An Undisturbed Peace by Mary Glickman Page B

Burrows.”
    The Cherokee stood, extending his own hand across his desk. “I am William Blackclaw,” he said. “Clerk of the Court of Echota, capital of the Cherokee Nation.”
    They shook hands.
    â€œI hope all is well with Mr. Burrows?”
    Abe reassured William Blackclaw of the senior peddler’s health and after a preamble of praise for the beauty and cleanliness of Echota, he told the clerk of the court he was looking for a man named Jacob, once a slave of the family of a woman named Dark Water, a man rumored to be in residence in Echota as a refugee. There was no question William Blackclaw was surprised by the inquiry. He blinked. He licked his lips. His jaw clenched. “And what sort of business might you have with this man?” he asked. Abe’s heart quickened. He’d played the game well. Judging by Blackclaw’s response, he was now certain Jacob yet lived. What a coup! he thought triumphantly. What a coup! At the same time he assured himself of the slave’s resurrection, a fire flared within him, a fresh, hot desire not to just learn about this Jacob, but to see him, to speak with him, to discover all he could about Marian’s role in the murder of Billy Rupert from that singular source. He dissembled. “I am honor bound to bring him a message from a dear friend,” he lied.
    William Blackclaw muttered “I see, I see” while going around his desk and putting on a frock coat that hung on a brass hook near the front door. Telling Abe to please make himself comfortable for a few moments, he hurried out the door. Abe watched the man’s progress through an open window whose curtain fluttered gently against him in a sweet afternoon breeze fragrant with jasmine and pine. Blackclaw moved with determined purpose to a building kitty-corner to the courthouse and disappeared within it. He emerged in company of a severe-looking gentleman with a broad, bold face whose thick black hair was styled in the manner of an English dandy, short at the sides and swept up and over at the crown of his head. The two men chatted out the sides of their mouths while they crossed the street. Their eyes drew a bead on Abe’s window, forcing him to draw back and away so they could not see him. After they reached the courthouse and entered it, all three men found themselves face-to-face nursing brittle smiles, insincere tones, and the kind of florid phrase that always connotes mendacity.
    â€œHow d’you do? How d’you do?” said the man pressed into service by William Blackclaw, presenting his hand for a good shake. “I’m told you come to our fair capital bearing tidings for a resident of ours, a man we much cherish and wish to protect. Forgive my zeal in wishing to shelter him, but as I say he is much valued here. Ah! I have not introduced myself! I am John Ross, humbly encumbered with the title Principal Chief of the Cherokee Nation.”
    How odd, Abe thought. The man had the look of a European in more than dress. But he understood his title to be equivalent of that of president or prime minister or even king, and so he clasped the chief’s hand with two of his own and bent low from the waist over them as a sign of respect.
    â€œChief John Ross, I am honored to make your acquaintance,” he said. “I am Abrahan Bento Sassaporta Naggar, a simple peddler, who brings tidings from a loved one of this Jacob. I wish him no ill, only blessings. I beg indulgence but my oaths to Mari— Excuse me, the sender of that message has held me sworn to secrecy on her—excuse me, his identity.”
    Abe’s half-utterance of name and confusion of gender was entirely manufactured in the hope that Jacob’s watchmen would be more forthcoming if they thought a woman sent him regards. It worked. The words “Mari” and “her” were but a heartbeat out of his mouth when he noted that the lips of both the principal chief of the Cherokee