by Stephen Bly
“But who are you?” Brannon insisted.
“Ah, monsieur, I am no one, only his partner.”
“Partner for what?”
“In gambling. We both liked to play poker. We had games almost every night that he was here, in Seaside.”
“I want to talk to him. Where in Seaside were your games?”
“That I cannot divulge… and there is no need. Monsieur DeVache disclosed to me that Monsieur Wiseman was to join with the meeting, but he confided to Monsieur DeVache that he was going home right afterward.”
“Home? You mean back to the hotel?”
“No, Monsieur DeVache understood he was returning to his ranch in Arizona. He said his work was done and he was no longer needed.”
Brannon watched quirly smoke rise above the man’s head. “What was DeVache’s business with the marshal?”
“Nothing professional. That is, he was meeting with the U.S. engineers, to offer counsel on how to sanitize the Panama areas, to minimize malaria and yellow fever threats.”
“Anything else?”
“Also, to help them deal with the general chaos there, by being in charge of excavation of old French equipment. It is a mess. In addition, to argue the positives and negatives of a lock canal versus a sea-level canal.”
“Why was Tom Wiseman part of the meeting?”
“Monsieur Wiseman was the agent… de police. Like the men around your President… the bodyguards.”
“You mean, our secret service? But why was he needed?”
“A threat had been made on the lives of those at the meeting, by an anonymous source.”
“Do you have any idea who that would be?”
“Perhaps someone who does not want the Panama project to go forward. Or it could have been personal. But DeVache had nothing to do with it. Marshal Wiseman was worth more to him alive. He had a straight line to your President. That meant riches for him.”
“What was DeVache selling?”
All pretense of bonhomie evaporated. “C’est tout dire.” The man gave a curt bow and hiked away.
As soon as they returned to the Gearhart Golf Course, Brannon kept his promise to help Tanglewood with his duties. They finished within an hour. But then Brannon decided to find Rebozo. If he was a trusted partner, he should be told about his interview with Carbón. On the other hand, if he was a deceiver or complicit in the disappearance of Tom Wiseman, Brannon needed to discover that fact as soon as possible. He also wanted to ask Sylvia about the Frenchman’s claim.
He didn’t have far to look. Shouts issued from the direction of the train depot. When he investigated, he found Rebozo and Sylvia sparring with knives. A few citizens had scurried into the ticket master’s small building and peered through a window.
“What are you two doing?” Brannon pulled out his Colt.
“He’s trying to escape,” Sylvia accused.
“I’ve got a lead on some investigations,” Rebozo replied.
“Sylvia, Rebozo is an agent for the government.”
She kept her knife in thrust position. “What government?”
“Direct for Theodore Roosevelt, the President of these United States.” Rebozo slowly pulled off his coat and rolled up his shirt sleeve. “I think she grazed me.”
Sylvia almost whispered, “I knew he seemed familiar. Then I remembered a mob scene at the Consolidated strike in Goldfield, him standing beside Wax Lanigan. I figured he was one of his cronies in disguise.”
Brannon kept his Colt out, but dropped it to his side. “He might have been in Goldfield, but he was probably doing some secret government work.” Or so he wants me to presume.
With lightning speed, Rebozo lunged for the arm in which Sylvia held the knife and twisted. The knife dropped. She wrenched herself free from his grip and stumbled. He reached out and steadied her.
Sylvia rubbed her arm. “So, I’ve accosted a government agent? Does that mean I get arrested? Go to jail or something?”
“There’s no jail in Gearhart,” Rebozo said. “We’d have to take you to Town Marshal Charles White in Seaside or County Sheriff Linvall in Astoria.”
She winced. “Well, I’m sorry for what I did, accusing you like that… so, maybe it doesn’t count.”
“I’m not sure that makes a difference.” Rebozo presented one of his charmer grins.
They heard the clip, clop of horse’s hooves. Brannon holstered his revolver. They all stood to attention as Deputy Kliever rounded the corner. “I’m investigating the report of a disturbance. Are these men harassing you, ma’am?” He offered a tip of his hat.
“I’m not pressing charges, if that’s what you mean,” she snapped.
“You’re not pressing charges?” Rebozo shot back.
Deputy Kliever focused his attention on Brannon. “Are you sure? I’ve been looking for a way to get this menace off our streets.”
“We’re fine, just fine,” Sylvia assured him as she grabbed each of the men’s arms and strolled them down the wooden boardwalk that stretched from the depot to the ocean.
“Did you know Deputy Kliever is the son of a Missouri preacher?” Rebozo remarked as they marched forward. “He sings in a church choir in Astoria on his Sundays off.”
“Then he’s a brother in the faith,” Brannon replied. “I’ll try to go easier on his suspicious nature.”
“Why does he hang around Gearhart if he’s a county deputy and the county seat is in Astoria?” Sylvia inquired.
Rebozo’s eyes almost twinkled. “The sheriff has his own agenda. He doesn’t manage that tight a ship, if you get my drift. Meanwhile, I believe the deputy has something almost personal against our friend Brannon here.”
“I do seem to acquire an enemy or two wherever I go,” Brannon acceded.
Sylvia looked back. “Let’s keep walking, out to the beach, if need be. Deputy Kliever’s still hovering behind us.”
“Might as well make this friendly stroll together useful,” Brannon suggested. “A friend of Bois DeVache claims that Tom returned to Arizona right after the rendezvous with the Panama and U.S. engineers.”
Sylvia didn’t waver a step. “That’s impossible. Papa wouldn’t do that, except in an emergency. Even then, he would have left a message for me. We agreed at Mama’s funeral to meet either in Gearhart or Portland, depending on convenience for both of us, for my birthday on Sunday.”
“I do remember a time or two when Tom went undercover. Not even your mother knew where he was. You don’t suppose he received some sensitive, secret summons?”
“Then why would the President sound an alarm to go find him?” Sylvia noted.
“The better to keep everyone off track, perhaps?” Brannon stretched his arms, shoulders and legs in the mild coastal breeze and drank in the briny, sea air.
“May I ask which birthday this might be?” Rebozo pried.
“You may ask, but I won’t tell you, except to say the obvious, I am beyond an old maid… which makes your earlier comments even more insulting.”
Brannon flipped around. “What earlier comments?”
“None of your concern. It’s between me and Rebozo.” Whether said in a pout or temper, Brannon couldn’t discern.
She’s got to be about forty, since she’s the middle of those three girls. “How were you going to know when and where to meet your father?”
She dropped her arms from theirs and sat down on a boulder as they neared the shore.
The peninsula of Tillamook Head misted like a hidden mine of jewels in the southern distance. The small-seeming western rock that was home to Tillamook Lighthouse boasted a bright beam in the faraway drape of fog.
Sylvia leaned back as though scouting for signs of the deputy. He wasn’t visible.
“When I thought Lanigan was after me in Portland, it made me jumpy. That’s why I didn’t contact Papa right away. If I mentioned about Lanigan harassing me, I wasn’t sure what he’d do. Figured I’d handle the situation myself.”
“Lanigan’s a moonstruck fool
, sounds to me. We’ve all been there. Nothing to cause alarm.” Rebozo rolled down his sleeves, slipped his jacket back on and pulled out a small comb to swipe at his hair.
“You men,” Sylvia spouted. “You have no idea how you torment the female species.”
Rebozo yawned. “Why is Sully here?”
“For the Exposition, of course, and other things.”
“What other things?” Rebozo prodded.
“A big mining deal. Gold in South America, I believe.”
“If you’re part owner, shouldn’t you be informed too?” Brannon inquired.
She shrugged. “Doesn’t have to do with Consolidated, so it’s not my affair.”
They heard a trio of whistle blasts. Rebozo turned back towards the station.
“I’ve got to go or I’ll miss my train. I’m headed up to Astoria. But it’s not vacation. My sources have a tip on some money-laundering shenanigans that might deal with our investigation here. Fairs and expositions entice sharkers with fraud angles, who are ready and willing to dip into the flow of funds. Such characters emerge from the plaster. Always something happening on the side. My guys can fill me in.”
“Guys?” Sylvia nudged as they scurried back with him to the depot.
“My social life’s my own,” he huffed, more out of breath than having taken offense.
“I thought you were supposed to protect me or something like that,” Brannon remarked.
“You seem quite capable of caring for yourself, especially with that knife-wielding bodyguard of yours. Be back soon. Don’t miss me.”
A crowd had gathered. Most entered the train with Rebozo. He sent a quick wave then engaged a female next to him in very animated conversation. The woman in lavender.
Nineteen
Sylvia grabbed Brannon’s arm and pulled him towards the Ridge Path. “The deputy’s on our tail again.”
“I’ve got to get back to the golf course, to get some practice in. It will also help me think through what we know about Tom.”
“I’ll come with you. I’ve always wanted to swing a club.”
They weaved around other hikers on the narrow, wooded path. “Stuart, how do you know Lanigan?”
“First met him on a hot, dry summer’s day in ’91, in the hills of Gila County at Globe, Arizona.”
“Isn’t that Apache country, with Geronimo and all those guys? I heard the Apache Kid murdered a sheriff.”
“Yep, Sheriff Reynolds. He was carting the Apache Kid with other prisoners in an armored stagecoach. At a steep, uphill climb he let the Kid out to ease the weight. The Kid took full advantage.”
“You wonder why the sheriff didn’t see that coming.”
“Everyone makes mistakes, some of them fatal. I was visiting a friend of my late wife Lisa’s father, as a favor to Lisa’s mother, to let him and his family know Mr. Nash had passed on.”
“Yes, I remember Papa telling me about the Nash family and about your Lisa. She’s still remembered by many. She must have been quite a woman.”
Brannon sighed. He fought to keep the flood of memories at bay. “Mr. Booth, the friend, took me out to the copper mines. As we rode back to town, we spied a stagecoach running from a gang of four pursuers. Before we got close enough to prevent it, the passengers got robbed. Mr. Booth headed to town to get the sheriff and posse. I went after the robbers.”
“But of course you did.”
“I cornered Wax Lanigan after he fell off his horse in a bunch of cactus.”
Sylvia bellowed out a laugh. “That had to hurt… in more than one way.”
“Carted him back to Globe. Trouble is, he claimed he was in on the chase too. Just an innocent bystander going after thieves. He had plenty of friends in town to stand by him, including the local schoolteacher.”
They heard the tap, tap, tap of a hammer. Sylvia peered through the trees. “It’s the deputy,” she announced.
They tromped through the bushes and spruce trees, off the Ridge Path, to where Deputy Kliever hung hand-painted posters up and down the street. Sylvia tiptoed to one nailed near them.
“Notice! To thieves, thugs and shootists, among whom are Stuart Brannon and others: If found within the limits of this city after ten o’clock p.m., you will be invited to Astoria to a jail cell until further notice. The expense of which will be borne by certain concerned citizens.”
“What?” Brannon leaned forward for a closer look, but had to back away to read it.
They studied the sign together as the deputy strolled out of sight. “He’s got a one-man crusade against you.”
“He’s got to have a legal reason to take me in, something besides curfew.”
They found Keaton Tanglewood at the golf course. “You like golf pretty good now?”
“Just the repetition of learning the game helps me clear my mind. Especially if I can come out and practice at times away from onlookers or other players crowding me from behind.”
“I hope I don’t bother you,” Sylvia said.
Brannon risked a gaze at her fly-away hair and the roses that sprinkled her cotton dress. As always, except when Lady Fletcher arranged her boudoir, neither neat nor tidy. She’s stout, but attractive, the opposite of Harriet in many ways. Yet she has her charms.
“Keaton, can you help the lady with her swing?”
“I could, but you know enough to give her some advice.”
Brannon felt an alarm bell ding from some distant past recollection of male and female decorum, but he pushed it aside. Surely at my age I can play the gentleman.
He started towards Sylvia, to help with her grip, when Tanglewood interrupted. “I’m sorry you have not found the U.S. Marshal yet.”
“It is perplexing,” Sylvia said. “Why don’t you both hit a ball and I’ll watch? I’ll learn by example.”
Tanglewood pulled out one of the clubs he’d brought over for Brannon. He swung it across a wide swath of grass. “What do you think? Should I like a white girl or an Indian girl?”
Brannon, startled by the question, reached for a club and was greatly relieved when Sylvia gave a response.
“Which do you prefer?”
“I don’t think about that, until I get questions or stares from others. There’s a girl from my tribe who has pretty eyes and laughs at my jokes. Her name is Esther. I feel almost dizzy in her presence, but when I am away from her, I hardly think of her at all.”
“That doesn’t sound like a serious romance to me,” Sylvia remarked and picked out a club for herself.
“And then there’s girls like Laira Fletcher,” Tanglewood continued, “who can be very friendly with me when we’re alone, but acts like I am her slave when we’re around her friends or family. All of this confuses me.”
“You’re still young. Play it out the next year or two and see where it leads,” Sylvia advised.
“What do you think, Mr. Brannon?”
“Oh, I certainly agree with Miss Wiseman. Good advice.”
“I am surprised. I thought you would tell me to ask God.”
“Okay, then why didn’t you do that anyway?”
“Because I wanted the counsel of both of you.”
“Me and Miss Wiseman?”
“No, you and God. Then I would know for sure I was doing the right thing.”
After the golfing session, Brannon and Sylvia returned to the hotel.
“I’ve got phone calls to make,” Sylvia announced.
Brannon had been invited to one of Lady Fletcher’s parties, but he had declined. This was one not on her “must attend” list and he took full advantage of that.
Instead, he coaxed Tres Vientos with him out on the beach. He hoped to acclimate him more to the night smells and sounds and feel of the coast. They watched seagulls with pink legs, white breasts and dark feathers play rugby. One would get the fish, the others tried to take it away. Some of them remained most of the night, trying to out-screech each other.
Seabirds with long, narrow wings floated high above without effort f
or hours. Several sand-pipers with short legs set in the middle of their bodies waded like sprinters through the shallows. The stars plunged into rolling clouds. The wind laden with salt and sand seemed to test its lungs.
As the darkness deepened to full night, Brannon tied up Tres Vientos near his campsite and laid out on his bedroll. Tom, what’s going on? Are you hurt or hiding? And if you’re hiding, do you want me to find you?
Questions invaded him like incessant waves lapping the beach.
Finally, Brannon fell asleep and dreamed that he was on a ship that lurched through the air when a whale struck the side with its tail. Then darkness. He slipped and slid on a smooth surface. He reached to grab some support and a slimy substance shrank from his touch. He couldn’t breathe. It was so hot he thought he was in a cave or mine.
He woke up just before morning’s full light. Tres Viento was agitated. He snorted and pawed at someone or something looking at them. He heard a low-pitched hiss, then a growl and purr.
Across from them, crouched low on the dunes, a creature prowled. A large, heavy, tawny cat. Round head, erect ears. It let out a chilling scream. A cougar? When Brannon reached for his rifle and revolver, the cat turned and raced with great agility over the hill towards the trees and brush.
If Brannon had not held tight to Tres Vientos, fed him some treats and talked calmly to him, he would have galloped clear to Astoria.
Twenty
Wednesday, June 14
That morning Lady Fletcher insisted that Brannon follow her out to the beach. She carried a narrow-bladed shovel and pail. “Stuart, I was digging for clams this morning. This local razor variety is like scallops, a delicacy of texture and they’re larger than most clams.”
“Ah, so this is a food to live for.”
“And to die for. Isn’t it interesting how those two phrases mean the same?” Lady Fletcher slowed down to keep from stumbling on a rocky patch. “When I saw these.” She pointed to some tracks in the sand.
