by Rob DeBorde
“It is. But I can’t say I ever learned the man’s Christian name.”
“He kept it a secret,” said the marshal. “Wouldn’t tell me when I arrested him that first time. Nobody in town knew it. After the hanging it didn’t matter.”
“But you learned his name eventually, of course,” said the mayor. “That’s how you cornered him in Astoria, yes?”
The marshal tried to remember. Did he know the Hanged Man’s name? Was he supposed to? How could you forget?
As the silence stretched out, Joseph wondered if his decision to let the marshal find his way through the past alone was a mistake. He wasn’t the only one.
“Marshal, your silence speaks louder than words,” said Ollie.
“It does?” mumbled the mayor, echoing the sentiments of many in the crowd, the marshal included.
“Of course the marshal knows who he was, but by choosing not to say, he’s buried the man, name and all, making him all the less relevant. We shouldn’t remember the monster and his deeds, but rather his unfortunate victims.” Ollie bowed to the marshal. “A very noble sentiment, Marshal, and for that you have my respect.”
“And mine,” quickly added the mayor.
There were murmurs of agreement from the crowd.
“Well,” said the marshal, eyeing Joseph. “I suppose not all things are worth remembering, anyway.”
“Hear, hear!”
Joseph felt Kate’s hand take his own and squeeze lightly.
“Jim, I daresay my prediction as to who will be the star of the festival may be in doubt,” said Ollie. He put a hand on Edmonds’s shoulder and added, “No offense, young man, but a hero of the West is hard to beat.”
“I agree,” said Edmonds. “And you know I think I did read something about this Hanged Man fellow when I was younger. I remember a story about a very bloody shootout and something about a magic gun.”
“Magic gun?” said the doctor. “What nonsense is this?”
“Yes, yes, the Bloody Pistol,” said Ollie. “Whatever happened to that, Marshal?”
“I have it,” said the marshal, regretting the words even as he said them.
The mayor beamed. “You have it? In your possession?”
The marshal nodded. He didn’t bother to look at his daughter. He knew what he would see on her face and it would still be there waiting for him later.
“You must bring it to the festival,” said the mayor. “For a practical demonstration.”
“What was the myth?” asked Ollie. “That it could be fired without reloading?”
The marshal’s hand started to itch. “Something like that. Never tested it,” he lied.
“I didn’t know you kept his gun,” Joseph said, unable to save his question for later.
“Couldn’t leave it behind. Too dangerous. Some fool might pick it up and start calling himself the Hanged Man all over again.”
“You could have destroyed it.”
Joseph’s words made the marshal flinch. He could have destroyed it, could have dismantled the weapon and thrown the pieces into the Columbia River, but he hadn’t. He wouldn’t. It was his gun now. No one was going to take it away from him, no matter how hard and long he stared at the marshal with his one eye.
“I kept it safe.”
“What of the body?” Ollie asked.
The marshal answered right away: “Burned it.”
He was lying. Joseph heard it in the old man’s voice, although he didn’t understand. What the marshal believed was a lie was true as far as Joseph knew. Could that explain the marshal’s nocturnal diggings the week before? Had he been searching for the gun or for something else?
“Oh,” Ollie began, softening his tone ever so slightly. “I only ask because our journey north brought us through Astoria, where it seems there’s been a rash of grave disturbances over the past few weeks.”
Joseph felt Kate’s grip once again tighten, but sensed no change in the marshal’s demeanor. The mayor’s unfortunate question would put an end to that.
“Were any bodies stolen?”
“Just one,” said Edmonds.
The marshal stepped forward. “What did you say?”
“One body went missing, the day before we made port, I believe. Apparently, there was a second incident in a grave apart from the others.”
The marshal took another step toward the weatherman. “Whose name was on the stone?”
“I don’t know,” said Edmonds, shrinking back. “I didn’t ask.”
“There wasn’t a stone,” said Ollie. “No marker at all, just a hole and an empty box.”
“But I didn’t find—” the marshal began and then stopped.
“Gentlemen, please,” Kate said, pulling both children to her side. “Can we find a topic more suited to all ages?”
“Cry your pardon, Mrs. Wylde,” said Ollie.
Kate received similar apologies from the other men, but hardly noticed as she turned to face her father.
“Dad?”
“I’m fine,” he said, and strode into the garden without another word.
15
“Do you know what it is?”
“No idea,” Ollie said, staring up at the tall, slender object hidden beneath several layers of drapery. “Jim likes his secrets, you know.”
Joseph did.
Five minutes earlier, one of the mayor’s aides had directed Joseph and Kate to the study, where they’d found the newspaper man leaning against the remains of a large wooden crate. The contents of the box stood before them, a mystery wrapped in cloth.
“He’d better start spilling his secrets soon,” Kate said. “It’s getting late.”
Ollie smiled, shifting his attention from the tower to his new company. Joseph wasn’t surprised. The man had been angling to get him alone for much of the afternoon.
“Mr. Wylde, would you mind if I asked you a question?”
“Only if you agree to call me Joseph.”
“Of course, Joseph. Pardon my inquisitive nature, but your father-in-law’s amazing tale has awakened the journalist in me.”
“I didn’t realize that was something you put to bed,” Kate said.
“No, I suppose it’s not.”
“It’s all right,” Joseph said. “Ask me your question.”
“Thank you. I’m wondering if you recall another story from some years ago, one involving the Hanged Man and an attempted jailbreak.”
Joseph smiled.
Ollie raised an eyebrow. “Ah … you know the story?”
“I do.”
“Because you were there.”
Joseph felt Kate close the gap between them.
“I was the one he tried to break out, if that’s what you mean.”
“Then it’s true you were partners with the Hanged Man.”
Joseph hesitated, but only for a moment. “For a time.”
“A very short time,” Kate added.
Joseph took Kate’s hand. “I was young, and angry at the world. When I met the man our interests were much the same.”
“Pardon my skepticism, but I find it hard to believe a respected citizen such as you would have associated with such a violent man.”
“I’m embarrassed to say I did. Granted, this was well before he started killing with such relish. The man was a criminal, but not the monster most folks remember. Something happened after we … parted ways.”
“But he still called himself the Hanged Man, correct?”
Joseph nodded. “Before a job he would twist a piece of rope around his neck to scratch up the skin, make the scars look fresh.”
“The theatrics of fear,” Ollie said, mentally checking the facts in his head. “Now, you were in jail for…”
“Robbing Tom Sherman’s livery … unsuccessfully.”
“And it was the marshal who arrested you?”
“No, but he’s the one who kept me in jail,” Joseph said. “Three weeks, waiting for my partner to show his face. I wasn’t particularly happy about it, not
at first, at least.”
“Oh? What changed your mind?”
Joseph nodded to his wife, who answered for him.
“He met me.”
* * *
She is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen and when she looks at him—sees him—Joseph knows his world will never be the same. He tries very hard to imagine her in it.
“Hello,” Kate says, hopeful the young man won’t reply. She didn’t mean to say anything. She doesn’t know why she did.
“Hello,” he says, barely. No word has ever been so difficult to get out. She blinks, uncomfortably. She’s afraid of him.
Kate glances across the jailhouse to where her father stands, back to her, speaking with a pair of local men, deputies, perhaps. He hasn’t seen her. When the smell of fresh biscuits finds its way to him he will turn. She turns first.
“My name is Kate,” she says, approaching the man behind bars. He’s handsome, she’s decided. Smells a bit like horse manure, but so do half the men (and a few of the women) she’s already met in town.
“Wylde,” he says, grateful.
“I’m sorry?”
“Wylde—Joseph Wylde—that’s my name.”
“Oh.”
She’s going to walk away … and she smells so good, like buttered biscuits. He should say something, anything, before …
“I only tried to steal a horse.”
Kate stares at Joseph Wylde. He has nice eyes.
“Why?”
Joseph shrugs. “I needed a horse.”
“You shouldn’t steal from people, Joseph. It’s wrong.”
“It is, you’re right,” he says, desperate to hear her say his name again. He will never steal again.
“I take it you were unsuccessful.”
Joseph leans against the bars. “What gave you that idea?”
Kate starts to laugh, but quickly covers her mouth.
Too late. Joseph has seen her smile.
And she sees his.
“Katie!”
Kate and Joseph both jump at the sound of the marshal’s voice. He’s already halfway across the room, the grimace on his face clearly visible. Joseph steels himself.
“Better go. The marshal doesn’t like me much.”
Marshal Kleberg stops directly in front of Joseph, his face red. He’s never seen the lawman so mad.
“Is that true, Daddy?”
Joseph glances at Kate, his jaw slipping open.
Kate shrugs.
“Talk to my daughter again, glance in her direction, and I’ll have your ass in the stockade. Got that?”
Joseph eyes the marshal, nods. Her father. This will be difficult.
The marshal turns to his daughter, taking her by the arm.
“I appreciate you bringin’ me lunch, Katie, but come on in, next time. Don’t be lingerin’ up here.”
Next time.
Joseph holds his gaze on the marshal just long enough for him to glance back and be satisfied. Then he finds hers.
And she smiles.
* * *
“Hand to God, one smile and my days as a criminal were over.”
Kate offered Joseph a refresher, followed by a soft kiss on the cheek.
“You were never much of a criminal, dear.”
Joseph didn’t quite believe that, but said nothing. He was happy for it to be mostly true.
“I see,” Ollie said. “Love conquers all. But there’s still the matter of your escape.”
“Wasn’t much to it. The Hanged Man showed up early one morning and started shooting.”
“Even though he knew the marshal would be expecting it? You meant that much to him?”
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 outs
tretched 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.
