Apparition Trail, The by Lisa Smedman Page A

business. He introduced himself as Arthur Chambers, and seemed surprised that I had not heard of him. It seemed he was a famous lecturer, although he was vague on his area of expertise, saying only that he lectured on “energy.” I decided that he must be both wealthy and arrogant — two factors that I have often found go hand in glove. I made up my mind to dislike him, then and there. Yet something compelled me to engage him in conversation.
    Chambers spoke with a gentleman’s accent, and was obviously from England. But despite his strange habit of startling me, and despite his obvious displeasure at my not recognizing his name, our conversation was civil enough. It was limited to the pleasantries that strangers typically exchange: complaints about the heat, observations on how odd the moon was looking these days, and platitudes about the scenery that passed by on either side. When it came down to it, I could find nothing suspicious about him, save for his seeming fascination with me.
    After that, although Chambers kept a discreet distance, he continued to stare intently at me whenever our paths crossed — which was frequently, on a boat of that size. Although he remained silent, he seemed to be speaking volumes with his eyes.
    Such constant attention made me uncomfortable, and by the third day of our voyage I made up my mind to confront Chambers about it. Yet it was he who approached me that evening, asking if I liked to play cards. Partially out of politeness, but more out of curiosity about this irritating fellow, I agreed to join him in a game.
    As is often the case when cards are suggested, the game of choice was poker. We chose a table in the saloon, beneath the tinkling chandelier. We were soon joined by a soft-spoken farmer from the Red River Settlement who only parted his lips to puff on a white clay pipe, indicating silently with his fingers how many cards he wanted. His breath had a sour smell, and the few times he opened his mouth I could see that one of his teeth had turned black. Also joining us was the Metis steward of the riverboat. The latter fellow, who had the rather pretentious name Xavier de Mont-Ferron, had a boisterous, jovial nature.
    We played several hands, and as I settled into the game, my usual lucky streak emerged.
    “ Mon dieu! ” the steward exclaimed when I won for the fourth time in as many hands of cards. “You must ’av a lucky ’orseshoe in your pocket, monsieur .”
    “Nothing so crude as that, I’ll wager,” Chambers said, his dark eyes studying me intently. “I’d wager that a power other than mere luck is at work here.”
    Suddenly uncomfortable, I slid a finger under my collar to loosen it.
    The steward frowned in puzzlement, and the farmer ignored the exchange, silently concentrating on the cards he was shuffling. I was just working up the nerve to ask Chambers what he meant by his remark when a voice drawled from behind my left shoulder: “Y’all mind if I join the game?”
    I turned and saw an American with weathered cheeks and a patchy, straw-coloured beard. He wore canvas trousers, a grey cotton shirt that laced up the front, and beaded, ankle-high moccasins. He smelled like a man who had been on the trail for many weeks. A short-barrelled pocket revolver was holstered butt-forward on his left hip, and on his right hip was a sheath containing a knife with an antler handle. I’d noticed him on the lower deck when I boarded in Fort Pitt; he hadn’t taken a cabin, and was sleeping with the half-breeds down below. Given his weapons — and his squint-eyed, challenging stare — I was loath to have him join our poker game. But Chambers waved to an empty chair and invited him to sit down.
    “I don’t think I’ve made your acquaintance, sir,” Chambers said with a polite smile, half rising from his chair. “Might I inquire as to your name and where you are from?”
    The American pulled his chair up to the table, then reached inside his shirt for a metal flask.