by Stephen Bly
“Who are you, lady?” he demanded. “What’s this all about?”
But the woman disappeared. All he could see was himself in a hundred different images. He felt all over for a doorknob. Not finding one, Brannon pulled out his Colt revolver and shot the glass into splinters and falling panes. When he glimpsed the woman bolting between dark exposed walls, he chased after her. Only when he tripped over boards and mystery objects was he forced to stop.
No sign of the woman.
Brannon shoved his hands around to feel the narrow passageway. He kept walking until he bumped against a wall with a latch. He pulled on it and shaded his eyes against the streak of sunlight. I’m in an alleyway, but where?
He thought he recognized the corner of the Forestry Building down to his far left. He scooted the opposite direction, turned a corner, but didn’t find Tres Vientos tied to the front colonnade of the French exhibit.
Brannon sprinted up and down the streets looking in every nook and square of landscaped lawn. He finally found Tres Vientos chewing grass and gnawing blooms at the Centennial Park and Experimental Gardens. He grabbed the dragging reins, scolded the horse as quietly as he could, then maneuvered onto the Visalia saddle.
With many bows and apologies, Brannon made his way around the Exposition, past park benches, a whirlwind of acts and rides, and light fixtures. They trotted through the packed bridge, then eased back through the looming colonnade where he raised up in the stirrups and reached into his pants pocket to pull out some coins. He found two silver dollar pieces, one for him, one for his horse. He tossed them at the ticket booths and yelled, “Keep the change.”
They returned to the depot as the whistle signaled departure. He wasn’t the only one in a suit and hat hustling to the train.
He crammed a cantankerous, unhappy Tres Vientos into the back car and as he tried to be dignified, rushed to board himself when he was accosted again by the brown-suited men. One man with them that he didn’t recognize wore a badge.
“Mr. Brannon, you’re wanted for questioning.”
“About what?”
The young deputy knotted his face into a stern frown. “For harassment of patrons of the Centennial, for intrusion into the protocol of the Northern Pacific line, so that they’re almost two hours off schedule, and for taking the law into your own hands.”
“You mean, for stopping a robber from getting away with loot he stole from Northern Pacific passengers?”
“Duly appointed officers could and should have taken care of him. Your… your misplaced chivalry, your interference, terrorized and endangered the lives of every passenger.” The deputy paused to take a breath. His whole body shook with fervor. “We’re a civilized country now, Mr. Brannon. We don’t need aging gunmen to save the West anymore. Take the train out of town or go to jail. Your choice.”
Stuart Brannon took a quick study of the young lawman, hand hunched over his weapon, eyes that darted everywhere to see who might be a witness to his bravado. “What’s your name, son? I’d like to commend you to your superior for a job well done.”
The deputy’s eyebrows raised. He hesitated in a brief fit of confusion, then swelled his chest. “I’m Harvey Kliever of the Clatsop County police force, but I also work for the railroad part-time.”
“Well, Deputy Kliever, I heard you got your outlaw. Now, I’ve got to get to the coast. Some people are waiting for me.”
A glint of triumph shined in his eyes. “Okay, Mr. Brannon. We’ll let it go this time,” he said loud enough for any on this car to hear. “But you watch yourself. You’ve stepped over a line. It’s not like it was in the old days.”
Deputy Kliever got on the train with him, but sat in a front car.
Brannon heard a lot of whispers among the passengers as he passed by. Some reached out to shake his hand. A few shot glares his way. Most ignored him. That suited him fine. He was much relieved to find his duffles still under the seat, with his new-fangled take-down Winchester rifle in the leather case tucked inside.
The train rolled out of the depot on the single track and began the long trek west, across Young’s Bay to Astoria, then south along the coast to Gearhart. Brannon closed his eyes, let his mind go blank and his body unwind for the four or five hour trip. What’s a Clatsop County deputy doing in Portland? He said he also works for the railroad… guess that’s why. That’s his business and none of my own.
After a brief nap, he admired the lush groves with stubby and tall trees that lined the narrow track… firs, maples, spruce, cedars, pines. Moss hung from branches like door curtains. Fronds and ferns covered the ground with beds of undergrowth. Thick. Almost a claustrophobic feel. The striking contrast of multiple shades of green so different from the Arizona desert.
In the old days, Brannon would have wondered who hid in the bushes.
The conductor made odd stops, waited for stragglers, backed up for forgotten items and once a lost child. A leisurely four-dollar trip.
A few deer and elk grazed in vast meadows of deep purple. Brannon could almost hear the ring of the bluebells as they went from pastures, over hills, through thick glades, across creeks and bridges that spanned bays. Finally an expansive view of the ocean and the first scent of that lingering fishy, tangy air.
Brannon noticed the deputy got off the train at Astoria and pulled his horse out of a back car, who handled the sights and sounds of the city just fine.
Brannon snoozed off and on the rest of the way to Gearhart, with snatches of forest, beach and shoreline views.
After the short jaunt south, he was greeted at the Gearhart Depot by Lord Edwin Fletcher and Lady Harriet Reed-Fletcher with their Buick Model C Touring Car, even though the hotel was within walking distance.
“We had to come greet you.” Lady Fletcher flung her arms around him for a long hug. “We’ve been to Seaside to buy some petrol.”
And show off your auto car.
Brannon grasped Fletcher’s hand and nearly wrenched it.
He was glad to be free of the constant rock and rumble of the train and couldn’t help admire the yellow top and wheels, black upholstery and gold-rimmed headlights. The sort of transportation he’d presume for the Fletchers, although he halfway expected a Rolls Royce or Renault. He also treasured the reunion with his old friends.
I’m already glad I came. He marveled at the parts of the auto car again.
His New Mexico friends, Doc and Velvet Shepherd, owned a Ford Model F. In fact, a number of those wheeled around the streets of Prescott, as well as Thomas autos and Oldsmobiles. L.F. wanted a motorcar for his growing family. But Brannon so far had refused to even consider one for himself. So hard to fix, to ride over those bumpy roads, to keep gas in the ornery contraptions. Of course, horse transportation had its negatives too.
Tres Vientos tagged along behind with worried eyes and a very fast trot.
“Suit, tie, hat and boots… you look good, Stuart,” Lady Fletcher said. “But did you have to include the rip in the jacket? Just like the old days?”
“It was a long, long ride to get here.”
“I realize that. We have so enjoyed our tour around this part of the U.S.”
Lord Fletcher tossed his walking stick in the back. “Yes, but it’s bittersweet to explore territory that Britain once owned. We British have given up so much land all over the world. It’s a pity.”
Brannon glanced at the fancy cane—T-style handle, jade and enamel with ruby borders on an ebony shaft. “You can’t rule it all,” Brannon remarked. “Your country needs to learn to share.”
“We are a generous lot, too generous at times.”
“Did you get a chance to visit the Exposition?” Lady Fletcher asked.
“Yes, you might say I did. Quite impressive.”
“An achievement, to be sure,” Lord Fletcher replied. “Could be a huge turning point for Portland, if not the whole state of Oregon. But all the lathe and plaster structures, meant to come down. Nothing permanent. Meanwhile, this state can leave its rugged fr
ontier days behind and move into the modern era. That’s what I’ve heard the committee claim.”
Lady Fletcher patted his shoulder. “Too bad you didn’t get to view it at night. Hundreds of thousands of lights on the site, I hear. They want to burn some sort of red powder mixture on Mt. Hood and make it seem to be wrapped in flames… with massive statues of Lewis and Clark. They lack nothing in vision, I do say. You must see that on your return.”
Brannon tamped down his blowing hat. “Why haven’t you been there?”
Lady Fletcher chuckled. “Oh, we will. We didn’t dare go there first or we’d never get Laira to come here to Gearhart. That’s promised to her on our way back to England… a sort of reward. Perhaps a bribe.”
“Your daughter’s here? How about my namesake, young Stuart?”
Lord Fletcher sighed. “I’m sorry to say the lad’s played hooky again from Oxford and ventured to Africa… or is it Asia? I can’t keep up.”
“Edwin, you know perfectly well it’s Asia. Your chest swells so much you’ve stretched all your coats.”
“Sounds like young Stuart’s a lot like his father,” Brannon said.
“Yes, quite. You’ve already gotten some mail.” Lady Fletcher handed him two postcards.
Brannon patted his pocket, then opened it wide. His face twitched as he stretched to feel all over his jacket, down his pants and into the seat. He checked the floor of the car. His heart sank as he realized that the new eyeglasses that he needed to see close-ups, some extra gold and silver coins, and especially the gold locket with his late wife’s picture were all gone. Lisa!
“I take it that something’s missing,” Lady Fletcher replied.
“Nothing’s there. I’ve lost them all.”
He thought back to the last time he’d viewed those items. He’d pulled them out of his duffle this morning on the train… or was it yesterday morning? He’d bought his ticket with one of the coins. Then, he required the glasses to read his train ticket and later a newspaper. When was that? And he never parted from the locket… not once these last thirty years since that Christmas Day that she and the baby died.
Maybe that rough ride on Tres Vientos through the crowd at the Exposition had emptied his pocket. Somehow he got jerked around enough that they fell out. Or… or that chandelier woman at the French exhibit. Could she have stolen them in the chaos of that tumble on the bed?
Brannon groaned as Lady Fletcher looked back again to study his face. “Are you unwell?” she asked.
His chest tightened so he couldn’t breathe. It was impossible to gasp out a word. This is almost as bad as the day Hank Jedel fired the cannon at the Piñon Pines and the graves of Lisa and the baby. Lord, help me gain control. I can’t get diverted by personal business. I’m on an important mission.
The three-story plus dormer Gearhart Hotel with its winding stairs and wrap-around decks offered plush rooms, wicker chairs everywhere, and a lobby that reeked of Havana cigars. An evening array of lighted Chinese lanterns decorated the grounds.
Brannon delivered Tres Vientos into a well-stocked and cared-for stable and barn on the hotel grounds, then slipped into his room, pulled off the beaver felt Stetson and laid it, crown down, on a mahogany table. He tossed his duffles on the blue, canopied bed and searched them several times. No coins. No glasses. No locket. He slapped his hat back on and slammed the doorframe with his fist.
Four
Lady Fletcher met him in the lobby and handed him a telegram. He reached for his glasses, then remembered. He had to ask her to read it and the postcards from his precocious four-year-old granddaughter, Elizabeth, who asked him to describe “everything he possibly could” about the ocean. “To be there with you would be so fun,” she had related to her mother, Jannette, who wrote the note. She also drew heads of her whole family… papa, mama, grandpa, brother Everett, five years old; brother Edwin, two years old; and baby brother, Jenner.
The other postcard stated: “Everett made me play cowboys and Indians. He was the cowboy. I was Sacagawea. He had a stick gun, but he wouldn’t let me have a weapon because I am a girl, so I never could win. Got a new hat to wear to the Sunday picnic.”
Neither he nor Lady Fletcher could prevent a full smile as he tucked the cards in his pocket.
The telegram, however, was cryptic and left them both puzzled. Verify everyone. Report anything suspicious. T.R.
Hawthorne H. Miller dabbed his bloody, throbbing nose as he cursed the hero of his dozens of novels that had brought him fame and fortune across the country and in many places foreign to the western U.S.
“What an ingrate. That Brannon doesn’t deserve one whit of the adulation that my books have brought him. I’ll destroy him. I built him into what he is today. I practically created him from scratch. Now I’ll tear him down. I’ll tell the world the truth about Mr. Stuart Brannon, that he is a vile man, not worthy of their esteem. What a satisfying life mission. A worthy one. To point out the evil of those unduly revered.”
Miller rushed to his wagon to pull out a clean shirt, sheets of paper and his typewriter. He carted them into the forestry log cabin and over to the desk by his display of novels. He crammed a sheet of paper in and typed with great fervor: The Private Life of Stuart Brannon, An Exposé.
He ignored the squeals so common from passersby as they recognized the book titles.
“Stuart Brannon dime novels… right here at the Exposition… and they’re already autographed.”
“I’d pay anything for these.”
“I’d pay more for a glimpse, a handshake from the man himself.”
You’ll pay more for what I’m about to reveal.
Miller’s hands flew over the keys. “You think you’re going to tell the world? No one’s going to know about you and me and all the kids I abandoned years ago.” Brannon cocked the revolver and aimed at the woman’s forehead. She held her baby boy tight, trying to keep him safe from the bullet she knew would end her life.
Miller paused. He started to doubt himself, but it quickly passed. Yes, yes, they’ll believe me. They’ll never look at Brannon the same again. He’ll be the black cockroach crunched under their grimy boots. He’ll be the over-sized maggot crawling in their outhouse sludge. He’ll be the scum of their pitiful piece of earth.
“Sir, can we pay you for these books?” Her brunette pompadour shined under a peacock-feathered hat. A gold and emerald broach sparkled. She dropped a dozen novels on the table and pulled out a wad of bills from her purse. “And how about that picture on the wall… of Stuart Brannon and the Indian girl? Do you have posters for sale? My relatives in St. Louis would all be thrilled to own such a memento of our trip.”
Miller shot a surly scowl at the woman. He was in the throes of his most important work. Wait. What did she say? His blurred eyes fixed on the money stack. A faint quiver stirred his being. His head cleared. His nose stopped throbbing.
“Oh my, have you been hurt? Is that blood all over your shirt?”
Miller rubbed at the stains. He yanked the paper out of the typewriter and wiped his shirt with quick jerks of his hand. “It’s nothing. I… uh… what can I do for you?” Miller plastered on his finest fake smile.
Miller took care of his customers and analyzed the profit he made in a matter of minutes. Deep in thought, he gazed at the poster on the wall that advertised the celebrity golf tournament in Gearhart, Stuart Brannon’s image spliced between William “Wild Bill” Cody’s and Wyatt Earp’s. His mind churned full speed.
Stuart Brannon’s legend intact means more fame and fortune for me.
He rushed to find the director of the Forestry Building. “Can you spare one of your workers or volunteers to take care of my display? I’ve got to be gone a few days. It’s all a part of the Exposition. I’ll hurry back as fast as I can.”
That arrangement settled, he gathered up the typewriter and the rest of the paper, then changed shirts. In the back of the wagon, he restacked boxes of dime novels and copies of the enlarged photo of Brannon and R
ose Creek. Then he arranged the wet-collodion-plate, the black bellows camera, the field and stereo cameras with the silver nitrate, plus the glass plates and paper around the hand-fashioned, traveling darkroom.
He whipped the horses around and headed them down the street past children who skipped with balloons or ate multi-colored fluffs of sweet fairy floss. Women whirled parasols. Men in plain suits lounged in groups over flasks of beer. Stripe-suited men stood in line with women in batiste and lace at the French Exhibit.
“Bonjour,” Miller called out to the guards as he pulled off his hat. Then, he stopped to whip out a pencil and paper. He wrote: Going to Gearhart. H. H. Miller. “To Darcy,” he instructed. He felt light, relieved of a heavy burden. He had regained his life’s mission. You know, Brannon’s not really a bad chap. There’s been a misunderstanding, but we’ll get it squared away. And if we don’t, it won’t be wasted. Every situation that involves Stuart Brannon provides me writing material.
Excitement grew from his crimped toes to the sprawl of his gray hair as he realized that he’d made an awesome decision. He, Hawthorne Miller, had bestowed grace upon the great Stuart Brannon. In one magnanimous sweep of his will, he had given a very unworthy man back his reputation, his honor, his life.
Five
Monday, June 12
Brannon woke up grumpy, disoriented.
He tried to sleep in the four-poster, canopy bed. He sprawled all over the double bed as he stretched the length and breadth. He spent half the night bumped against the carvings of acanthus leaves, garlands and ribbons in the headboard. Then he tossed and turned on the too-soft mattress while a group of late arrivers partied in the hall and slammed doors way past midnight.
After another pitch and roll session, he got up to stretch the kinks in his back. He decided he might as well get dressed for the day. As he hobbled around barefoot in search of the shirt and boots he wore on the train, he stubbed a big toe on the bed’s ball and claw feet, then stumbled over the spittoon. Limping out to the hall, he almost collided into Lady Fletcher, who was alert and ready for an early morning walk.
