A husky gray-haired man, dressed in a blue felt waistcoat and tan woolen trousers, slowly descended the dark staircase of the Astoria Hotel. Once on the main floor, he used a silver-tipped cane to amble across the dim, empty lobby. His weathered hand pushed open the frosted-glass saloon doors, and he entered a smoky barroom.
On one side of the room was an ornate mahogany bar with a brass footstool. On the other side were numerous wooden tables and chairs. With the tap, tap, tap of his cane, he shuffled down the long bar and looked out through one of the nine-paned windows that fronted the hotel. The sky remained a gray shroud, and the rain continued in earnest.
Astoria Oregon, in 1860, boasted broad boardwalks, with businesses on both sides of a timber planked street built on log pilings high above the river shore. Across the way, between some buildings, the old man had a view of Scowl Bay. There, resting at the end of a wharf was the steam schooner Rachel, the ship he and his wife had arrived on. Forty-five years had passed since he last stood on these shores. During those years, this little settlement had sprung up around the old fort, and it now had a population of nearly a thousand souls. Other things had changed as well. Most of the Indians were gone. They had either died off or been forced to move to reservations. The Columbia River without Indians was like the night sky without stars.
“What’s your pleasure, mate?” a voice rang out from behind.
Turning from the window, the old man faced a burly, white-aproned bartender with black, slicked-back hair. “Mug of coffee, sweetened with a spot of brandy,” he answered with authority, and moved to the end of bar.
The barkeep smiled and took up his position behind the counter. It was still early in the morning, and the barroom was almost empty. One table in a far corner, closest to the woodstove, held three men, loggers by the looks of them, and a few tables over was another table with two men who looked like fishermen.
As the old man’s mug of coffee arrived, the glass doors opened, and the third mate from the Rachel stepped inside the saloon. Moving to the other end of the bar, he recognized the old man and nodded his way. The old man’s expression brightened and he tipped his mug to the mate.
The barkeep approached the sailor. “What’s your pleasure?”
The lanky third mate removed his hat and set it on the bar. “Whiskey,” he answered. As the bartender turned for the back row of bottles, the mate continued, “Do you know who that old bloke at the end of the bar is?”
The barkeep turned back to his customer, “Nay.”
The sailor smiled. “He’s one of the old-timers. He came in on my ship. They say he knew Astor, opened the Oregon Trail, and settled out here before the Astorians came. If you get him talkin’, he spins a great yarn.”
The bartender gave the mate an approving nod and poured his drink.
From across the room, the boss of the loggers called out for more drinks. When the bartender delivered the order, he told the table what he just learned about the old man at the end of the bar. “I understand that if you get him talking, he spins a good story about the old days,” the bartender said.
With a few coins, the timber boss paid for the drinks, and then turned to the bar and shouted, “Hey, old-timer, come join us. We won’t bite.” The boss was a giant of a man dressed in a plaid wool shirt with dirty blue overalls. Next to him were two younger blokes, one with bright red hair and the other with a full head of blonde locks.
The old man turned toward their table, picked up his mug, and shuffled his way across the room with a tap, tap, tap.
As he approached, the big fellow stood with an extended hand. “They call me Swede. I be the bullbuck for these boys.”
The old man shook his powerful, rough hand. “I be Clarke. Dutch Clarke.” He pulled up a chair and took his seat. “Thanks for the offer. It’s been years since I drank with woodsmen.”
“What brings you to our little town?” the Swede asked.
Dutch glanced down at his coffee mug. “Got some family that’s buried around here, and I came to pay my last respects.”
The Swede smiled. “Understand you were friends with Astor.”
Dutch looked up at him with a scowl on his weathered face. “Nay, not friends. Didn’t trust the man.”
“Did you really open the Oregon Trail?” the fair-skinned blonde fellow asked.
Dutch turned to him. “Had a hand in it. Not much more than that.”
“Is your name in the history books?” the redheaded lad asked.
Dutch chuckled. “Reckon not, seeing how when I crossed the divide my last name wasn’t Clarke.”
“How the hell did your name get changed?” the Swede asked, openly curious.
Dutch took a long look at his three new friends and shook his head slowly. “Nay, it’s a long story, and I don’t want to bore ya.”
The Swede pointed to the window. “Look outside, mate. It’s pouring out there, and we don’t have to be back to camp until tomorrow. We’ve got a warm fire, a bar full of booze, and nothing to do. So please, enlighten us, sir.”
Dutch grinned at him and nodded. “Alright, but you stop me if I ramble on too long. Now where should I start? Hum, how about with that scoundrel, Astor?”
