Episode 40
The Limping Man
The grass shone with the crystalline glimmer of dew still clinging to stalks yet untouched by the rays of the rising sun. Where the sunlight spread its reach, a fine mist drifted and eddied above the tips of the carefully manicured lawn that stretched all about the mansion seated above the banks of Lake Michigan.
The limping man made his way to a patch of level lawn and stooped to set a round white ball atop a small pile of sand. He steadied himself to reach out a gloved hand. An extraordinarily tall man, a Sikh, stepped forward to hold out a wooden club selected from a selection in a bag slung from a broad shoulder. The limping man examined the wooden shaft that ended in a carved club with one side planed at a flat angle. He nodded in approval without a glance back at the Sikh.
Despite his infirmity, one leg shorter than the other and unsatisfactorily compensated for with a custom-built shoe with a raised sole and heel, the limping man swung the club with practiced skill. The club struck the ball square and sent the ivory-colored orb on a long arc to rest out of sight over a grassy hummock.
On his way to the final destination of the ball he’d launched, the limping man was greeted by men hailing him as they trotted across the lawn on a path of interception.
“What nonsense is this?” the limping man said to himself. The Sikh stood awaiting further instruction. Resting in the leather golf bag was a Nitro Express gaming gun charged with rounds the size of bananas. Should the master desire his round not be interrupted, the Sikh was ready, at a nod, to deploy both lethal barrels in the direction of the trespassers.
The limping man stood leaning on his club to await the new arrivals’ approach. Four men huffed and puffed over the grass, fine shoes slick with morning damp.
“John Delano has been forced to resign,” said the man in the lead while the others recovered their breath.
“The President’s brother as well!” another managed to gasp out.
“And what would cause the Interior Secretary to do such a thing?” the limping man said.
“The land grants. Surely, it’s the land grants. If he’s quit, they must have discovered the bogus nature of the land grants we purchased through your syndicate,” a third man said, the rasp in his voice ill concealing the quaver of terror there.
“And Orvil Grant as well. It has to be his efforts for us in Indian Affairs. All our work through the Indian attorneys to secure the parcels required for our expansion scheme,” the fourth man said, either calm or resigned.
“You have arrived at a crucial point in time, gentlemen,” the limping man said in a grave voice.
