Between the Raindrops

Way Down We Go

It was hot in Sam Wah's shop. Uncomfortably so with the stove fed constant to keep the heavy irons hot and only two small windows located in the front of the building to let in any air. A man worked at the ironing board, pressing neat pleats and seams and finished his pass before coming to the counter. Sweat dotted his brow. Skin smooth as a freshly shed crepe myrtle tree. Hair cropped short and neat, glossy as the ink they used to mark their tickets.

He made a claim ticket with a slip of paper, a brush and that fine black ink.

"Bring back ticket when you pick up," he said and Arthur Morgan nodded, holding up the little bill of paper.

"Thank you." Arthur tucked it away in his billfold and slid it into his satchel before stepping outside into the bustle and dust of Blackwater.

"How you trust they'll get it right?" a man asked. "When they can barely speak any English?"

Arthur shrugged. "I don't speak too good neither."

"Don't you have a woman to do the washing?"

Arthur stopped and turned to look at him. He seemed to be of an age with Arthur. His long face held no softness. Dark haired and sharp-eyed, his upper lip was covered by a thick, neat mustache. He wore an old cavalry hat, stained from rain and sweat. Chaps and spurs and a rig on his hip. A '51 Colt Navy. Well oiled. He loitered, leaning next to Wah's door, smoking. He had not been there when Arthur entered.

"I somehow doubt that's any of yer concern."

The man blew out a puff of smoke. "Yeah," he continued. Heedless or indifferent. "Morgan was it?"

"Who's askin'?"

"Hear you got a fine lady." He took a long drag of his smoke, appraising Arthur. "Ain't you a little old for a stable boy?" the man asked.

"Got a late start."

"No kiddin'." The man chuckled. "You, uh, ever been to Illinois?"

"Never," Arthur said. "Didn't catch yer name, fella."

"Didn't give it."

Arthur watched him a moment. The man still leaned, relaxed. One hand holding his cigarette. The other sitting easy in the pocket of his jeans. "You, uh, always this disagreeable?"

He smirked. "The name's Ike," he said. "Ike Skelding."

"Do we have a problem, Mr. Skelding?" Arthur asked. The name meant nothing, but Arthur did not like the look of him. Skelding pinched the last bit of cigarette between his thumb and middle finger, the tips yellowed from tobacco, and took a last drag.

"Not yet," Skelding decided, tossing the butt on the ground. He blew out the smoke. "You take care now, Mr. Morgan."

Arthur watched the disagreeable feller go. No good would come of this, he knew and not for the first time Arthur felt vulnerable living so plainly in sight. When Emelia got back, he would have to convince her to move on. Go stake a claim somewhere remote and quiet.

He returned to the wagon and drove Bailey just a little further south and came to a halt past Dutton's Tack and Feed. Along the East side of the Avenue, beneath the branches of a sycamore and out of all the damn traffic. Arthur loosened enough lead for Bella to enjoy the grass before retrieving the worn cutter saddle from the back of the wagon and walked back the fifty or so meters across the busy T section of Van Horn Street and Sisika Avenue to the two-story shop.

The bell chimed over Arthur's head as he entered and he found Ralph Dutton already counting his cash.

"How are workin' men supposed to put in a full day with you closin' up so early?"