An Undisturbed Peace by Mary Glickman Page A

or ten. Each clearly debated in his wily mind whether to beat Abe further or let him be. While they hesitated, Abe got up and calmly brushed the dust from his clothes. He lifted up his pants legs to the knees to assess himself for marks and cuts, continuing to affect an unperturbed air. “So,” he said at last, “had your fun?” None spoke. He continued. “When I check my saddlebags, will all my goods be there?” To a boy, they scowled, angrily, but still did not speak. Thinking he’d hit a nerve, Abe went to his kit and inspected everything. Nothing was missing. “Alright then,” he said. “What were you spyin’ on me for?” Again, none answered. Abe found himself irritated by their silence more than he was humiliated by their beating. He cursed under his breath, turned his back on them, and mounted Hart. Just as he parted his legs to give Hart a bit of a giddy-up, the boy whose collar he’d grabbed spoke. “We meant no harm, sir,” he said. “We don’t get many strangers here.” Another boy, the runt of the group, chimed in. “Especially white ones.”
    This made sense to the peddler. As a boy growing up in a London ghetto, he knew the excitement a stranger in their midst caused. He’d joined a surveillance party or two of his own back then. Now that they were all friends, so to speak, he thought to ask the boys what he’d come to find out. “I’ve traveled here looking for information about a man, a black man. He was a refugee and his name was Jacob. Do you know of him, lads?”
    The last was a superfluous question. At the name Jacob the boys exchanged a furtive glance, their chests rose and fell in unison, then in unison they dissembled, each in his own manner. One made a circle in the dust with his boot, another crouched, intensely interested in a particular pebble, which he picked up and examined closely, a third turned and studied the opposite shore of the river, and so on. Abe wrinkled his brow, mulling over their reactions. The boys seemed to fear speaking about the man Jacob. Perhaps he should not have asked so directly. Perhaps the man Jacob was even still alive. “Now, there’s a thought!” he said aloud, startling the boys, who took advantage of his pursuant meditations to scatter into the brush. Abe continued to puzzle things out. If Jacob were yet alive, perhaps the boys sought to protect him from strange white men, in which case he’d best be careful how he approached further inquiries in town or ranks would close and he’d get no information at all. It felt a good strategy to pretend to be a messenger carrying an important message from a friend. Why not from Marian herself? He could tell a lot from the reactions of whomever he spoke with on that score. But he must be cagey, as cagey as his rascally mates had been back home when they set a trap for some unsuspecting booby. He would have to employ a technique they’d taught him. He thought of it as the Mile End Lie, paying tribute to the place where the Jews Walk of London ended and the sumptuous new homes of the middle class began.
    The second time he entered Echota he went directly to the largest building on the street, and as it happened, the building he chose was the courthouse. He tied his horse at a hitching post and went up the steps inhaling the rich scent of fresh paint. Inside, he was met with a functionary sitting at a desk, quill pen in hand, scribbling in a ledger. His shoulders caved inward as if he’d carried a terrible burden from childhood and never quite set it down. Abe coughed. The man looked up, then froze, his pen in midair. So it was not just the boys, Abe thought. White men appearing out of nowhere in Indian territory was always cause for alarm. He made the first move, putting a smile on his face and going forth, his hand extended. “I am Abe Sassaporta,” he said, “a friend of Clive