by Stephen Bly
He moseyed by Gearhart Park with the auditorium and gazebo and past the cribbed, wooden bridge of the Neacoxie Creek where several boaters rowed.
More tents and unprotected bedding filled the outlying grassy areas. Both poor and rich enjoyed the scenic playground. Some of the tents were being used for a daily summer Episcopal camp for local and visiting children.
Neat, manicured yards and mansion-like homes formed this part of the residential area, which included the Marshall Kinney place with numerous gables and a two-storey turret. He passed the Latourette House with lap siding and tongue and groove construction, the Frank Smith and Shaw houses, the Taft home and one called the Honeymoon House. All the citizens subsisted on well water which had to be dug for the owners, then bought, borrowed and carried by less fortunate neighbors. He had heard no complaints on that score.
This is a beautiful place, I have to admit, for city living, that is.
At the center of town, he stopped to gaze at a storefront with men’s and boy’s clothing displayed in the two side windows. Signs indicated that bicycles, bags and trunks were also part of the merchandise. Inside, he noticed they offered some furnishings and Goodyear Rubber Company clothing, such as shoes and “snag-proof, crack-proof” fishing boots.
At the back, wheels, rims and parts of bicycles hung on the walls and from the rafters. He saw three locked bicycles leaned in a rack.
Like those bicycles that Victoria bought from a peddler to have at the hacienda. Everyone stood in line to get a chance to ride them… with varying success. Some got balanced and pedaled right away. Others never did. I was somewhere in the middle, but if I can manage some traction, I’ll get in some miles.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“I need one of those… for a few hours. Can I rent one?”
“No, sir, I’m sorry.”
“Are they spoken for?”
“No, sir, I am very sorry.”
“Well, what do you do with them?”
“We sell them. No rentals, as of last week. We’ve had three bicycles taken out and not returned.”
“What if I leave you the full price, then when I bring it back, I’ll get a partial refund?”
“Sorry, sir, I cannot do that.”
“How come?”
“Well, two of those are ladies’ bikes. And the other one is a recumbent with a faulty wheel.”
“Well, can’t you replace the wheel with one of those?” Brannon pointed to the dozens scattered around.
“Yes, sir, I can, but it will cost you extry, plus some time.”
“How much and how long?”
“Ten dollars total and an hour. I’ve got other customers to wait on.”
“But that’s highway robbery.”
“Yes, sir, I know.”
“I’ll be back in an hour.”
Seventeen
Brannon squeezed through the narrow aisles of the store and scooted past several women with children in tow, merchandise in hand. He gazed around the few businesses in the town proper of Gearhart, besides the mercantile… grocery store, bakery, Hoefler’s confectioner, blacksmith shop.
He decided to take a stroll towards the depot where the “Daddy Train” would arrive on Friday with the weekend fathers from Portland coming to stay with their vacationing families.
Women and children constituted the major population in Gearhart right now. They rented cabins, took up residence in summer homes, or camped out in tents on the beautiful grounds of the Gearhart Park.
He noticed the men in brown lurking at the bakery shop window. A coincidence? Or something to do with Brannon? He decided to find out.
Passing the small depot station, he turned a sharp left down a wooded pathway. After he stepped off thirty feet, he reached down as though pulling something from his boot and looked back. Two men stopped to chat in the middle of the trail. “Let’s find out what’s on their minds,” Brannon muttered.
He marched in their direction, arm out, as if to shake hands. “Imagine meeting up with you boys. What a pleasure.”
“County Sheriff Linville knows you’re here. You’re being watched,” the heftier one said.
“And yet with all this attention, I still haven’t been properly introduced. You know my name, but I don’t yours.”
“It don’t matter.”
“Why, sure it does. I might want to check out your criminal records.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Hefty and his partner began to back away, hands stuck in their pockets.
“I wouldn’t go for any weapon, boys. I can outshoot the two of you put together.”
“That’s one of the reasons you need to be off Clatsop County streets,” said Hefty.
“And our trains.” His friend’s voice was higher, whinier. “We’ll make an example of you… if you don’t mind your own business.” The man pulled up his shirtsleeves for emphasis.
“What’s the matter, boys? Did I step in the way of some operation of yours?”
The men looked at each other, then Hefty glared at Brannon with an alligator smirk, broad and menacing. “You wouldn’t talk like that if you knew who was right behind you.”
Brannon dropped to the ground, then spun and jerked both legs. A man wearing a buttoned black duster toppled but still managed to smack Brannon hard on his left shoulder with the backside of an axe. Brannon and the man exchanged punches and elbowed each other. The two brown suited men got in the melee but Brannon couldn’t tell if they tried to help or hurt him. Finally, he reached for his Colt revolver.
“Okay, guys, the charade is over. Who are you?”
“I’m the shootist, Argentiferous Jones,” said the man with the axe. His swollen, crooked nose had been broken before, like a boxer’s. He hovered over Brannon. “I’m deadly as a steely-eyed viper, dangerous as a wounded wolf, and a faster draw than a snake’s tongue.”
“Is that right? At the moment, you look like an amateur axe carrier to me.”
“I left my gun and holster in the privy.”
“Aren’t you the guy that’s supposed to have gunned me down?”
“Yep, that’s me,” the man beamed. “I’m famous now. But think of how much more famous I’ll become if I actually do get Stuart Brannon.”
Brannon raised his hands in disgust, then holstered his revolver. “I’ll tell you one thing, I don’t like your name and I don’t like your face. Can’t do anything about the face, except maybe beat it up some more. But I’ll never call you Argentiferous. Maybe Tiff or Russ or Jones. Which will it be?”
“Hey, you can call me Tiff.” He raised his axe in a hurrah gesture. “I favor that. Yes, I sure do favor that. Never liked my name before. Kinda had a grudge against my mama about that.”
“Okay, Tiff, if you’ll stop trying to kill me, we’ll get along a whole lot better. And now you can make peace with your mama. Deal?”
Argentiferous Jones pondered that a minute. “Deal.” He shook Brannon’s hand and walked away muttering, “Tiff… Tiff Jones… Good evenin’, Ma’am, my name is Tiff Jones.”
Brannon turned to the men in brown suits. “I don’t know why you’re following me, but it comes real close to harassment. Either you’ve got a legal charge against me that is brought to the authorities… wherever they are… or leave me alone.”
Brannon marched back to the mercantile. None of the men followed.
“You got that bicycle ready?”
“No, sir, I am sorry,” said the owner.
“Yes, I know, you’re very sorry, truly sorry.” Brannon slammed the door shut behind him. With the heavy bang of boot heels and the jab of spur jingles on the wooden street, he tramped back to the hotel.
My horse won’t cooperate. I can’t even rent myself a bicycle. And fictional characters are tryin’ to bushwhack me. Tom, I hope you’re not in too deep a hole out there somewhere ’cause this old buddy of yours can’t seem to get on the trail, much less find the trail.
Brannon entered the large hotel lobby and tipped his hat at La
ira Ashley Fletcher playing the piano with Bueno standing beside her turning the pages of the music. He inquired at the hotel desk for Lord Fletcher. Maybe he’ll drive me around with his Buick.
“He’s at a meeting. Shall I tell him you’re asking for him, Mr. Brannon?”
“No, I’ll check with him later.”
“There you are, Stuart.” He recognized the voice of Lady Fletcher. “Any leads on Tom Wiseman?”
He shook his head. “What is Edwin up to?”
“He’s trying to keep Europe from starting another war.”
“Is it really that serious?”
“It is to Edwin and those around him.”
“I wonder if that is T.R.’s concern too. This deal with my friend, Tom, does not seem crucial to anyone but those who know him. He may be in danger, but it seems so… so…”
“Domestic?”
“Yep, that’s the word. I think I’ll take a walk out on the Ridge Path and down to the golf course. I’ve got a commitment to keep.”
“I’ll walk with you partway.” Lady Fletcher strolled with an ebony and silk umbrella, wear- ing a dainty organdy frock scattered with pink roses. “This is one of the loveliest promenades along the Pacific Coast.”
Brannon cast a casual glance at trees, flowering bushes and some houses that looked like mansions to him. In comparison to the Ridge Path and Mrs. Kinney’s park on the south end of town, Mr. Kinney’s golf course on the north side seemed scrubby, dry, almost barren. A few trees dotted the course, none of the trunks straight, all crooked and as bent as old men weary from burdens.
I wonder which enterprise will endure the longest?
Keaton Tanglewood scurried towards them at the golf course, then waved goodbye to Lady Fletcher.
“I saw some wild horses on the beach this morning,” Brannon greeted. “The lead horse had a rider, though I didn’t see him. I got a spear thrown at me. What do you know about them?”
“At dawn?” Tanglewood hit a long, sweeping shot, then handed the club to Brannon.
“Yes it was.”
“Catcher-Of-The-Sun. He’s a very old man in our tribe. Rides the mares to spite the stallions, but doesn’t keep them. Lets them roam free. He claims a cougar in the area riles the wild horses and chases them on midnight runs.”
“Why did he throw the spear?”
“I do not know. He is the ancient one. Perhaps he meant to show you honor. Maybe a warning. Some say his mind has gone crazy. If he meant to harm you, he wouldn’t have missed.”
“Is he the same Catcher-Of-The-Sun I saw in a painting at the Exposition in Portland? This one ran along the top of a mountain cliff and carried a torch. There was a war scene below him.”
“Yes, that’s him. My grandfather told me many stories. He is a hero to our people.”
“That’s not why I wanted to see you. Do you know a man named Chuy Carbón?”
“Yes, I know him. He is not a nice man. He lives not far from here.”
“After I practice a while, is it possible for you to take me to see him? I’d be glad to help you finish your job duties afterward.”
No matter how structured, how cared-for, how many civic-minded folks bring culture and education to a city, there exists a part of town that insists on being the run-down side. Keaton Tanglewood wound through the streets that Brannon had hiked that morning and several blocks over to a few shacks and cabins with weathered wood siding and roofs of rusty metal.
Tanglewood knocked at the door of the only dwelling with visible curtains. Landscaping consisted of a tall, lush spray of pampas grass in the front, with long, white, tufted and feathery blooms that swayed in the breeze.
A pleasingly-plump, swarthy-skinned woman peered out. “Chuy’s not here,” she said, door half-closed.
“Mrs. Carbón, we need to ask a few questions, then we’ll leave him alone,” Tanglewood said.
“Go away. He will not talk to no one, not even me.”
“Tell him that Stuart Brannon wishes to ask a few questions.”
Brannon recognized the raw fear in her eyes, like Tres Vientos when he got near a rattler in the desert… or the outside entry to the coastal beach barn.
“You are the Brannon?” she whispered.
“I don’t mean any harm to your husband. I want him to answer some questions about Tom Wiseman.”
“Ohhhh…” The facial fear did not ease. She held onto the door as if for support.
“What’s going on?” a male voice bellowed behind her. The door swung back, teetering the woman who crashed against the wall, rattling the roof. A man with round, dark falcon eyes swayed in longjohns, a bottled drink in each hand. “Ah, it’s you, Tanglewood. Come in, my injun friend. You want your clothes back?”
I thought Narcissa Kinney forced Gearhart to make a law about not selling or buying liquor? It takes a little more effort for a man to get drunk in a dry town.
“No, Mr. Carbón, I brought Stuart Brannon. He is Tom Wiseman’s friend.”
The man’s face glazed like glass, rigid and pale. He flailed at the door and meant to slam it shut, but he stumbled and fell forward instead, crashing into Brannon.
“I’m dead,” he whimpered.
Brannon pushed the man back inside the cabin and shoved him into the only chair he would fit in.
The woman rushed over to a stove with water steaming in a kettle. “I will fix you all hot chocolate,” she said. “That’s a good thing when friends come to visit.” She forced a humming sound, a song with no tune.
“I hear you met with Tom Wiseman the night he went missing,” Brannon began.
“I didn’t do it. I did nothing.”
“You didn’t do what? What happened to Tom?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the Frenchman knows. He threatened Tom. He told him that… that he would not deliver the medicines if… if Tom didn’t talk the President into hiring more Frenchmen.”
“Hiring more Frenchmen? For what?”
“For Panama… for that canal they’re building. I told them both that I had friends in Nicaragua who knew a better route than Panama, a cheaper and safer one. I would contact them and that would be much, much better.”
“Is that why you wanted to shoot the Vice-President?” his wife said.
“Shut up, woman, what do you know? Go do your mending. Go stuff your face.”
“You were going to assassinate the Vice-President of Nicaragua?” Brannon prodded.
“No,” Mrs. Carbón said, “Mr. Fairbanks, the United States Vice-President. And he would have, at the opening day of the Lewis and Clark Exposition, but his gun jammed. Now, he hears a rumor that President Roosevelt might come to Gearhart.”
Chuy Carbón had risen from the chair and was halfway across the cabin, swinging the bottles at his wife. “Shut up, woman. You are digging your grave.”
Tanglewood and Brannon rushed over and each grabbed an arm before either bottle struck the woman. They dragged him back and pushed him down into the chair. One of the bottles fell from his hand, cracked him on the forehead with a thud, then fell to the floor and smashed into pieces. The flooring got soaked. He began to cry.
“Carbón, why were you dressed as an Indian, that night you were with Tom Wiseman?” Brannon questioned.
Carbón stopped whimpering and sat up tall. “So no one would recognize me. I was representing my great country. I told the Frenchman and Americans that Nicaragua was the best route for Panama. It was a very secret meeting.”
“Ha.” Mrs. Carbón spit the word out. “He cares nothing for Nicaragua. He did everything he could think of to talk Tom Wiseman out of sending him back. He is like a crazy man.”
“Why would Tom want to do that?” Brannon asked.
“Because he’s a bigamist. I found out from Tom Wiseman that Chuy has four other wives in Nicaragua. He thought he was safe here in Oregon, but an extradition treaty was recently signed… and the other women have issued complaints. It’s all about the money, his money, which he does not have.” She jeered
at Carbón who shrugged as he downed the remaining liquid in the other bottle.
Bigamist? I believe the word is polygamist. Brannon studied the unkempt, overweight, sloppy lout of a man that was Chuy Carbón. He got five different women to marry him? And this marriage does not appear to be happy either. “So, you had a reason to get rid of Tom Wiseman? What did you do with him?”
“No, please believe me, el Brannon. Nina,” He pleaded, “Tell them I am innocent. I did nothing.”
“What can you tell me, Mrs. Carbón?” Brannon walked over and picked up one of the mugs of chocolate. He took a slow sip and smiled his thanks.
“You like it?” She seemed pleased. Not as pretty as Victoria, but her smile could draw the right man in… and the wrong one. She leaned forward as though she sensed Brannon evaluating her. “He’s only mean when he’s drunk, but conniving always.” She sighed. “But he’s so often drunk…” She trailed off.
Brannon took another sip of the rich chocolate as Mrs. Carbón refocused. “Chuy did talk about doing harm to Tom Wiseman, but the marshal disappeared before he could try anything. He is nervous that he might show up at any minute.”
Brannon drank down the last sludge of chocolate at the bottom.
“The Frenchman did it. It’s always the French.” Carbón staggered up again, then passed out, half-sprawled on the floor and against the chair.
“Do you know where the Frenchman is?” Brannon asked.
She shook her head and handed Tanglewood a mug of steaming chocolate.
Eighteen
As they left Carbón’s place, Brannon sensed someone following them, a half block behind. Keeping with their pace. Stopping when they halted.
If it’s those men in the brown suits again, I’m going to hogtie them to the railroad tracks.
Brannon whirled around, his hand on his Colt.
A gentleman approached them wearing a top hat and a frock coat with long lapel and curved tail and very high, starched collar.
“Monsieur Brannon, I hear you are looking for Bois DeVache.”
“Is that you?”
“Oh no, he is no longer in the area, that I know. I certainly have not seen him for more than a week. But I have a message that Monsieur DeVache related to me right before the big engineers’ meeting he attended. I thought it might help.”
