Free Portlandtown: A Tale of the Oregon Wyldes by Rob DeBorde Page B

She was beautiful, a fact he’d been keenly aware of since the day he’d found her lying unconscious in a creek bed on the north side of Mount Rainier. Now, as then, his first instinct was to take care of her, to protect her. There was love between them, but it was that of a father and daughter and nothing more.
    Naira felt the same, although she might have disagreed as to who was head of the family.
    “I do not know why it has resurfaced,” Andre said. “I do not know how. I was very careful to bury it deep, not only in the earth, but the mind as well. If that mind is lost, then so too should the book be.”
    “But it’s not.”
    Andre nodded. “Of that I am certain.”
    “Has it been read?”
    “I think not,” Andre said, hoping this was true. “But it will be soon enough. This is a book that wants to be read, after all. Whether or not it is understood—this is where our good fortune will live or die.”
    “You speak of it as if it were alive.”
    Andre lifted the trunk onto the bed. It was heavy, though not for him.
    “Not alive,” he said. “But it does derive its power from the living. Without a soul to turn the page, it is but ink on paper.”
    Andre could tell that Naira had more questions, but he wasn’t ready to answer them. He barely had time to process the memories that resurfaced along with feelings about the book. Trying to explain his actions, even to his friend, would be difficult. Fortunately, Naira knew enough of the story not to press Andre for more when he wasn’t ready to tell it.
    Andre peered out the window.
    “Is it still raining?”
    “Waning,” Naira said, twisting her hair into a bun. She tucked it beneath her hat and got to her feet. “The sun will be shining by the time we leave port.”
    “Then there is no reason to wait. I would prefer to be onboard before any other passengers arrive.”
    Andre retrieved a worn duster from a coat rack by the door. Despite the custom cut, the jacket barely reached his knees. He snatched up his trunk and a wide-brimmed Stetson from the rack and turned to Naira.
    “Shall we?”
    Naira looked Andre up and down.
    “You wear your fear well,” she said.
    “Always have.”
    *   *   *
    The fast steamer Año Nuevo left San Francisco en route to Portland at 7:17 A.M. on Thursday, May 19, 1887. According to the Oregon Steamship Company, which owned and operated the line out of San Francisco, the journey would take between forty-eight and fifty-six hours, depending on sailing conditions. The trip was intended to be nonstop to Portland, but soon after leaving port the captain announced the ship would make an unscheduled stop in Astoria. No reason was given.

 
    5
    The marshal sat on the edge of his new bed, fully dressed but not yet ready to join the family for breakfast. In his lap was the empty but suspiciously heavy, wooden box with a rose carved into the lid. The belt he’d used to secure it for the journey to Portland was once again around the old man’s waist. It was the only belt he’d brought and the marshal needed it to keep his pants from falling down. He had reminded himself of this twice already.
    In the morning light, the marshal could pick out the faint orange and yellow coloring of the rose. The paint was mostly gone now, but the artistry in the carving was still apparent. The strokes were smooth and well defined, cut into the wood by hands that knew how to use a knife. Once upon a time, he’d been good at something besides chasing outlaws.
    “Don’t open it,” he said, just to hear the words aloud.
    The marshal hesitated, then opened the lid anyway. The box was still empty. He felt around for the sweet spot and then released the hidden pressure latch with a single deft touch. Carefully, he lifted the false lid out of the box to reveal an additional three inches of space. The compartment was separated into five sections, the largest of which took up the top half and bottom right third of the box. Four of the cells held