Episode 83
Go In Peace
Ambrose Withers watched from the window of the telegraph office as the oldest of the newcomers dealt with the porters. The gray-haired dude showed a great deal of interest in seeing that his goods were securely stowed in the station’s freight house. There were heavy crates and a few barrels. The crates looked large enough to hold tools or rifles. The barrels bore the markings of gunpowder. There were also four brand new saddles covered in linen sacking. There were books secured in stacks with twine. Withers couldn’t imagine why anyone would need so many books.
Tools and blasting powder meant these strangers meant to dig somewhere. That was the sort of they’d want to know all about back in Chicago. Only they’d have so many questions and Withers had damn few answers. He would need to find out more details before letting his masters know of the new arrivals in Eagle Flat. Spade wouldn’t be back from his rest until the next day and there was no guarantee he’d find out anything useful from the ignorant Texan. But a peek inside those crates would confirm the purpose of these folks in Hudspeth County. There might even be a journal he could look at among the books.
Some kids still hung around the station to get an eyeful of the tall, ramrod straight newcomer. But when he didn’t do anything much more interesting than light a fancy pipe, they lost interest and drifted away to do whatever it was kids did on a lazy afternoon.
The baggage was carried indoors by the porters, and the older gentlemen seemed satisfied. He directed the porters to load a trunk along with a few leather grips onto a pushcart. After rewarding the porters with some coins, he walked toward town, a porter following behind with the pushcart. The other porters grinned broadly, pleased with the gray-haired dude’s largesse, and took off for town themselves.
Withers waited a good long while, eyes on the empty platform, until he was satisfied that he was alone. He retrieved a ring of keys from a hook by the door and went out onto the platform to approach the freight house. As he neared the doors, he saw that one of them hung partly open, the brass lock hanging undone in its hasp. That struck him as queer after all the trouble the dude went through to see his goods put away.
The door slid open with a squeal, and Withers peered inside. A bar of sunlight fell across the interior to reveal a figure seated cross-legged on the floor with his back against the pile of crates. The man’s face was concealed by a thick cloud of smoke from the curious clay pipe in his hand. The smoke smelled sweet and cloying with the scent of cloves.
Withers started. It was the Chinee.
“Good afternoon,” the Chinee said in proper English. The man was not in any way as surprised at Withers’ arrival as Withers was at finding him here.
“Well, um, I found the door unlocked.” Withers recovered his composure.
“No need for a lock, sahib. I am watching over the Lord’s belongings,” the Chinee said.
For the first time Withers noticed the big bore shotgun leaning against the crates within easy reach of the Chinee. Once again, he noted the curved-bladed knife strapped to the man’s side.
“You’ll be staying in here?”
“With your kind permission, yes. I will be here until the lord and lady depart from this place, sahib.”
“Depart for where, may I ask?”
“You are welcome to ask the sahib. But sadly, I have no answer for you as this is an unfamiliar land to myself.” The Chinee’s regret seemed sincere. “I go where the colonel sahib goes and I know only this.”
“Oh, well,” Withers cleared his throat. “I’ll leave you to it then. Good afternoon, sir.”
“And you as well,” the Chinee said, unsmiling. “Go in peace, sahib.”
Withers made his way back to the sanctuary of his telegraph office. He felt a weakness in his legs and was reluctant to admit the cause. Though the Chinee was certainly respectful and most polite, Withers suspected that his obsequent manner was a veneer. Behind that bland expression and those ebony eyes, the telegraph man sensed menace from the man. Something indefinable about the Chinee told Withers that, were he ever to unsheathe that blade, there would be hell itself to pay.
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