by Stephen Bly
They waited for Sully to catch up. “Thanks for catching this bully. He’s been hanging around with those rowdies.”
“What’s your name?” Sylvia asked.
“What’s it to ya?” he snarled as Sully grabbed him by the nape of the neck and hauled him back to town.
“What’s his name, besides Sully?” Brannon asked.
“He signs papers with ‘Q. Sully.’ Don’t know anymore than that and he doesn’t seem to appreciate it if you ask.”
Brannon scratched his neck. “Q? What would that stand for? Quentin? Quigley? Quincy?”
Rebozo pulled on some black gloves and wriggled his fingers. “It’s Quintus. His mother was Spanish and he was her fifth child.” He looked up at their questioning stares. “I make it my priority to find out these things.”
“Why’s he in Seaside?” Brannon asked.
Sylvia replied. “He has a temporary office in Portland, at the Exposition, but also rented an office in Seaside… for business, of course, but has some pleasure on the side going on there.”
“You mean, besides taking in the sights, sunbathing on the beach?” Rebozo ribbed.
Sylvia frowned in a “none of your concern” way. “He’s watching after me too. He’s a very protective kind of guy.”
“I’m surprised he let us walk off with you, without coming along,” Brannon commented.
“I’m sure the name Stuart Brannon helped.”
Twelve
When they reached an opening of sand dunes with a plank road made from salvaged wood from a shipwreck, Brannon risked an inquiry, loud enough to be heard over the clomp of Geode’s hooves and their boot heels on the wooden surface. “What’s the beef between you and Lanigan?”
“The last time I saw him in Goldfield was at a fancy dress ball. I managed to dance with every man in the room except Lanigan. I do believe he noticed.”
“Sometimes a man surmises a woman is playing hard to get,” Rebozo remarked.
“I don’t want him anywhere near me,” Sylvia spouted. “Somehow he landed at the Portland depot before me, like he waited for me. He was attired in top hat and tails and wanted to take me out. I declined and he took it calmly enough. That surprised me. But I had my mind on other pursuits this time.”
“Such as?” Brannon prompted.
She kept on with her spiel about Lanigan. “He seemed nice enough at first, there in Goldfield, but because of his union rants, and me with the mine owners, I decided to cool things down between us. He got obstinate. Now I never know when he’ll show up to follow me around. Sometimes I think he’s a stalker. He makes me real nervous.”
“So the guy won’t give up the pursuit. He wants to know how serious you are about your ‘no.’”
“I’m very serious. He has major character issues. One time he got upset with a telephone in his Goldfield office. He ripped the instrument off the wall and smashed it to smithers.”
Brannon shoved on his black hat. “‘Never till this day saw I him touch’d with anger so distemper’d.’” He’s got as bad or worse a problem as mine.
“Ah, a quote from The Tempest,” Rebozo remarked.
Sylvia continued as she hiked the uneven trail. “He’s not afraid to spar with anyone, even Sully… except a couple friends of yours who ran him out of Goldfield.”
“Who was that?”
“The Earp brothers… Virgil and Wyatt. Virgil’s the deputy sheriff there. Wyatt’s the resident gambler.”
“Yep, I’ve had occasion to bump into them doing business in Yavapai County, Arizona.”
“I hear Wyatt’s going to be in Gearhart later this week,” Rebozo said.
“Why were you in Seaside?” Brannon asked.
“Because of Cordelle Plew. Met him on the train. Followed him here.”
“Are you gunning for him like you did with Lanigan?” Rebozo added.
She whirled around and swiped Geode’s reins in their direction. “It shouldn’t be a crime for a woman to shoot a man who needs shooting. I don’t let any man treat me like that.”
“Okay, but tell us about Cordelle. We really want to know,” Brannon pressed.
“I’m convinced that Cordelle’s a good man, engaged in a good work. He’s a Western Place-ment Agent, a social worker from New York City. He’s here to check on some orphans he placed from the orphan train. He saves perishing, neglected children. There’s no higher calling.”
“But is he your sweetheart?” Rebozo pried.
“None of your business.” She strutted forward as they neared the outskirts of Gearhart. Stars glistened above. Lanterns and electric lights glinted through the trees. “Love will grow, if I let it,” she muttered as though only to herself.
“Now, we’ve got to get this guy,” Rebozo waved at Brannon, “to a formal shindig and look decent enough for Lady Harriet Reed-Fletcher.”
Brannon tried to muster confidence as he looked down at his attire. “She’ll understand.”
Rebozo huffed as he tried to sprint to keep up with Brannon. “The Frenchman interests me. He should be suspect.”
“Bois DeVache did you say?”
“Yes, he was heavily involved the last fifteen years with the work at Panama while France was involved. Quite a scandal for the French. All the money spent, the loss of life, the years with nothing to show for it. Big-time engineer. Bad ethics. Trying to hold on to his status. I heard a lot about him… from other agents.”
“Like who?”
“Can’t say, but I’ve heard he’s a man of force, as well as vision. He’s also desperate to redeem his name and the honor of his country, and make some profit in the bargain.”
“Those can be conflicting goals.”
“Yes, that’s true.” Rebozo fingered back a straggle of his dark hair.
“Did you say he’s a man of force? You mean, he might resort to violence?”
“That I don’t know. But he is used to getting his way, of being in charge. I know he was to meet with some U.S. engineers here at Gearhart, out of the more public view of Portland. The engineers were here on the coast with their families to attend the Exposition. He was to give them advice on malaria and yellow fever, which are so epidemic for any workers in that Panama region.”
“In exchange for what?”
“Don’t know that either. But it’s a distance to travel to do it for nothing, don’t you think?”
Brannon considered what would urge him to journey a long way from hearth and home. A favor for friends. Very special friends.
Thirteen
Lady Fletcher met Brannon at the hotel lobby. “How can any grown man get that messed up in such a short time?”
“It does take a certain flair,” Brannon bantered back.
“There’s a basin in the ladies’ dressing room. Wash your face. Comb your hair. Try to pin the rip in your tuxedo. Oh, and bandage up that wound and hurry back.”
“One thing before I go. I have a favor to ask of you.”
“What would that be?”
“Could you find a place for Tom Wiseman’s daughter to stay… and… and fix her up a bit. She’s outside with a chestnut horse. She doesn’t have to come to the party. Not sure she even wants to.”
She broke into a gracious smile. “I’ll take care of her. You take care of you.”
Brannon caused a stir in the ladies’ room, but received lots of offers of help. Then he borrowed an evening jacket from Lord Fletcher, very fashionable, but short in the arms and length. “I’m not trying to impress anyone, but I must pass Harriet’s inspection,” he told Edwin.
“All for King and country.”
Lady Fletcher critiqued his appearance and signaled approval, but not without a sigh. “A young woman’s been waiting for you.”
She steered him to a dark-skinned Mexican woman, thick black braids rolled on the top of her head, in a long, plain yellow dress. She curtsied before him. “This is my husband, Peter Miller Lowery… and I’m Angelita.” A huge grin followed. Brannon sorted through a mass
of graying memories as to why he should know this couple.
“I’m Tap and Pepper Andrews’ foster daughter.”
A rush of scenes and stories made him check his pockets, reach for his gun. Angelita, the huckster. But he’d already been the victim of a pickpocket. Nothing left to take.
Angelita chuckled. “You’re safe, Mr. Brannon. Peter and I now own Stack Lowery’s Sphinx Gold Mine, by inheritance. I have no reason to sell Stuart Brannon souvenirs any more at train depots and street corners.”
“How are Tap and Pepper doing?”
“Fine, I think. We’re going to visit them and the kids as soon as we leave here.”
Someone let out a loud yelp. The man in a kilt ran for a large glass of water, gulped it down, then dabbed his face with a wet linen handkerchief.
“You must try the cheese ball appetizers,” Angelita said. “I made them myself. Very sharp and zesty.”
The mingling of small groups of people pulled together to join in a rousing rendition of The Band Played On. Angelita’s voice croaked with her husband’s as they sang along. “Casey would waltz with a strawberry blonde…” Even Brannon joined in.
Brannon surrendered to a playful social lightness he hadn’t experienced in years. Only the presence of his grandchildren could duplicate it. After a few more rounds of the song, the band began to play the Blue Danube Waltz.
“How about a dance?” Angelita offered. “My Peter’s got a bum leg after a big black gelding out in the hotel barn kicked him.”
Brannon looked over the slim, serious, clean-shaven face of Peter Lowery, hair parted straight down the middle. “I’m not sure I could keep up with your youth and vigor.”
“Sure you could. Besides, if you dance with me, you won’t have to be bothered by those other silly ladies, those widows who think you’re such a catch.”
She raised her arms in dance mode and Brannon made an awkward attempt to connect. Angelita proved to be a capable partner and they soon waltzed among several other couples on the dance floor. I miss Victoria, her sunshine smile, her closeness. Maybe it’s because of Angelita being Mexican.
But also a stab of familiar guilt hit him.
Lisa’s locket. I shouldn’t have lost it. I couldn’t save her life, but I must at least preserve her memory.
When the music stopped, Angelita’s eyes sparkled. “Mr. Brannon, you’ve added so many stories to my repertoire. I shall regale many friends and strangers with our night of magic, our dance in the moonlight, our parting at Sunrise Hill.”
He offered a grin. “You can get all of that from a stumble with me around the floor?”
“Ah, the imagination is a fertile field from which to draw the staff of life.”
Brannon escorted Angelita back to her husband. Peter Lowery slumped on a cushioned chair, his leg raised on a booster. Brannon felt honor bound to address the subject. “Mr. Lowery, I’m afraid I need to apologize.”
“Oh, not necessary,” the man jumped in. “I’m always glad to keep Angelita entertained, by whatever means.”
Yes, I’m sure she’s a high-maintenance wife, but I was referring to that black horse in the barn. I suspect that Tres Vientos may have been the villain.
Brannon’s attention followed the sounds of a now-recognizable giggle. Laira Ashley Fletcher was choosing appetizers for a suave man with a thin, curved mustache, blunt sideburns and dark, wavy hair.
Rebozo had sauntered up to Laira Fletcher, a drink of fruit punch for her in his hand. “What do you think of the bridesmaids chosen? Are Princess Victoria, Princess Beatrice, and Princess Patricia worthy?” he began.
“Why, Mr. Rebozo, are you keeping up with the London wedding news?”
“I’d better or there’s no one to talk to here tonight.”
“Oh, twee. They’re all pernickety.” She waved her hand around the room. “I’d rather discuss whether or not this romance between Prince Gustaf and Princess Margaret has a chance to last.”
“What odds do you give them?”
“It’s forever, I’m sure of it. They fell in love at first sight, you know.” Laira waved a fan and flickered her eyelashes. “Mr. Rebozo, have you ever fallen in love at first sight?”
He better not let Edwin catch him near his daughter.
Too late.
Brannon got close enough to hear the conversation as Lord Fletcher barreled towards the couple. He could hear the insistent click, click of the walking stick.
“I say, sir, we hold the Serbians in ill repute these days. In fact, we’re not on speaking terms, as you know,” Lord Fletcher began.
Rebozo was quick with a repartee. “Yet so many Roman emperors have hailed from there. It cannot be all bad.”
“Out of many revolutions, the blood does cry,” Fletcher stated.
“Out of many foreign rulers, the blood does boil,” Rebozo replied.
Fletcher shook his stick at Rebozo. “Ah, well taught, but is it well learned? That whole nasty assassination business of the king and queen…”
Laira stamped her foot. “Oh, twee, Papa, Mr. Rebozo was going to tell me about the rides and amusements at the Exposition. When are we going?”
“After the golf tournament. Won’t be long… and then we’ll return to London.” He fixed a gaze on Rebozo.
After Rebozo left to whisper something in the ear of Mrs. Gillespie, Lord Fletcher turned to Brannon. “The man’s not a native Serbian, but he may have visited there long enough to know the culture.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Not barbarian enough.”
Lady Fletcher swooped over with Willamette Orphan Farm Director Sam Smythe, his wife, Eloise Smythe, a pleasant woman with a kind smile and masses of hair beneath her flowered hat, and two pretty, young staffers, Penelope Tagg and Henrietta Ober. A dozen children lined a table, hands in laps, stair-stepped in head height. Six girls under large hats. Five boys in knickerbockers, plus another in a sailor suit.
Sam Smythe showed Brannon a small plaque. “We’d be honored to have you present this to one of our orphans, Bueno, the ten-year-old in the sailor suit. He saved an older boy, Hack Howard, from drowning. We want to reward his courage. The presentation will immediately follow the speech by Wax Lanigan, the President of our board.”
Brannon aimed a sharp look at the director, then at Lady Fletcher.
“It’s because of Lanigan that we’re here,” Lady Fletcher explained. “He proposed the idea of the golf tournament after he convinced us of the value of the Orphan Farm.”
“Yes,” continued the director, “although Mr. Lanigan has only been in the area for a few months, he has raised a tremendous amount of money from donors for both the orphans and the Lewis and Clark Exposition. He himself was an orphan and has quite a story to tell. I believe he’ll share it tonight.”
Brannon tried to assimilate this information while Lady Fletcher led him to a table at the side of a small stage. His mind whirred in several directions at once. He had always tried to convince the wayward to repent, to choose a different path. Some did. Many did not. He regretted those he had sent to their eternal reward with curses still on their lips and in their hearts. He aimed to be ready to forgive, if not forget.
So, had Wax Lanigan switched moral and legal sides? Had he turned to fine, upstanding citizenry as his life’s new goal? If so, it had been very recent. However, he did recall that the man had ingratiated himself into the graces of the local society before the stagecoach robbery.
Brannon disclosed the question to Lady Fletcher uppermost in his mind. “Why would Lanigan contact you way over there in London? How did he even think to do so?”
“He explained that he was given a list of officials and dignitaries who would be part of the Exposition. He chose a sampling who might be interested in his cause. He was right about us.”
At first Brannon didn’t recognize the woman at his table. She squirmed in a lacy, bouffant dress of peach and cream, her hair in a very neat, dainty and loose full roll around her face. A light m
ake-up completed the polished effect. Sylvia!
Fourteen
“Hi, Stuart. Your Harriet can work wonders.”
“I agree.” Brannon admired Sylvia’s transformation from head to toe.
Lady Fletcher beamed her full approval. “You didn’t mention that your lady friend likes to ride her horse English style.”
“What do you mean riding English? We walked from Seaside.”
“Like a man. The British women do that all the time. When I lived here in the States, I rode buggy, buckboard or wagon whenever I could because of the discomfort of the sidesaddle.”
Director Sam Smythe took charge of the program after a supper of duck à l’orange, herb-crusted salmon, wild rice and onions, asparagus au gratin, and blackberry pie. Brannon was not impressed. He cheered up when a waiter brought a bowl of mashed potatoes with fresh mounds of melting butter that formed pools across the top. While he dug in for seconds, he searched in vain for more steak, with or without mushrooms. He settled for two helpings of frozen sherbet.
Then Director Smythe introduced Wax Lanigan.
Brannon had to admit that Lanigan looked the part in his black double-breasted suit, black tie and polished black Oxford shoes. His neat, close-cut mustache and beard, and swivel of hair on top, emphasized his ears that jutted an inch from his head. He looked humble at all the right times, but his speech seemed to Brannon to be given by rote.
Why am I so suspicious? Can’t I give the man a break? It’s not unusual to memorize a speech. Lord, I’m sure glad you’re more gracious to us.
Lanigan concluded with, “I was born a pauper and lost my mother at birth. My father died by violence before I was born. An aunt tried to raise me, but she fell into ill health. I scrounged in the streets for food and shelter for myself and my two siblings.” He paused to wipe his forehead. “But if there had been a place like Willamette Orphan Farm, I would have received good care.”
Then it was time for the award for Bueno Diaz. Brannon said a few words about the boy’s bravery, as it had been related to him. The boy took the plaque, thanked Brannon in a quiet, stilted voice, then sat down next to a taller boy, the one he had rescued. Bueno seemed more than shy, almost petrified. Stage fright. I know the feeling.
