The Cabin on the Siletz River

By Bob Brawley

The year is 1959. James O’Connell is parked in front of an
all-night liquor store in Paris, Texas, trying to summon the
courage to rob it. When out of nowhere, a tall, willowy
woman leaps into the front seat of his car, presses a revolv-
er to his head, and tells him to burn rubber.

Who is this person? What is she running from? What is in
the paper bag she threw into the back seat? James is deter-
mined to find out her name and everything about her. But
as alarmed as he is about what has happened, he quickly
becomes captivated by this beautiful, mysterious woman.

So begins Bob Brawley’s dramatic, romantic novel of two
people thrown together by chance, united by unimaginable
circumstances, taking them on a journey of danger, intrigue,
desire, and love, their fates inextricably intertwined.

BOB BRAWLEY is an award-winning author who has written
two memoirs, Adopted by the Amish: A Family’s Pilgrimage
Back in Time, and Delta Jewel. The Cabin on the Siletz River
is Bob’s first novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bob Brawley
• Release date: Oct 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005886660

Bob Brawley

Born in Paris, Texas. Raised in San Joaquin Valley, California. Attended college in California, Oregon, and Alaska. Worked in facilities services administration for San Diego State University, the City of Seattle, Yakima Valley College, and the City of Pasco, Washington, where I retired in 2006.

Book preview

THE CABIN

ON THE

SILETZ RIVER

Copyright ©2020 by Bob Brawley

This book is available in print at most online retailers.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the author's prior written consent except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise noted, the author and the publisher make no explicit guarantees of the accuracy of the information contained in this book. In some cases, the names of people and places were altered to protect their privacy.

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the author's copyrighted property and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their copy from their favorite authorized dealer. Thank you for your support.

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Bob Brawley was born in Paris, Texas. He is the author of two memoirs, has been published in travel magazines, and was the recipient of a national award for his article, Memories of Route 66. The Cabin on the Siletz River is his first novel. Bob is a retired municipal administrator and lives with his wife, Pat, and their Maltese, Lily, in Green Valley, Arizona.

ALSO BY BOB BRAWLEY

Nonfiction

Adopted by the Amish

A family’s Pilgrimage Back in Time

Delta Jewel

The door of the human heart can only be opened from the inside.

~ William Holman Hunt

Siletz River History

The Siletz River called the crooked river by the Siletz Indians, flows 67 miles in a zigzag course to the Pacific Ocean. The river, draining a watershed of 373 square miles, empties into Siletz Bay, south of Lincoln City in Lincoln County.

The Confederated Tribes of Siletz Indians, once part of Native Americans called the Tillamook, is a federally recognized confederation of more than 27 Native American tribes and bands who once inhabited a range from northern California to southwest Washington. Tribes, who were part of the first wave of people migrating across the Bering Strait from Russia to the New World ten thousand years ago, building villages along the mouths of rivers flowing west from the Pacific Coast Range, speaking 11 distinct languages.

The 1855 Roque River Wars between whites and Coastal Indians began when gold was discovered in Oregon’s Rogue River Valley, resulting in the removal by the U.S. government of Native Americans from their Siletz homelands and onto the Coast Indian Reservation, now known as the Siletz Reservation. The Siletz Reservation is situated on 4, 580 acres in the lush damp coastal mountains of western Oregon. The climate is moist, marine, and temperate, with precipitation ranging between 75-100 inches annually.

Siletz, which serves as the tribal headquarters, is located along the north-south running State Highway 229, was incorporated in 1946, and is located on the Siletz River in the coast range mountains of Lincoln County, Oregon. It encompasses approximately four hundred acres and sits at an elevation of 130 feet. The city is eight miles inland from the Pacific Ocean, thirteen miles northeast from Newport's county seat, and approximately seven miles north of Toledo.

The Siletz Tribal Business Corporation (STBC) was charged in 2002 to oversee economic development and manage tribal economic enterprises. The STBC operates the Siletz Smoke House in Depoe Bay, supported by profits generated by the Chinook Winds Casino and Hotel. The tribe is the largest employer in Lincoln County, with more than eight hundred individuals employed through its various enterprises, departments, and programs.

THE

CABIN

ON THE

SILETZ

RIVER

1

It was Friday, August 14, 1959. Parked in front of an all-night liquor store in Paris, Texas, I was trying to summon the courage to rob it, wondering how my life had come to this. If only there were a reset button I could press that would take me back in time, allowing me to start over. I had lost my job, spent my money, and was sleeping in the back seat of my car. Life, it seemed as I looked at my image in the rearview mirror, my face haggard, my eyes hollow, looking like a man twice my age, had dealt a blow from which I may never recover.

I had worked my way up from grunt work to landing a top-paying job on an off-shore oil platform and was doing well until my temper got the best of me. My supervisor, a big-bellied, foul-mouth, southern Louisiana man named Lester Sizemore, pushed me day in and day out until I had all I could take, all any man could take. I made up my mind the next time Lester called me a stupid red-necked Okie, I was going to lay into him good and hard. That he was going to pay for the sleepness nights I had suffered, for the anxiety and frustration I had endured, that he was going to get what was coming to him, in aces.

During a break, Lester walked up behind me one damp, chilly morning, tapped me on my shoulder, and told me to get back to work. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times, he said, shoving my face into my food. You goddamned Okie, I won’t have you screwing off on the job. Now, get back to work!

Crew members, some who had had run-ins with Lester, pushed their chairs back and picked up their coffee cups, their eyes fixating on me, waiting to see what I was going to do. I wiped the food off my face with my napkin, picked my plate up off the table, and handed it to Lester.

You got a problem, he said, knocking the plate to the floor, spittle spewing from his mouth into my face and on my shirt. I pressed my left index finger hard into his chest. You have talked to me like that for the last time. He pushed my finger away. What are you going to do about it?

I kicked him between the legs and landed a right hand to his jaw as he bent over, sending him sprawling across the room, launching tables and chairs into the air.

You son of a bitch, he yelled, holding his crotch, as crew members lifted him, setting him on a chair.

I stepped around him and handed my keys to the foreman, who had watched the incident. He walked me to his office, paid me, put me in a helicopter, and flew me to New Orleans, where I got a room, hit the bars, and drank my check away.

A wino stopped, placed the palm of his left hand against the fender of my car, unzipped his pants, and pissed in the gutter. Standing there, his pants down to his bony, bare ankles, he raised an open bottle of whiskey above his head to drink, its contents spilling down his tattooed arm on his already wet trousers, into his over-sized brown leather shoes.

I turned to look in the store window. A young black man was leaned on the wooden countertop, clutching a Playboy magazine, scanning each page with hungry eyes. He raised his head, folded the magazine in a circular motion, placed it under his arm, and peered through the window as if he had seen or heard something out of the corner of his eye.

If he noticed me, would he call the police? I wondered. What would I say if they come?.

I felt a sickening surge in my stomach, swallowed hard, trying to keep the cold, crusty chili dog I had for dinner from rising in my throat. If all went well, I’d have enough money to pay a month’s rent in a motel room until I could find steady work. I took a hit off my hand-rolled cigarette, raised a paper cup of black, tepid coffee to my bruised, swollen lips, and sipped the last few drops. The sun began to crest. A blush of pink and muted purplish rays broke through the deep piney woods, the thrust of daybreak beginning to echo its way down the unlit, paper-strewn street. The muffled sound of my blue 55 Chevy's twin pipes broke the stillness of the humid, oppressive morning. I bought the Chevy off the showroom floor with the money I had earned working in the oil fields. But now, four years later, the rain and humidity had taken their toll on its once sleek, beautifully designed body.

A powerful gust of wind whistled through the flat, tree-lined deserted town. I watched through my windshield as the sunlight washed across the hood of my car. A loud rush of heavy footsteps and labored breathing came from behind.

Open the door!

Startled, I turned to see a tall, slender woman beating her fist against the window, yanking on the passenger door handle.

Let me in!

I reached across the seat and unlocked the door. The woman jumped in, tossed a paper bag into the back seat, looked over her right shoulder, then at me, placed her cowboy boots on the dash, and shouted, Burn rubber!

I looked at her in disbelief. What? Who the hell are you?

Get out of here! she screamed, her eyes large, her voice full of fear and anger. I just robbed a store. My boyfriend chickened out and ran off without me! Go!

You did what?

She looked back towards the store, then at me, her lips shaking, her breathing fitful. Are you deaf? I said I just robbed a store. Now, move it!

I grabbed her legs and threw them to the floorboard. Get out of my car, now!

Her body trembled. Sweat streamed down her forehead, into her deep-set penetrating green eyes, now full of hysteria. She pulled a .45 out of her purse, pressed it against my ear, and snarled, her voice cold, calculating, deliberate. Did you not hear what I said, you son of a bitch? Burn rubber!

My heart raced, my chest tightened, my breathing quickened. I clasped the palms of my sweaty hands around the steering wheel, slammed the transmission into drive, stomped on the gas pedal, raced around the next corner, and drove as fast as my car would take me out of the city limits.

2

I touched her arm. Wake up.

She had fallen asleep with her head lying against the passenger side window, her tangled blonde streaked hair laying across her shoulder, her revolver resting on her lap. I had driven throughout the day, stopping to rest in a field behind a service station north of San Antonio. She woke, looked outside at me with curious eyes, pushed her hair back out of her face, and rubbed the sleep from her puffy eyes.

Where are we?

Never mind where we are. I’ll ask the questions. What’s your name?

Who’s asking?

You bust into my car, put a gun to my head, and you’re asking me who I am?

Hattie.

Hattie, who?

Hattie Wilcox.

Now we’re getting somewhere.

"And you are?

James O’Connell.

Well, it’s nice to make your acquaintance, Mister James O’Connell, she said, her voice lacking conviction.

She looked in the back seat, her swollen bloodshot eyes intense, questioning.

Where’s my money?

What money?

I had over $500 in that paper bag. Tell me what you did with it, or I’ll black both of your blue eyes right now.

That’s big talk for a dainty little thing like you.

Dainty, huh? She made a muscle in her arm, giving me a wicked smile. You’ll think dainty when I put more knots on your head than you already have. What happened to you? Some punk whip your butt?

How I got these bruises is none of your business. The man who put them there will get what’s coming to him later tonight.

I reached into the glove compartment, pulled out the paper bag, and threw it in her lap. She opened it, took the money out, counting it.

There’s your money. Every dollar of it, I said, my stomach growling. I’m starving. Are you hungry?

She rubbed her belly and grinned. I could eat the ass out of a rhinoceros.

We left the Chevy in the field, ate dinner at a nearby greasy spoon, and returned to wait until darkness fell. She pulled a pack of Pall Malls out of her purse, removed a stick, lit it, and passed it to me. Our fingers touched for a brief moment. She looked up at me, blushed, pulled her hand back, and turned away.

Shadows began to lengthen across the parking lot and onto the field where we parked. I started the car, put it in gear, and pulled slowly out on the darkened tree-lined highway.

Where are we going?

I have something to take care of, and when that’s finished, you and I will be parting ways.

I pulled into the graveled parking lot of a small out of the way country bar, killed the motor, removed the keys from the ignition, and put them in my pocket. Vertical planks, resembling weather-beaten barn wood, finished the bar’s exterior, 16’ corrugated galvanized panels covered the pitched roof. A flickering Budweiser sign hung from inside a window. The parking lot was dark, save for the lone lamp post in the far corner. The night swelled with singing toads and crickets. The rancid smell of stale beer emanated from broken bottles strewn about the grounds.

Stay here, and do not get out of the car. I won’t be long.

She reached for the door handle. You’re crazy if you think I’m going to stay in this car alone. I’m going with you.

I grabbed her wrist and pulled her to me. If you value your life, you’ll listen to what I’m about to say. The people in that bar are dangerous. You could get hurt, possibly killed. She slumped into the seat, crossed her arms, and pretended to pout. If you say so, she said, grimacing, but hurry, I have to pee.

A light bulb suspended from an overhang at the building’s entrance attracted a swarm of insects competing to get inside through the front door left slightly ajar. The bulbs dented metal shield lay upside down at the building's base, covered with dead bugs lying on their backs, their legs stiff, upright. A partially dressed woman with a cigarette dangling from her slender fingers leaned back against a green Ford truck. A large tan hound hung his head out of the driver’s side window, long strands of clotted drool dripping from his loose jowls on the door. A man holding a whiskey bottle pressed his body against the woman, their sweaty bodies gyrating together in synchronized movements. Another man stood next to a car, holding the driver’s door open, screaming obscenities at a woman. Her body was bent over, her black hair flung across her face. Vomit sprang like an erupting volcano from her mouth onto his shoes.

I opened the car door. Cross your legs. It can wait.

I stepped out of the car, eased the door closed, and strolled across the parking lot. A police car streaked by, it’s motor racing, its sirens blaring. I heard music coming from the bar’s jukebox.

Jerry Lee Lewis was singing, Whole Lotta Shaking Goin’ On. The sounds of laughter coming from the building became louder as I drew near. I took a deep breath, exhaled, opened the door, and stepped into the smoke-filled bar.

A Wurlitzer jukebox sat catty-corner against two walls on the far side of the bar. A shapely woman with high heels, pink lipstick, and red bouffant hair looked my way, dropped coins in the slot, and returned to her seat, sitting next to a bony, angular man wearing a black Stetson hat. An expansive, wood-framed mirror hung behind the heavily lacquered cedar bar, surrounded by frayed, discolored posters of scantily dressed women straddling Harley Davidson motorcycles. The ceiling fan’s droning whirr drew, then propelled the billowing haze of blue-ish cigarette smoke toward the suspended ceiling. Four men, playing cards at the rear of the building, sitting in the shadow of the light, paused while passing a bottle between them, looked at me, then at each other. I recognized their faces from the last time I had been there. One of them, a paper-thin, wax-bald, pale man with dark pockmarks in his face, placed his cards on the wooden table, elbowed a man with thin red hair and a bulbous nose, whispering something in his ear.

The bartender, a lean, swarthy man with a love curl on his forehead and a scraggly mustache that barely covered his upper lip, dropped the soiled rag he used to wipe down the bar, looked across the dance floor, and turned to two men sitting on leather-bound stools. He tapped the larger man on the shoulder and scoffed. Hey, Harlan, look what just walked through the front door!

A barrel-chested mountain of a man with black eye buttons on