’s hand, whispering in his ear. Joseph shook his head.

“Best we can figure, he vanished into the Cascades after the shootout. Assumed he was dead, but about a year later he reappeared, as I’m sure you know.”

“Sacramento. I remember.”

Joseph nodded. “The claims office. The attack was so vicious I didn’t think it was him. I rode with the man for a year, but didn’t figure him for a remorseless killer. I was wrong.”

“Perhaps,” Ollie said. “Or perhaps not. The pendulum swung for the Hanged Man as it did for you, only in opposing directions. You were transformed into a man of moral conviction, he a monster. There’s a lovely symmetry to it … journalistically speaking, of course.”

“Of course.”

Ollie let the moment linger, not wanting to seem too eager. There was another question, one he’d wanted to ask for quite some time.

“If it’s not too personal, do you mind me asking how you lost the use of your eye?”

Joseph blinked. The memory was close. It always was.

A kerosene-soaked rag, amber vapors rising before his eyes, burning even before the match is lit, before his world turns to red … and then to black.

Joseph blinked again and the mayor’s study returned. Kate stood at his side, holding his hand, Ollie before him, waiting.

“Another time,” Joseph said, pushing the memory aside.

Ollie smiled. “My apologies. I don’t mean to pry.”

“What’s that, Ollie?” the mayor said, sweeping into the room alone. “Sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong, again.”

“As always, Jim.”

The mayor grunted. “Sorry for my tardiness, but as mayor it is my duty to tend to any and all admirers.”

“Modest to the last, Jim. And you’ve given us plenty of time to become suitably curious. What have you got under wraps here, Mr. Mayor?”

The mayor moved directly to the tall object at the center of the room and began untying a rope that held the cover taut.

“Gentlemen and lady, I give you the real star of the festival.”

The rope undone, the mayor tugged on the sheet, which fell away, revealing a nearly nine-foot-tall totem pole carved out of a large section of an ancient cedar.

“Oh, my,” said Ollie.

“It’s a totem pole,” said Kate.

Joseph had already formed a mental picture of the object simply from the sound of the sheet falling around it, but Kate’s clue brought it into focus. That picture changed, however, after he laid a hand on the surface of the pole.

“This isn’t wood. It’s stone.”

“Correct,” said the mayor. “The splits and cracks are actually cut into the rock. Whoever carved this wanted it to have the appearance of old, weather-beaten wood.”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” said Kate.

Joseph slowly followed the procession of figures with his hand. At the base was a man, his arms raised above head to support the weight of whale, bear, wolf, beaver, and raven. A seventh creature sat perched above them all, and even though Joseph’s outstretched fingers could reach only the claws of the mythical bird, that was enough to give it away.

“Thunderbird. Very traditional, although it’s unusual for two birds to be stacked one on top of the other.”

Joseph laid his hand flat on the raven’s broad beak. It was surprisingly smooth, with only the slightest grain evident between the faux wood details. Embedded throughout, however, were flecks of a different kind of rock that were sharper and a fraction of a degree warmer than the rest of the sculpture.

“There’s firestone in this.”

“Yes, quite a lot, actually.”

“Which would make it worth a small fortune,” said Ollie.

“So I’ve been told,” the mayor said. He dug into his desk, producing several small glasses and a bottle of something suitably stronger than the punch served out on the lawn.

Kate looked at the mayor. “You’ve already had it examined, then?”

“Indeed. I’ve had numerous experts poking and prodding at it for weeks, but thus far none have offered me anything that speaks to its origin or activation.” The mayor poured several of the glasses full. “Whiskey?”

“Why not,” said Ollie, taking one of the glasses.

“No, thank you,” said Joseph. “What did you mean by ‘activation’?”

The mayor took a drink. “It’s a storm totem.”

Joseph pulled his hand off the stone.

“Frankly,” continued the mayor, “I’m a bit suspicious of its authenticity at this point. I realize we’re under water up to our kneecaps, but it’s not exactly falling from above, is it?”

“Forgive my ignorance,” said Ollie. “But what exactly is a storm totem?”

“It’s a rainmaker,” said Joseph.

“That’s what the fellow who sold it to me claimed, that explorer, Wilhelm Horace Smith. You may recall his visit a few weeks back. That was the last day it rained in Portland.” The mayor took another drink.

Joseph turned back to the pole. His touch had revealed unfamiliar flourishes in the carving, but that in itself was not unusual. There were countless artistic styles to be found in the totem poles of the Northwest tribes, many of which Joseph had encountered in his travels. In that regard, the artificial weathering and the use of stone were more curious than the carvings themselves.

Joseph opened his senses wider, letting the pole’s aroma fill his nostrils. He picked up hints of the sea, beach, forest, and even the firestone, which to Joseph smelled faintly of crushed pepper.

“Where did Smith find it?” Joseph asked, still studying the totem.

“He removed it from an island north of Seattle. He claimed that Lewis and Clark found a similar heathen sculpture in December of ’05, which accounted for the exceedingly wet winter they experienced at Fort Clatsop. I think he may have been telling tales, on that count.”

Joseph moved closer to the pole. There was something else tickling his heightened senses. It was faint, not a smell but rather a sound, not unlike breathing.

Joseph held his own breath to confirm what he heard, but Ollie leaned in next to him.

“Find anything interesting?”

The smell of the whiskey blunted Joseph’s senses, which didn’t improve when Ollie dipped a finger into his glass and then rubbed it against the stone.

“Just a smudge,” he said, smiling.

Joseph nodded and then turned to the mayor.

“It’s fascinating, Mr. Mayor, but what exactly is it you want us to do?”

The mayor drained his glass in one gulp. “I want you to make it rain, Mr. Wylde.”

Kate laughed, but caught herself when no one else joined in. “Oh, you’re serious?”

“Absolutely. My people couldn’t make heads or tails of the thing, told me the legend was just that—a story invented by the heathens or, more likely, a savvy explorer with a very large artifact on his hands. But then I remembered my friends, the Wyldes, and all your interesting experiences and resources and … connections.”

Joseph couldn’t remember telling the mayor the details of his family tree, but the man obviously knew Joseph’s maternal grandmother had been Nez Percé. It was not a fact he’d hidden, or advertised, but it had helped him establish a friendly relationship with several of the area’s local tribes.

“We do have an extensive collection of tribal lore at the store,” Joseph said. “Much of it unpublished oral traditions that might have some information about such things.”

“Excellent. I knew you were the right person to ask.”

“I don’t know about that,” Joseph said, turning back to the totem pole. “We don’t have much experience drawing water from a stone.”

“Rainmaker or otherwise, it’s going to make an excellent centerpiece for the festival,” said the mayor. “Although it would be better if it rained.”

“Perhaps,” said Ollie, “you should pit this pole against your weatherman, eh, Jim? Modern science versus Native magic?”

The mayor laughed, but was soon turning the idea over in his head.

Joseph turned to Kate, whom he correctly guessed was smiling. She would enjoy a job that didn’t involve confrontations with criminals. She would not, however, allow the thing inside her house.

“Can you have it delivered to the store?”

“First thing Monday morning. Now, shall we return to the party? I hate to be away for too long.”

Ollie followed the mayor out of the room. Kate turned to leave, but stopped when Joseph didn’t follow.

“Coming?”

Joseph hesitated for a moment longer, then returned to Kate’s side.

“Just listening,” he said as the two walked out of the room.

A moment later, a drop of water fell from the ceiling and hit the ground near where Joseph had been just listening. Second and third drops would follow, but no more. The tiny pool that formed on the floor smelled faintly of whiskey.

16

“Nineteen?”

Andre turned the number over in his head.
Nineteen.
He’d expected it to be bad, but that many wounded was far worse than he’d imagined. The first accounts they’d heard after coming ashore in Newport described a wild shootout, although who was doing the shooting was not clear. By the time Naira procured horses and provisions for the journey north, the shootout had become a “massacre” and the perpetrators a “gang of outlaws.” The day-and-a-half ride to Tillamook brought more accounts, many describing a single villain killing without remorse. Just outside town, they met a man clutching a small wooden cross to his breast who claimed Death had descended on the traveling circus to pass judgment on the wicked.

Now that they had arrived at the scene, the worst of the stories appeared to be true. The midway was in disarray. Many of the booths and platforms had been knocked over or destroyed, some had burned. A handful of carnival workers pushed at the debris with brooms and shovels, none seeming to grasp whether they were packing up or shutting down for good. A tiny man scrubbed the floorboards of a stage, trying to remove a deep red stain.

Andre and Naira stood before the smoldering remains of a larger tent at the end of the midway. A sign trampled underfoot was too scorched to read save for a caricature of a man hanging from a tree. The burned-out husk of a coffin sat in the center of the wreckage.

Andre pulled the hat from his head, squinting into the sun, and asked a question he had no desire to hear answered.

“How many dead, Sheriff?”

Sheriff Matt Taylor, who throughout his tour of the carnage with Andre had been otherwise subdued, finally perked up.

“Just the one.”

Andre glanced at Naira. This was not the answer either of them had expected.

“And he died of a knife wound,” the sheriff continued. “Rest is still kicking, far as I know. Some of ’em are an awful bloody mess, but they’re alive.”

Could Andre’s theory be wrong? Might it not be him?

“Show me.”

*   *   *

Andre walked among the wounded, letting the emotions collected inside the big top flow into him. Fear filled the space, only it wasn’t the fear of death or sickness but something more primal, more intense. Andre had an idea what to name it, but held out hope his fears would not be realized.

The sheriff stopped alongside the bed of a young man with an oblong face. There were scars along his neck and chest, but only his shoulder was bandaged.

“Kid’s one of the lucky ones,” said the sheriff. “Caught it in the shoulder. Them other marks is, ah, well, he was like that ’fore he got shot.” The sheriff glanced about the tent and then leaned closer to Andre. “Lot of ’em was shot ain’t exactly normal folk, you catch my meanin’.”

Andre did. “Carnivals tend to employ a rather colorful cast of characters.”

The sheriff grunted. “Maybe that’s why so many of ’em survived. What’s another scar when you already look like that, huh?”

Andre gave the sheriff a look that most men would rightly have interpreted as an invitation to shut up. The sheriff missed this completely.

“Hell, some of ’em might even end up better-lookin’ minus a little meat.”

Naira touched the sheriff’s arm.

“These people deserve your care and comfort, wouldn’t you agree?”

The sheriff stared at Naira, seemingly unaware he’d been asked a question. Finally, he nodded. He did care. Of course he did.

Andre put a large hand on the sheriff’s shoulder. “Who did this?”

“Ah … robbers,” he managed. “Five or six, maybe as many as ten. Don’t know for sure. We caught three of them, but they ain’t said much.” The sheriff paused before adding, “Well, they ain’t said much useful.”

“What does that mean?”

“They’re trying to blame somebody else for what they done. Said they was set up by some fella out of Astoria. Something to do with a dead man and a fancy pistol. I don’t know, maybe they was tricked, but they did the robbin’ even if the other fella did most of the damage.”

Andre raised an eyebrow. “I thought you said there might be as many as ten.”

“Oh, well, that’s just an estimate, based on the amount of shootin’ and such. Most of the, um, employees seem to think there was just one man doing most of it.”