Chee lay on his bunk, his eyes closed but not sleeping. He stood again on the street in front of the hotel as he had that morning. The hooded figure was reflected in the dining-room window. With his breathing slow and deep, he closed out further distractions from his memory, focusing until all else had dropped away and nothing but the mysterious stranger remained.
Slowly he studied the person who had tried and nearly succeeded in staying hidden. His grandfather’s stern but melodious voice spoke to him from the mists of his memory. “Concentrate, sun jai,” he said. “There is only you and the other.”
Chee circled the figure in his mind, searching for anything to identify who might have followed them.
There was little to see, as if this person wished to travel as anonymously as possible. The duster was long, below the knees, hooded, and covered in a fine layer of dirt. It had no identifying markings that Chee could see.
“Invisibility is not possible, sun jai,” he heard his grandfather say. “We cannot see the wind, but we feel it on our faces. You must look deeper.”
Chee felt the image floating away, and forced more air into his lungs. He circled the black-clad figure again, starting at the head with the face covered completely by the cloak. His eyes traveled downward slowly, looking for anything, a small rip or tear in the fabric, a stain. But he saw nothing until he reached the boots.
In and of themselves, the boots were nothing. Black leather riding boots scuffed by the hundreds of times they had been placed into and pulled out of the stirrups. But they were small. Very small.
Chee knew then, it was a woman following them. The black duster could hide the size of the body. The hat and hood even added height. But the boots could not be disguised. In truth, a small man could be hidden behind the black outfit, but instinctively, Chee knew this was not the case. It was a woman, he was sure of it.
Dog was on the floor next to the bunk when he sat up and alerted, a low growl sounding in his throat. Chee had heard it also. Someone was walking very quietly along the roof of the train.
His holster hung on a peg next to the door of his berth. He slipped the double rig around his waist, buckling it quickly. Quiet again, he listened. There was no sound, but Dog pawed at the door, his ears still straight up. There was an intruder. Someone had gotten past Pinkerton’s guards and into the warehouse where the train was waiting. He opened the door, and Dog charged silently down the hallway, past Hollister’s berth and the galley, to the rear door of the car. He waited, body coiled, until Chee reached the door. Drawing his pistol, he lifted the latch, hoping the door opened with little noise.
“Dog… hunt,” he said.
Dog slipped out the door into the darkness.