late-night reading?”
Henry blinked.
“What?”
“I saw you. Had your nose in that book all night. You must have some mighty good vision to see so well in the dark. You part Indian, or something?”
Henry searched his memory but found nothing to support Mason’s claim outside of his early-morning jaunt. He’d been dead tired when they’d stopped the night before, and after forcing a hunk of jerky down his throat he had gone to sleep.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“He’s right,” Charlie said. “I saw you when I got up to take a leak. Heard you, too, mumbling a bunch of nonsense words.”
“Find me a curse in there that keeps my gun loaded, and you can mutter all you want,” Mason said, as he pulled himself onto his horse.
Henry forced a smile and then climbed onto his own mount.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he said. “How far are we riding?”
“Well, that all depends on how popular the circus is in Tillamook,” Mason said, urging his horse forward.
“The circus?”
“Garibaldi’s Traveling Wild Western Caravan, Museum and Menagerie,” said Hugh, as he directed his horse around Henry’s. “We passed ’em a week ago headin’ the other way. Said they was going to set up in Tillamook for a time.”
Henry’s horse stepped sideways as the horse trailing Hugh’s moved past, giving it as wide a birth as possible. Henry, not being the most accomplished rider, did his best to turn the animal around.
“Why do we care about some traveling circus?”
“They got a tent full of human curiosities,” Charlie said. “Freaks and such.”
Henry turned the information over in his head, finally coming to the only conclusion that made any sense. He urged his horse forward until he was alongside Mason’s.
“We’re selling him to a freak show?”
“‘Weird Wild West Prodigies and Oddities’ is what they call it,” Mason said. “Got a Fiji mermaid, couple of Borneo midgets, Siamese twins, pig with one eye—that sort of thing. Seems to me they ain’t got enough West in their Wild, so maybe the remains of a famous outlaw might fill out the quota.”
“But he’s dead.”
“Don’t matter. They got shrunken heads and Indian scalps, too. If they don’t want to display the whole body they can put the head on a pedestal and be done with it. Of course, they gotta buy the whole man. I ain’t sellin’ him by the pound.”
At the top of the hill, Mason turned his mount south, sticking to a ridge that ran along the coastline. Henry tried to keep pace.
“I would think there’d be laws against displaying the dead in such a manner.”
Mason sniffed. “Where you been livin’, kid?”
“Astoria. All my life.”
“It shows. Ever seen a hanging?”
“No.”
“I seen a couple. Saw one last year, in Butte.”
“Dawson brothers,” offered Hugh.
“That’s right,” Mason said. “Got themselves caught trying to ambush a stage. Killed a little girl in the process. Gut shot. Took her three days to die. Time they got around to the hanging, they’re must have been a thousand folks showed up looking for a piece. After the hanging, the townsfolk pulled down the bodies, lit a fire, and watched the pair burn to bone. They left the blackened bodies to rot in the street for a month before someone cleaned ’em up.
“Now, this Hanged Dude here, he’s a piece of history. He’s famous, like Jesse James or old Wild Bill, maybe more so. But unlike them, this one’s an evil bastard. Nobody shed a tear over his passing or made up adventures he never had just to sell penny stories. He’s just like them fools in Butte. Folks hated him. I don’t imagine anyone will mind his remains up on display.”
“But they’ll actually want to see him? They’ll pay?”
“Hell yes. A famous name, outlaw or otherwise, still draws a crowd. Always has, always will.”
Henry tried to imagine such a display but found the idea of a public viewing repulsive.
“He doesn’t have
Henry blinked.
“What?”
“I saw you. Had your nose in that book all night. You must have some mighty good vision to see so well in the dark. You part Indian, or something?”
Henry searched his memory but found nothing to support Mason’s claim outside of his early-morning jaunt. He’d been dead tired when they’d stopped the night before, and after forcing a hunk of jerky down his throat he had gone to sleep.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“He’s right,” Charlie said. “I saw you when I got up to take a leak. Heard you, too, mumbling a bunch of nonsense words.”
“Find me a curse in there that keeps my gun loaded, and you can mutter all you want,” Mason said, as he pulled himself onto his horse.
Henry forced a smile and then climbed onto his own mount.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he said. “How far are we riding?”
“Well, that all depends on how popular the circus is in Tillamook,” Mason said, urging his horse forward.
“The circus?”
“Garibaldi’s Traveling Wild Western Caravan, Museum and Menagerie,” said Hugh, as he directed his horse around Henry’s. “We passed ’em a week ago headin’ the other way. Said they was going to set up in Tillamook for a time.”
Henry’s horse stepped sideways as the horse trailing Hugh’s moved past, giving it as wide a birth as possible. Henry, not being the most accomplished rider, did his best to turn the animal around.
“Why do we care about some traveling circus?”
“They got a tent full of human curiosities,” Charlie said. “Freaks and such.”
Henry turned the information over in his head, finally coming to the only conclusion that made any sense. He urged his horse forward until he was alongside Mason’s.
“We’re selling him to a freak show?”
“‘Weird Wild West Prodigies and Oddities’ is what they call it,” Mason said. “Got a Fiji mermaid, couple of Borneo midgets, Siamese twins, pig with one eye—that sort of thing. Seems to me they ain’t got enough West in their Wild, so maybe the remains of a famous outlaw might fill out the quota.”
“But he’s dead.”
“Don’t matter. They got shrunken heads and Indian scalps, too. If they don’t want to display the whole body they can put the head on a pedestal and be done with it. Of course, they gotta buy the whole man. I ain’t sellin’ him by the pound.”
At the top of the hill, Mason turned his mount south, sticking to a ridge that ran along the coastline. Henry tried to keep pace.
“I would think there’d be laws against displaying the dead in such a manner.”
Mason sniffed. “Where you been livin’, kid?”
“Astoria. All my life.”
“It shows. Ever seen a hanging?”
“No.”
“I seen a couple. Saw one last year, in Butte.”
“Dawson brothers,” offered Hugh.
“That’s right,” Mason said. “Got themselves caught trying to ambush a stage. Killed a little girl in the process. Gut shot. Took her three days to die. Time they got around to the hanging, they’re must have been a thousand folks showed up looking for a piece. After the hanging, the townsfolk pulled down the bodies, lit a fire, and watched the pair burn to bone. They left the blackened bodies to rot in the street for a month before someone cleaned ’em up.
“Now, this Hanged Dude here, he’s a piece of history. He’s famous, like Jesse James or old Wild Bill, maybe more so. But unlike them, this one’s an evil bastard. Nobody shed a tear over his passing or made up adventures he never had just to sell penny stories. He’s just like them fools in Butte. Folks hated him. I don’t imagine anyone will mind his remains up on display.”
“But they’ll actually want to see him? They’ll pay?”
“Hell yes. A famous name, outlaw or otherwise, still draws a crowd. Always has, always will.”
Henry tried to imagine such a display but found the idea of a public viewing repulsive.
“He doesn’t have
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