by Stephen Bly
Before anyone could further protest, Lanigan grabbed his cards, flopped them down, and sprayed them around the table, with two still face down. Sylvia grabbed them one by one and lay them in a neat row next to each other. All black. All clubs.
“Flush,” she determined.
The others signaled approval.
Lanigan fixed a look on Rebozo with only the barest hint of doubt, as though his grand reveal hadn’t been for naught. “Beat that.”
Rebozo, boozy breath in full heave, slowly turned his cards over one at a time. Five of spades. Five of hearts. Five of diamonds. Lanigan crafted a smile as Rebozo turned over the fourth card: two of diamonds.
“I knew it.” Lanigan reached for the pot with both arms.
But both Brannon and McKinley held his hands back as they waited for the fifth card. Rebozo flipped it up on its edge so that only he could see it, then let it slowly drop, face up, onto his other cards. Two of spades.
“Full house,” cried McKinley and Thompson.
Sylvia slapped the table, which seemed to refocus a befuddled Lanigan, still basking in his win, arms still extended, ready to embrace the pot. As the others murmured among themselves, reality sunk in.
“What?” He exclaimed. Then he got nasty. “What?” he snarled as he pulled his hands back, his fists clenched. He stood with a jolt, bumping the table and slamming his chair against the back wall.
“How in the world?” He glared down at Rebozo.
Brannon rose to defense position as Lanigan swung at the weaving, lunging Rebozo. Brannon reached out to stop Lanigan’s fist, but missed. In an instant, Rebozo lost his drunk act and installed his reflexes. Lanigan hit air, then a wall, falling into Brannon. Brannon pushed him back against the wall. Lanigan reached for his revolver. Brannon’s Colt was cocked and pointed at the man’s heart before Lanigan had cleared leather.
“I think we’ve all had enough for the night, don’t you, Lanigan?” Brannon stood calm, confident, aim steady. Lord, I’ve been in this situation so many times before, way too many…
Lanigan let his revolver drop into its holster. He spat on the floor, then pushed his way out.
Brannon replaced his Colt. “That was entertaining, but it’s late.”
McKinley counted out the chips. Sylvia swapped chips for cash. Brannon looked over at Rebozo and shrugged his shoulders in defeat. Lanigan did not take the bait. Nor did anyone else. But that does not eliminate Rebozo as the third man.
Rebozo picked up the pot, but Brannon grabbed away the compass. Rebozo whistled a tune from an advertisement, “Come away with me, Lucille, in my merry Oldsmobile,” and strolled out the door.
Out on the beach, cozy in his bedroll, Brannon pulled out a tattered, black Bible from his duffle and opened it to Revelation and read as far as he could before he drifted to sleep.
Brannon tossed and turned for more than an hour, then dreamed again, this time of elegant buildings with towers, parapets and sculptured columns that rose above him. One was filled with mounds of multi-colored ice cream. Over the door a sign said, “Prize of Panama.” Gallons of Neapolitan scoops spilled out and rolled down a tree-lined cliff. He reached out for a lick when he heard horses at full gallop and saw their silhouettes on the rim at sunrise.
The white horse’s rider carried a massive bow and shot white gleaming arrows into the horizon and across great oceans.
The rider of the red horse swung a sword over countries and continents.
The black horse’s rider raised a torch aloft and climbed the highest mountain’s peaks to shout, “glory,” a word that echoed through hundreds of valleys and canyons.
And a lone pale horse sped through flames and graveyards, never stopping, never looking back.
Brannon woke with his heart beating against his chest and heard the words, “Watch. Be alert. Redemption draweth near.”
He tried to remember where he was, see through the dark shadow land, then listened to the rush and lap of the waves. The beach. I’m in Oregon.
Why am I dreaming so much? Is it because I’m in unfamiliar territory, away from home? What did those words mean? Are we getting close to an answer about Tom’s death?
He tried to focus in the mists that lifted from the rocks and waves, to get back to the real world, the one where a stallion and his mares and ponies appear like an army of warriors at dawn.
But they didn’t come.
He rolled over and went back to sleep. No more dreams.
Thirty
Friday, June 16
Sylvia pulled and pushed at Brannon’s bedroll until his eyes opened to a streak of daylight. “What are you doing here?”
Geode stood beside a calm, controlled Tres Vientos, waiting for her call to duty. Sylvia’s skirt was swept into a ball of some sort, but was still below her knees. Her hair scattered in whiffs of disarray. Smudges sketched her face and arms and a spot stained her blouse.
“Cordelle heard about my being in Seaside till late at the poker game, about my being snug as a rug with Lanigan, and not coming to see him. Also, he’s been jealous about Tally Rebozo. He’s ready to go back home to New York.”
Brannon raised up on an elbow, his head ached like he had a hangover. “Explain it to him. He’ll understand.”
“You’ve got to help me. Be my backup. Our romance is being ruled by rumors and innuendoes.” She fought to hold back the tears. “I’ve lost my father. I lost my fiancé. I can’t lose this good, decent man too. I want to spend the rest of my life with him.” She stopped as she quivered all over. “I need him.”
Brannon extended his hand and Sylvia pulled him up. He spread his arms in a wide sweep over the western horizon, down to Tillamook Head, and around to the stretch of cities from Seaside to Gearhart.
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere in Seaside, I hope. Please hurry.”
Brannon splashed some water he used for coffee on his face and reached for his hat to ply over his unruly hair. “I don’t mean to be rude, but it don’t matter much what I look like, except not to resemble a bum who hitchhikes the railroad, but bein’s you’re going to try to convince a fella not to cut out on you…”
Sylvia looked down at her unkempt appearance. “Uh, yes… well, turn around.”
Brannon plodded south down the beach, slapping his cheeks, trying to be fully awake and alert. The lighthouse far out on its rocky perch seemed to blink a “good morning.”
How did I get myself mixed up in someone else’s love affair? She ought to do her own fence mendin’. On the other hand, if Rebozo and I hadn’t engineered that poker game, maybe she and Cordelle would be spendin’ the day at a jewelry shop lookin’ for a ring.
“Yoohoo, you can come back now,” Sylvia hollered.
She appeared neater, tidier, cleaner. She looked as fresh and pretty as a calf licked by its mama after birthing. Maybe she’d do to test the love of an honest, good man.
They cinched their horses and mounted them, Sylvia on hers English style. They rode to the pearly walls of Seaside and began their search. After a fruitless initial round, Sylvia suggested, “Let’s find Sully. Maybe he knows what’s going on.”
They discovered Quintus Sully eating breakfast with two men, the same ones they had last seen with Lanigan at the hotel café. He introduced them as gold mine owners from Panama.
“Do you know where Cordelle is?” Sylvia quizzed.
Sully sucked in his ample stomach. “On his way to the orphanage to gather his things and say farewell to the inmates there. If you need some help, I’ll be glad to come with you.”
“Thanks, but I’ve got Stuart with me.”
They made a quick exit and headed southwest for the banks of the Necanicum River. The fifteen acre orphan farm included a two-story building with plenty of windows, though all were barred in crisscross fashion. They had electric lighting, pumped-in water and a basement furnace for heating. Outside cement walks and a gravelled driveway gave easy access. Rhododendrons and azaleas across the fr
ont provided a homey atmosphere. A garden and diverse farm added a variety of fresh vegetables in season. Some horses and dairy cows wandered behind fences.
“They need funding to keep their staff and for over-all operating expenses since the state no longer subsidizes them,” Sylvia said.
Miss Penelope Tagg greeted them at the door.
Sylvia hesitated, but Brannon poked her gently in the back. “Is Cordelle here?” she managed.
There. She asserted her claim. Now she must find out how Cordelle stands.
“Mr. Plew is in the boy’s dormitory. I’ll get him for you.”
Inside good light and ventilation gave an airy appearance for the assortment of large rooms, as well as a laundry service and sewing area. A large dining room with hand-carved tables had been set with knives and forks, linen and china, in a cozy, homelike atmosphere.
Cordelle Plew, hat in hand, approached Sylvia with reddened, but kind eyes. A dozen boys, many still in their night clothes, followed at a polite span behind him, peering at Sylvia, then fixed their attention on the revolver in Brannon’s holster.
Hack Howard loomed a head taller than the oldest boys.
Miss Tagg started to shoo them away, but Cordelle prevented her. “What we have to say, we can say in front of them. After all, they are a part of my life too.”
Sylvia hesitated, as though unsure what to do. Then she weaved back and forth in front of the unexpected audience, wringing her hands, casting side glances at Cordelle.
Brannon was surprised that she didn’t commence with explaining the last few days.
“Before we go any farther, I want you to know my whole story.” She finally pulled up a high-backed chair and plopped down, her back straight, legs stretched forward.
Plew eased into a chair across from her, set his hat on a table and leaned closer.
“Long before we met recently on the Northern Pacific train, I travelled east for adventure. I met some girls who liked to meet sailors at all the ports. I was attracted to one of them. Wills Bennett was the boy all the gals wanted. I couldn’t believe he chose me. We hit it off in every way. But I lost him on February 15, 1898. To be honest, I couldn’t help but wonder what my life would have been like if he hadn’t died.”
She paused and watched for her intended’s reaction. He didn’t frown or scowl or shy away from this truth.
“I know that date,” he said, “the day of the U.S.S. Maine explosion.”
“Yes, in the Cuban harbor. I was there to be with him, on the mainland. He served his duty on the ship. Later, I stood on a high balcony in Havana to watch the horse-drawn carriage they made into hearses for the lost sailors.” She wiped a tear. “Somehow it brought me a little comfort that this horrendous act started a war. Our whole country would try to avenge Wills’ death and all the others.”
“You feel like you got a bad deal?” Plew said.
“Yes, I do. Because of that, I’ve had a hard time trusting people or God. But I also have a penchant for wanting to know the truth. It’s just so difficult to commit, to tell anyone I love them… and I also dread growing old alone. I guess I’m complicated.”
Brannon looked around at the boys’ faces, as well as Miss Tagg’s. They seemed attentive, interested. Henrietta Ober and the Smythes had also gathered nearby. He noticed some solemn and giggly girls sitting and lying on the floor behind them.
Plew didn’t pay attention to any of the others in the room. He focused only on Sylvia. “So, you’re trying to survive with broken dreams.”
“Yes, but I still have those dreams. I thought I was getting close to fulfilling two of them.”
“I’d be honored to know what they were.”
“Finding a man I truly honor to invest in a lifetime relationship… and… doing something significant with my life. I’m educated, can sing soprano and am a pianist. I embroider and can broil kidneys. I believe I’d make a good wife. But there’s some barriers…”
Uh oh. Here’s a crucial point. She may be treading delicate ground. I suspect this will be make or break and that this has been totally unrehearsed. Brannon braced himself for the results. As he gazed around again, so did many others.
“Tell me,” Plew said. “I really want to know.”
“Being assured that a man can trust me and believe me when I tell him the truth… and…”
“And what?”
She pulled up the hem of her skirt a few inches to reveal a tattoo with a sailor hat and the name “Wills” stitched across. “Any man I marry has to live with that.”
In the quiet that followed, Brannon heard only the ever-present ringing in his ears. One of the smaller boys made a sucking sound with his thumb. Miss Tagg stole over to a drawer and slowly opened it to tug out some handkerchiefs.
Plew leaned in closer to Sylvia, stared her in the eyes with confidence. “If you can bear my working with children like these,” he waved an arm at the orphans behind him, “I can welcome Wills Bennett as part of who you are.”
Everyone released their held breaths. Mrs. Smythe looked like she might even clap. But Cordelle Plew hadn’t finished. “However, there is another consideration…”
He rolled up his long-sleeved shirt. A colorful tattoo with the name “Susanne” and an anchor was emblazoned on his shoulder.
“Who is Susanne?” Sylvia asked.
“I can’t remember. I did that back in my own sailor days and I admit to a few rip-roaring times.”
Now they all waited for Sylvia’s response. She started with a soft titter and then swelled into a belly laugh. They all joined in, especially the girls hunkered down on the floor.
Cordelle and Sylvia stood up, still laughing, and hugged tightly. Miss Tagg blew her nose again. The children got restless and began to disperse. Brannon turned his head and brushed his sleeve across his cheek.
Before they left, Hack Howard crept over to Brannon and whispered, “Is Bueno all right?”
“Yes. He’s safe. Did you recognize any of the men you saw from your hideaway?”
“No. They were too far away and I was too frantic later when the man in the motorboat arrived.” He held his head in either shyness or shame. Brannon hoped it wasn’t due to telling a falsehood.
Before they left, Brannon carved his initials and ’05 onto the largest hemlock on the orphan farm.
On the way back to Gearhart, Geode and Tres Vientos galloped the beach in perfect, harmonious tandem, cream and ebony tails and manes swishing the air.
Brannon said, “See, you didn’t need me after all.”
“Oh yes, I did. You gave me courage and strength to say what I must.”
Thirty-one
“Steak and eggs?” Waitress Katie granted him a smile as wide as her hips. Her ebony face offered kindness. “Looks like you’ve been burning both ends.” Her coal eyes darted around as though looking for an errant empty cup or plate.
“I’ll have ham and eggs. No, bring me some of that bear meat.”
“Sure thing. Hey, I’m so sorry to hear about your friend. He was a gentleman to us all.”
Brannon thanked her.
Word gets around fast.
Steam from the forest-green mug lifted Brannon’s mind and elevated his spirit. Sometimes coffee slowed him down. Or sped him up. It accomplished the right thing for the moment. This morning’s coffee break stirred him to realize a fact. At least one person somewhere near him knew the why of what happened to Tom Wiseman… and by whom.
He didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but Lady Fletcher and Rebozo stood at the counter, their backs to him.
Lady Fletcher grabbed Rebozo’s good arm. “Here is my Serbian spy. Where were you last night? I expected you to be your congenial self at my party, full of intrigue and inside information and juicy gossip.”
“Your friend, Stuart Brannon, keeps me busy, my Lady.”
“But not too busy to keep the promises he made to me. He is a man of his word. How about you, Mr. Rebozo?”
“I’m a man of action. I can do more th
an talk.”
Lady Fletcher backed away. “I’m sure you can.”
He bowed and left the room.
Brannon tread lightly to her side. “Is he bothering you?”
“Oh, no. It’s not his fault… this time. I’ve hatched a plot to find out more details about that man, especially for Laira’s sake. But he’s a hard one to penetrate. And he has a one-track mind.”
“Then you did find out all you needed.”
“Yes, I must keep him away from Laira.”
“I will try to talk to him.” He handed her Elizabeth’s most recent postcard. “I sent the President a telegram about Tom.”
“Stuart,” she admonished, “you really must get those glasses fixed.”
“I can see fine at a distance. It’s those words up close that blur.”
“And I can’t tell if you’ve shaved yet this morning. You do tend to look a little in the beard most of the time.”
Brannon rubbed the sparse stubble on his cheeks and chin.
“Looks like more drama at the ranch. ‘Yesterday Edwin was missing. We looked and looked. Mama even cried. But we finally found him walking down by the dry creek bed with a wild and dirty cat. Mama said he could keep it.’ ”
“I’m so thankful little Edwin’s found. I would have worried myself to a tizzy if I had been there.”
“By the way, there are a number of important people arriving today for the weekend. I do hope there won’t be any shooting, or anything of the sort, unless you can make it seem part of the festivities.”
After breakfast, Brannon asked about Tally Rebozo. Katie the waitress said she last saw him dawdling in the hotel backyard with Mrs. Gillespie.
He found the woman in lavender pulling weeds out of the hotel landscaping, alone. She was immersed in rhododendron with their large blooms in umbrella-like clusters, ocean sprays of cream-white flowers, bright pink roses and azaleas that proposed hints of skunk scent.
“I absolutely adore gardening,” she said. “And I haven’t seen Andale in ages, simply ages… except about an hour ago.” Mrs. Gillespie attacked the weeds with such vigor, Brannon feared she might turn and throw the sharp tool she held at him. “I would look for Mrs. Acorn at the Chautauqua. He won’t be far away.”
