Merkabah Rider: Have Glyphs Will Travel Read Free Page A

wheeled on the fifer and
drummer and barked at them;
    “Well go on, take him.”
    Belden smiled back at the Rider as
the fifer and drummer took him by the elbows.
    The Rider couldn’t help but grin
back.
    “See you soon,” Belden said, raising
up his hands to salute, as they led him away across the parade ground. The
Rider noticed the knuckles of both hands were raw and scabbed over.
    “Alright you two, let’s go see the colonel.”
    Lieutenant Cord turned and went back
at a limping quick step, his saber rattling against his stiff leg.
    The Rider and Kabede followed Cord
past the lines of confused looking soldiers, who were looking agape from Belden’s
detail to them.
    “Dismissed. Dismissed!” Cord shouted
offhandedly as he stalked past, headed for the biggest sod house on the
grounds, which displayed a crudely cut plank sign that read:
     
    Lieutenant Colonel R.W. Manx, Post Commander
     
    11th Cavalry, Camp Eckfeldt
     
    “If we get out of this, you ought to
think about dressing more conservatively,” the Rider said, watching the eyes of
the men on the tall African in billowing white. “You sort of stand out, don’t
you?”
    “And you don’t?” Kabede replied.
    The Rider shrugged.
    “Eh, maybe a little.”
    Before they reached the two steps
leading down into the sparse structure, all earth and thatch, a black haired
young man, sporting a neatly trimmed Van Dyke, stepped outside, buttoning his
clean uniform coat. He had a pair of snow white doeskin gauntlets draped over
his belt, and his leather braces hung in loops at his sides. Like Lieutenant
Cord, he appeared a bit worse for wear, though his ailments appeared to be
internal. He was dabbing his nose with a pocket handkerchief when he appeared.
There was a crust of dried blood about his nostrils when his hand came away.
Likewise, his eyes were deeply ringed and swollen, as though he were fighting a
bad cold, or had not been sleeping.
    “What the hell’s going on out here,
Mister Cord? Is that your idea of a proper dismissal?” he stopped short at the
sight of the Rider and Kabede, his bright blue eyes narrowing. “Who are these
men?”
    “Sir,” the Rider began, securing the
onager to a hitching post. “Joe Rider, sir. Formerly of the 2nd Colorado
Cavalry.”
    “Rider…” the colonel sniffled, not
offering his hand or a salute.
    “Kabede,” said Kabede, bowing his
head slightly and setting his burdens down beside the onager. He slid the staff
out from the bindle loops and leaned on it.
    The colonel’s puffy eyes lingered
for a noticeable span of time on the tall African. His expression showed
bemusement at his wild dress and the carved staff.
    “Kabede. Your attire…where can it
possibly be in fashion, I wonder?”
    “He’s African, sir,” the Rider said.
    “How fascinating. I’ve met plenty of
Africans,” the colonel said. “But never one from Africa. Gentlemen, I’m Colonel
Manx. Won’t you step inside? Mister Cord, run and fetch Sergeant Weeks and
Corporal Quincannon will you?”
    “Sir, there’s something I think you
should take a look at,” said Cord.
    “It’ll wait, lieutenant.”
    “I think—”
    “Thinking isn’t really in your line
is it, Mister Cord?” said Manx. He fixed him with a watery eyed glare. “Weeks.
And Quincannon. On the double, if you please.”
    Cord pursed his battered lips and saluted.
    “Yes, sir.”
    He turned smartly and went off
across the parade ground again.
    Manx gestured for them to step
inside first, and they did, descending three stone steps into the cool earthen
structure.
    The inside was neat and well
maintained, but retained an air of impermanence. Kabede had to stoop to keep
from upsetting his head wrap on the low timbers. Manx’s desk was chipped and
weather-beaten, with a chair that didn’t match, and a stack of faded regulation
manuals under one of the legs. The fine feathered writing quill on it was out
of place. A cheesecloth curtain barely separated his office from a simple