by Stephen Bly
Harriet introduced him to a number of the men first. One man wore a kilt with his bowler hat. One fellow ran a dairy. The one with top hat and formal evening coat was known as the “Salmon King.” Any of these men appeared to be gentlemen who would rather smoke cigars on the veranda, or be on a hunting trip in the desert, or ride some high rocky trail. But they all put on their manners and a bit of pride to huff about the stuffy room, to try to entertain Lady Fletcher’s guests.
“What do you think about charging registration for auto cars?” the Salmon King asked them all.
“How far west should the United States go?” pondered the man named Gearhart.
“Do you think the Panama Canal will become Roosevelt’s folly?” inquired the man in a kilt, an elderly, dapper gentleman.
Before the conversation got heated, a young man rushed in to report that a pregnant llama had fallen into the Neacoxie Creek. Brannon stepped up to follow several hardy fellows who ran out the door. But Lady Fletcher grabbed him and insisted he come meet her daughter, whom he hadn’t seen since she was a baby.
“The locals are quite capable of handling such emergencies,” she said. “You can’t save every creature in trouble, Stuart.”
But you don’t realize what I have invested in that particular creature.
Laira Ashley Fletcher shined with her mother’s gentility but with the blush of apple blossom, silky white youth, all firm softness and innocence. Her hair flowed with white flowers and a few white bows and framed a heart-shaped face, pug nose and almond eyes.
“Hi, Uncle Stuart,” she greeted. “Oh, twee, I really wanted to go watch the llama get free or have her baby. What do they call baby llamas anyway? Llamettes?”
Brannon tried not to laugh out loud.
“Do stay away from that pernickety scallywag in the kilts. His speciality is to drone on about bumper spoons and sand traps and such as that. What a bore.”
“He seemed like a decent chap to me,” Brannon responded. “What are you doing for entertainment, besides going to your mother’s events?”
“I am not going barefoot on the beach anymore, to dabble my toes in the foamy waves. There’s hidden pinchers in crab holes, splinters in the planked boardwalk, nettles in the beach grass. The water is freezing and the sand burns me. Oh, but I do venture to Seaside on the ferry boat to go shopping. And I play cribbage with my nurse.” She yawned with a dainty pat of her hand. “Mum insisted she come along, even though I am quite grown now, as you can see.”
“How old are you? Thirteen? Fourteen?”
“Oh, twee. Uncle Stuart, I’m so disappointed. You have made it to my list of men-who-lack-sense. I am seventeen… almost.”
“I do apologize. Time passes like a fog for elderly men like me. So, that means your brother, Stuart, must be…”
“Twenty-one. And if he knew you were going to be here, he would have made Oregon his holiday destination, instead of that old musty country he went to. Really, you are greater in his esteem than any other hero, more than Robert Livingstone, even higher than Papa, I think.”
“What musty country are you referring to?”
“It sounds like turkey, but Papa says it has nothing to do with turkey.”
“Is it Turkestan?”
“Yes, that’s it. He’s digging in the ground to study their culture. Very boring, but it worries my parents so.”
“Are you Stuart Brannon?” A woman in lavender who exuded the scent of lilacs breezed near him. Her golden-brown coiffure hinted of soft hay on a barn floor. Or honey in a bees nest. Her eyes curved like crescents, as though she’d laugh at the merest suggestion of humor.
The woman in the library. And the lady on the beach? “Yes, ma’am. Or is it Sharon?”
“You may call me Sharon, if you like. When I’m not meeting handsome men in libraries, I’m addressed as Mrs. Gillespie.”
He tried not to drink in her scent too deeply, too fully. A woman like that could intoxicate a man. “Mrs. Gillespie,” he acknowledged.
“I can’t believe it. Here I am talking to the hero of Slaughter on the Pampas.”
Ah, another Hawthorne Miller novel, I presume.
Laira Ashley Fletcher slipped away to chat with some young ladies who giggled behind two boys who looked stifled in their suits and starched collars.
Mrs. Gillespie must have mistaken his silence as a sign of assent. She exuded confidence as well as a full chest and hips that swayed.
“I’ve been to Argentina several times. I keep looking for the El Presidente Hotel. It must be well hidden from the general touriste. And yet, so many of your adventures take place there.”
She waited as though expecting a response, then forged on. “Sancho Maleta is found dead in the aviary. Romal Vug hides his plans for the overthrow of Paraguay. Bluff Tarrabee… well, I won’t repeat what happens between him and that young singer, Louisa. When those two meet in that narrow passageway to the hidden chamber… ” She blushed. “Of course, you know all about it. I simply must find that hotel and investigate for myself.”
“I’m afraid I can’t be of much help.”
“I understand. Confidentiality is important. But if I could find the hotel, I would do all the rest.”
“But, ma’am.” He stopped. “Mrs. Gillespie… Mr. Miller’s novels are pure fiction. There is little or no truth…”
A booming female voice interrupted from behind. “Mr. Brannon, how good to see you again.”
As he turned to face her, he wracked his memory for a name from both the auditory and visual clues. Something about her sallow, yellowish skin. Madam Cob? Her nut-brown eyes regaled his. Grateful for the diversion, he said, “Yes, ma’am.”
“How are Littlefoot and the family?”
Brannon felt his whole frame relax. He rubbed the wrinkles in his forehead. He had a flash of an image of this woman with Scottish terriers in tow. “Fine, just fine.”
“What a busy tribe for L.F.’s wife, Jannette. Aren’t they?” The woman grabbed him with her fleshy hand. “And you, Grandpa. You must be missing them.”
“They are a blessing.”
“And L.F. isn’t here with you?”
“Not on this trip.”
Mrs. Gillespie interrupted. “We were talking about South America and the accounts of Hawthorne Miller. By the way, Mr. Brannon, did you know he is in town? And he’s got quite a display of your books and photographs and such set up at the golf course booth.”
Brannon snapped around as if Miller would sneak up behind him. I’m sure that was him in the tent. Just what I need. “He is the one you should talk to about the El Presidente Hotel.”
He watched Tally Rebozo stalk towards him. Brannon excused himself and tried to steer Rebozo away from the crowd, then reminded himself the man was most likely headed for Sharon Gillespie.
“Did you know that Mrs. Gillespie has received stage and elocutionary education in the East?” Rebozo began.
“Nope.”
“She’s a fine stage figure with that exquisite soprano. She’s been much applauded, encored and called before the curtain.”
“That’s nice. What are you up to, Rebozo?”
“You packin’ your .44?”
“Do I look armed and dangerous?”
“I need an answer.”
“Didn’t know if you wanted support or confrontation.”
“I hear Sully is at the Black Duck Saloon in Seaside right now. Maybe we should take a walk.”
“Harriet wants me back at the hotel soon.”
“Won’t take us more than an hour or two to check this guy out.”
Eleven
They hiked on an old wagon path, an ancient foredune ridge where railroad track was laid, then past a wooden boardwalk at the Promenade, homes on the oceanfront, some shacks and an octagon-shaped dance hall in West Seaside where they could hear refrains of Scott Joplin ragtime music. They crossed a bridge over the Necanicum River, about six blocks from the Pacific beach.
Brannon counted at least
four hotels, numerous stores, a savings bank and a Western Union telegraph office. He followed Rebozo through the village streets and to the other side of the business district. “We are both overdressed.”
“What’s so strange about a tux at a waterfront town?”
They heard some scratching sounds, like something metal scraped against wood. Rebozo raised his voice. “Anywhere Stuart Brannon goes formal will seem out of place.”
The scraping stopped and a ghostly figure lunged out at them. “Did you say you were Stuart Brannon, the one from Arizona?”
Brannon rubbed the outline of his revolver. “That’s me. We met somewhere?”
“In the Sangre De Christos and you had a knife pressed against my belly.”
Rebozo hollered a warning. The arm struck like a venomous snake. Brannon spotted the blade just as he lurched and clubbed the man’s chin. Then a volley like a roof collapse followed. Fists flew from every direction. Yells and grunts. Groans and curses from every corner of the boardwalk. Brannon staggered and fell as a fiery slash cut across his thigh. Someone tugged at his leg. A big man with heavy jowls yanked him towards the opening of an empty side room.
Rebozo scooted in behind them. “Brannon, you’re so popular wherever you go,” he wheezed.
Brannon stared at his ripped tuxedo coat and imagined Lady Fletcher’s ire. “Who are you?” he said to their deliverer.
“I’m Sully.” The big man led them out another dark street by a back door and into a shadowy room. Wooden boxes were piled everywhere and they had to feel their way to not bump into them. He opened another door and they slipped through.
Brannon tried to talk quickly as they followed. “We’re looking for Tom Wiseman.”
“Never heard of him,” the big man spit out as he reached for and half-dragged Brannon down an alley.
“How about Sylvia Wiseman?” Rebozo pressed, as he ran behind them.
Sully stopped, pushed Brannon against a brick wall and grabbed Rebozo by the shirt collar. “You lay a hand on little Sylvia and I’ll bust your guts.”
“Whoa.” Brannon attempted to shove the man away from Rebozo and got boxed in the ears. “I believe we’re on the same side. Have you seen Sylvia?”
“Maybe.” He clammed up. This was a man not to be pushed around, but he had his limits. He reclined on a stack of pallets and breathed hard.
“She got on the train in Ogden and at least one witness believes they saw her get off the train in Portland. She hasn’t been heard from since. She’s Tom Wiseman’s daughter. We figure if we can find her, we’ll find him.”
“She’s hiding.” Sully clutched his hands by the wrists over his stomach, then scratched his arms with an incessant movement as though he had a rash or bedbugs.
“From whom? You?” Rebozo inquired.
Sully looked on the verge of picking Rebozo up and tossing him clear to the ocean. “Nah, she’s staying low generally because of this guy Wax Lanigan. She tried to shoot him in Goldfield and he’s been chasing her ever since.”
Brannon faced off with Sully. “What are you claiming? Wax Lanigan is attracted to Sylvia because she tried to kill him?”
“Yep. Goldfield is a close community. We either marry them or bury them. Those are your choices.”
“But when the gold plays out, the town’s gone,” Brannon mused. “Hardly seems an important enough event to attract the intervention of the President of the United States.”
Sully’s raised eyebrows implied interest. “That is where you underestimate the value of the gold being mined in Goldfield.”
“But I’ll wager it’s political clout that’s at stake, not dollars and cents,” Rebozo commented.
“Sylvia’s somewhere by the Lewis and Clark Salt Works, south of here,” Sully revealed. “She’s also got a secret meeting for a newspaper assignment. We’ve got a newspaper now, the Seaside Signal, and the editor, a guy named Watson, is looking for any and all news fit to print. Sylvia’s been here on personal matters and had nothin’ else to do, so he hired her.”
“I figured she’d be at the Grimes Hotel,” Rebozo said.
“Nope. That burned down last year. She told me she was supposed to go to places where people talk, tell what’s happening. She hangs out in hair salons, barber shops, saloons… and prayer meetings. Then she finds a discreet place to meet for further interviews. Tonight was the Salt Works.”
“Is the Salt Works a hotel?” Brannon asked.
“It’s a salt cairn, a kind of memorial to signify where they believe Lewis and Clark camped to make salt for their long journey home.”
They treaded after Sully’s massive heels as the big man talked the whole time. “It’s about as bad as Goldfield here. There’s a rabble rouser from Uniontown trying to get the saloons closed, since they had success up there. There’s a bunch of guys who are frequently arrested for participating in midnight brawls. And a gang of young ruffians have robbed, plundered and been a growing nuisance around town. It’s gotten worse lately, houses broken into and upstanding citizens getting blackmailed.”
In the distance, Tillamook Head beachhead protruded like an enormous whale sculpture off the coastline. Further west, the caution beam of Tillamook Lighthouse blinked its warning of rocky dangers to passing ships far offshore, headed to and from the Columbia River.
“Isn’t that a police matter?”
“Yes, but Sylvia’s gotten involved. A friend of hers has a special interest in the case and the newspaper wants a scoop. She was meeting with a gang representative at the Salt Works.”
They reached a long, low stone edifice with pails that lined the top. Firewood crammed the oval opening.
“Sylvia.” Sully’s harsh, throaty voice penetrated the misty air.
A woman appeared from behind some bushes that surrounded the Salt Works, a rock pile and stones structure. A sturdy, athletic woman with an ankle-length tweed suit, large brown eyes and full mouth stalked forward. She had a fox fur, but no hat. Even with an unbending frown her face shone with natural beauty, the sort that ages well, that needs little or no cosmetics. Wisps of mostly upswept brunette hair fluttered out of combs, her clothes not quite all tucked in.
“What do you men want?”
“Sylvia, it’s Stuart Brannon. We’re looking for Tom, your father. No one’s seen him for a week and he had been reporting daily to the President.”
She sprang forward, knife in hand, fully alert. But the suspicious frown had eased. “Why did you come here?”
“We hoped you might know where he is.”
“I haven’t seen him since Mama’s funeral. What do you know about his disappearance?”
Rebozo volunteered the reply. “Last seen in Gearhart. I just learned that, among others, he was with a Nicaraguan named Chuy Carbón and Bois DeVache, a Frenchman. Do you know either of them?”
“No, I don’t, but Papa told me he was asked by the President to assist with some special duties that dealt with important people either connected to or attending the Lewis and Clark Exposition.”
“This was his last assignment?” Brannon asked.
“As a favor to the President. He planned to retire after that.” She fixed a firm look at Rebozo. “I’ve seen you before.”
“Perhaps. I’ve been all over the world.”
Then she added, “I’m coming with you.”
“To where?”
“To wherever you’re going to look for Papa.”
“You’ll have to be on the alert. Wax Lanigan is in Gearhart and I understand you’d prefer to avoid him,” Brannon informed her.
“Then I’ll get extra bullets. Be right back.”
She returned a few minutes later with a leather bag over her shoulder, leading a chestnut mare with a flaxen mane. She introduced the horse as Geode, the color of tea with milk stirred in. She pranced as though ready for a race. “This one can be flighty, but only around men. Don’t take it personal.”
Sylvia didn’t carry a carbine or rifle for the “extra bullets,” s
o Brannon presumed she had a sneak gun tucked in her clothes somewhere… and certainly her knife, too. She looked the type… steady gaze, muscular arms, firm step. He never blamed any woman for providing her own protection.
She handed a note to Sully. “Give this to Cordelle.”
“What shall I tell Editor Watson?”
“That maybe I’ll bring him a bigger story.”
A shot rang out and a bullet passed over their heads, narrowly missing Sylvia.
“Go, go,” Sully told her. He bent low beside the Salt Works while they rushed away.
On the way back to Gearhart they took a different route suggested by Sully. Sylvia took the lead through a dense forest of fir, pine and spruce. Several condors flapped their wings in flight then glided over the treetops. A doe and fawn scooted out of the trail.
Too thick for fast walking, they hunkered down underneath low boughs as they tromped over wild clover leaves and skunk cabbage, which almost overwhelmed Brannon with its carrion- like rank odor. He made a mental note to try to avoid the massive-leafed, yellow-bloomed, poker-like stemmed plant.
A huge branch whacked Sylvia in the head and almost knocked her over. “Watch out back there,” she hollered.
“Someone’s following us,” Rebozo reported.
A crash through the trees followed.
They hurried past a ravine filled with rocks brought by floods or from tumbling down the hillside. A sign cautioned trespassers of traps at one section.
“Traps for what?” Rebozo questioned.
“I don’t know,” Brannon replied, “and don’t want to find out.”
“I’m sorry,” Sylvia shouted. “Not much of a shortcut.”
Rocks whizzed by them.
“We’re either being chased out or attacked. Are you sure you can trust this Sully guy?” Brannon asked.
“With my life,” Sylvia said.
Brannon and Rebozo doubled back, careful to stay on the path and almost collided into a young boy. “Hey, I’m the one being chased. It wasn’t me who shot at you.” The boy tried to speak tough, a swagger in his voice.
“Who’s chasing you?”
“That big man Sully. The guy who did the shooting went back to Seaside. But he’s not chasing me. I just don’t want to talk to him.”
