Portlandtown: A Tale of the Oregon Wyldes (32 page)

KATE—HANGED MAN ALIVE.

WANTS GUN. DO NOT LET MARSHAL USE—HIDE IT.

STAY OFF STREETS. AVOID CEMETERY.

WILL RETURN SOON. BE SAFE—JOSEPH.

22

The first day of the Rain Festival arrived without a cloud in the sky. The front page of the
Portlandian
happily predicted a wet opening, but most who got the early edition doubted they’d need more than a hat to keep the sun out of their eyes.

Despite the clear skies, the buzz downtown was one of anticipation—at least as far as the weather was concerned. The sidewalks and plank ways were crowded with the usual Thursday-morning merchants and businessmen, as well as locals eager to get a glimpse of the festival attractions before the out-of-town throngs arrived. The official kickoff wouldn’t begin until evening, but many of the festival booths were already open along the boardwalk surrounding the main stage.

Rain-related merchandise dominated the wares offered by most vendors, from simple rain gauges and mercury-based barometers to silk umbrellas with telescoping handles and the latest styles of vulcanized Wellington boots. Seattle Storm Catchers, purveyors of ornamental weather vanes and lighting rods, had already sold three of its six-foot Franklin attractors. John Dale’s Waterworks of San Francisco proudly displayed the latest in fountain technology, including a steam-powered copper salmon that could shoot bursts of water thirty feet into the air, which it did regularly, to the delight of every child in sight.

There also were numerous historical attractions, including a corner booth documenting the city’s most famous floods. A not entirely accurate depth-measuring pole planted in the waterlogged street marked the relative heights of various surges. The current waterline topped out at almost eighteen feet, which was below the twenty-one feet of the week before and well off the more than twenty-nine feet of 1877. That the pole itself was submerged in only three feet of water remained a point of confusion, despite a sign explaining the height was in relation to the river, not to the road.

Tucked into the narrow space between the Oregon Ice Works and the Tualatin River Crawfish Society was a long booth papered with charts and a simple hand-painted sign that read:
ATMOSPHERIC PROBABILITIES
.

Samuel Edmonds sat near the front of the booth, behind a table displaying numerous weather-data-gathering instruments including a hundred-year-old barometer that had once belonged to Thomas Jefferson. Edmonds had spent the morning gathering additional data that he was currently using to formulate a final set of predictions for the day. His concentration thus distracted, he failed to notice the first visitors to his booth until an orange-tinted “Lightning” jar half full of water was set in front of his face.

“Look what I got, Mr. Edmonds!” Kick proclaimed and slid the canning jar toward the meteorologist. A piece of string tied around the top of the jar held on a small tag on which
WORLD’S LARGEST RAINDROP
was scribbled. It took him several seconds to grasp the meaning, long enough for Kate to catch up to her son.

“Good morning, Mr. Edmonds.”

Edmonds looked up to see Kate standing behind her son. Maddie stood on the other side of her mother, looking at one of the weather maps Edmonds had drawn up for the festival.

“Oh, Mrs. Wylde, good morning.”

“Ready for the big day?”

Edmonds tried to smile but it came out as more of a cringe. “I certainly hope so.”

“So, what do you think?” asked Kick.

Edmonds glanced from Kate to her son. “About what?”

Kick picked up the glass jar and shook it. “This!”

Edmonds caught Kate’s uneasy smile, which helped him find his own. He took the jar from Kick and made a show of studying its contents. By all outward appearances it looked to be roughly a half quart of dirty water that, according to the back side of the tag, had cost Kick (or his mother) a nickel.

“Very interesting,” he said, handing the jar back to Kick. “Where’d you get it?”

“From that booth back there,” Kick said, pointing over his shoulder. “They also had the biggest hailstone and the biggest snowflake, ’cept that one was melted.”

“I told him it was a waste of money,” Maddie said. “It’s not real.”

“Says you,” Kick said and held the jar up to the light. He shook it, kicking up a cloud of tiny particles. “Look, you can see cloud dust floating around inside the drop.”

“That’s not dust,” Maddie said. “That’s rust falling off the lid!”

Kick frowned and shook his head. “You’re just mad because I found it first.”

Maddie crossed her arms. “You don’t even know what cloud dust is.”

“Do too. It’s the stuff that makes rain clouds dirty. That’s why they’re gray. When it rains, the water washes all the dust out and then they’re all clean and white.” Kick turned to Edmonds. “That’s what happens, isn’t it?”

“That’s a very interesting theory.”

“See?” Kick said, turning back to his sister. “He likes my theory.”

Maddie shook her head. “He didn’t say it was accurate.”

Kick shrugged. “Interesting is better than accurate.”

Maddie rolled her eyes around to Edmonds. “Is that true?”

The meteorologist obviously wasn’t prepared for conversational combat this early in the morning, which was why Kate tossed him a lifeline.

“So, Mr. Edmonds, should we still expect rain this evening?”

It took a few moments, but Edmonds finally responded, “Oh, yes, definitely.”

“Definitely? As in a one-hundred-percent probability?”

“I think so,” said Edmonds, happy to be back on surer footing. “In fact, I’m a little concerned about how much it might rain.”

“Really?”

Edmonds nodded. “The latest reports I received from our westernmost relay stations suggest a dramatic increase in cloud cover over the northern Pacific. The waves at Cape Disappointment are already breaking ten feet above normal, which means there’s a storm on its way, a big one. Couple that with a significant drop in local pressure just this morning and we’ve got the makings of a real downpour.”

“That should be good for the festival.”

Edmonds glanced at the neighboring booths and then leaned over the table. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. “I’m not so sure. An inordinate amount of rain could seriously overtax the local waterways, causing floodwaters to rise, possibly much more than anticipated, and overflow the current barriers, spreading into new sections of town.”

Kate understood the man’s concern, but she, like every other longtime resident, had been through high waters on numerous occasions. Getting one’s feet (and ankles and calves and knees) wet simply wasn’t that scary. It was a way of life.

“I’m sure we’ll be fine, Mr. Edmonds. This city has been through a great many floods in its short existence.” Kate motioned to the raised walkways and flood barriers built up around them. “As you can see, we know how to handle a little unwanted water.”

“But what if it’s not a little? What if it’s a lot of water all at once? What if the flood level rises three feet in an hour? Every business in the downtown area that is currently protected will be under water. The current scaffold-sidewalk system could collapse. If the storm comes on as suddenly as I suspect it will, there could be several thousand people caught downtown in rising floodwaters.”

“Six,” Kate said. “The mayor’s office is hoping for at least six thousand people at tonight’s opening ceremonies, more if it rains.”

Edmonds sat back in his chair as the enormity of what he was predicting struck him. If his predictions were right—and he had no reason to believe they weren’t—it was going get ugly.

“I should speak to the mayor.”

“Maybe you should,” Kate said, knowing the young man’s pronouncement of excessive rain would be greeted by cheers at city hall. “While you’re at it, why not pass along your information to the fire department. They’ve got one of their water cannons on the other side of the stage. If there’s any rescuing that needs to be done, they’ve got the biggest boats capable of navigating the city streets.”

“Good idea,” Edmonds said and began gathering up his latest maps and calculations. He took a long look at his collection of weather paraphernalia, unsure whether to pack it up or trust that no one else would find it of any value.

“Would you like us to watch over your equipment while you’re gone, Mr. Edmonds?”

“That would be wonderful. I won’t be long.” Edmonds snatched one last chart and then took off down the boardwalk. He got to the corner before turning around and coming straight back.

“Do you happen to know the current location of the mayor?”

“I do,” said Kate.

*   *   *

“Seems a mite agitated, doesn’t he?” said Ollie.

Kate turned toward the conversation across the room. While certainly there was no argument, both the mayor’s and his weatherman’s voices had been raised at times.

“I hadn’t noticed,” Kate said, turning her attention back to the main attraction in the room: the placement of the storm totem atop a small stage in the center of the Corbett Hotel’s two-story ballroom. A bank of floor-to-ceiling windows faced the main square, making the large room ideal for additional festival activities and for refuge should the weather prove inclement. Kate couldn’t help but wonder if the mayor had informed the hotel’s owners of his plans to bring the weather indoors. She suspected that fact might have been excluded from the arrangements.

“I’d say he seems very excited,” Ollie said. “And it’s been my observation that Mr. Edmonds is quite unflappable on most matters. The only time I recall him raising his voice was with regards to the weather.”

Kate was not surprised.

A few minutes later, the mayor escorted Edmonds to the door and then rejoined Kate and Ollie.

“Everything all right?” Ollie asked.

“Better than all right, my friend. Mr. Edmonds claims it’s going to rain buckets tonight. An epic flood, by his estimation.”

“Oh, dear. And you’re happy about this, Jim?”

The mayor beamed. “Delighted.”

Ollie raised an eyebrow but said nothing more.

“It seems our Rain Festival is going to live up to its name and then some. Good thing, too. I was loath to spend the weekend explaining away the sunshine.”

“It can be a nuisance,” Kate said without a hint of irony.

“Yes,” said the mayor. “It’s unnatural. We’ve had so much this year it’s a wonder the land doesn’t burst into flames.”

Ollie chuckled. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Quite,” said the mayor.

Kate turned to the storm totem.

“What do you think of your star attraction?” she asked.

The mayor studied the totem pole, looking at it from the left and then the right. Several times he glanced out the front windows as if judging the view from the downtown square. Finally, he nodded to himself. He’d made his decision, which he announced to all:

“Take it outside.”

A few of the festival workers groaned, having spent the morning getting the totem in the perfect position. Kate shared a glance with Ollie.

“Outside? Are you sure? Joseph said it would work better inside.”

“Mayor’s prerogative, my dear. The weatherman says it’s going to rain, but what if it’s only a sprinkle? No reason not to up the odds.”

“But if a storm comes in, it might make things worse,” Kate said, letting some of the unease she felt slip into her voice. “It could get pretty wet.”

“Mrs. Wylde, you sound positively Californian!”

Kate could have slapped him. Instead, she smiled and decided to hold her comments for the first reporter to ask her whose idea it had been to drown the voting public.

“All right, gentlemen. If you’ll excuse me, I have a store to open for business.”

“Pleasure to see you again, madam,” said Ollie, tipping his hat.

Kate nodded and headed for the exit, the mayor slipping along beside her.

“Now, when can I expect your man tonight?”

“Tonight?”

“I’ll need him by my side, of course. He’s my expert in all things heathen.”

“Of course. I believe he’s due back late this afternoon.”

“Perfect. Send him along no later than six o’clock. And be sure he brings that father of yours.”

Kate reached the main entrance to the hall and stopped.

“I thought the marshal was part of tomorrow evening’s grand entertainment.”

“He is, but I’d like him at the opening ceremony, as well. I thought we might offer a preview of upcoming events. It’s never too early to stir up some excitement.”

“I suppose not,” Kate said, wondering how much the mayor’s decision was based on recent events. Along with a festival preview, the latest edition of the
Portlandian
had a lengthy follow-up story about the violence in Tillamook, along with a report of the attacks in Astoria. The Hanged Man’s name had appeared in both articles, suggesting a link between the two incidents. The story made clear that it was not the infamous villain himself but rather an unknown agent hoping to take advantage of the dead man’s reputation. There was, however, substantial information about the Hanged Man, including the circumstances of his demise at the hands of Marshal James Kleberg. The paper was kind enough to point out that the marshal would be appearing at the festival.

Kate smiled. “I’ll let him know about tonight.”

“Actually, I’d speak to him prior to the show, if I may. We have details to discuss.”

*   *   *

Six blocks south, the marshal arrived at the store and found the front door locked. He was late, but apparently he was not the only one. Kate had offered him a key, but he’d turned her down, afraid he’d lose it. No matter; he would wait.

The marshal walked to the edge of the wooden sidewalk. A makeshift rail had been added since his visit a few days earlier, which he tested before leaning against it with his full weight. The intersection at Third Street was more crowded than it had any right to be, given that there was still no actual street. The floodwaters had receded, although not enough to discourage local water traffic. Numerous small boats and rafts were tied up along Alder on both sides of the road, three deep in some places.