The Freedman and the Pharaoh's Staff by Lane Heymont Page A

happened. Robbed by bandits, thugs?”
    He nodded.
    Jones sighed. “We can take you to Baton Rouge if you like. It’s too dark and the weather is too bad to be out and about by yourself.”
    â€œThank you. That’s where I’m going.”
    Jones still seemed suspicious, but waved his soldiers on. The procession continued, he took a position beside Jones's horse. He and Galin exchanged looks, and he gave him a slight nod. That’s right. I know you, but you don’t know me . He smirked at the Klansman’s confused expression.  
    â€œWhat’s your name?” asked Major Jones, suspicion in his voice.
    â€œZelig Von Falkenstein.” He uttered the words hoping his name wouldn’t sound too foreign. The Führer had put a lot of time and effort into conceiving and implementing the machine that sent him almost seventy years into the past. The Great War was at its peak and the Führer saw Verdiss’s betrayal. Out of all the assassins, he chose Zelig to kill the traitor and retrieve the Pharaoh’s Staff. With it, Zelig would return to the Führer and Germany a hero. He, by himself, would change the war’s tide.  
    â€œHmm, strange name,” Jones muttered as he continued his ride. Of course, the moron didn’t notice Zelig pull a needle from his belt. He couldn’t. Zelig was the best. And no one would compromise the Führer ’s plans. Not the bumbling Goblins of the Ku Klux Klan, not these pathetic, ill-trained soldiers, and not Verdiss.  
    Zelig slipped the needle into his mouth, ready to spit it into Galin’s neck. The rain made it difficult to gauge the wind speed or its direction. It didn’t matter, he could still do it. And he did it with such skill and speed, no soldier—let alone Galin—suspected anything. Though it was a small dose, the poison was still powerful. An hour or two later, Galin would convulse, fall, and die.

 
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    Chapter Nineteen
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    Fallon wove an intricate, but absurd story. Jeb knew it, but of course Crispus absorbed every word as though they’d come from Lincoln’s mouth. When they started their drive toward Old South Baton Rouge, the sun crawled out from underneath the horizon. Fallon didn’t seem to know much, and from what Jeb gathered, the kid must’ve just heard rumors. As always in fairy tales, a dark ruler, the Geist Führer ruled a far away land with bloodshed and an iron fist. Since La’Rita had mentioned something similar, Crispus demanded it was proof. Jeb pushed his brother-in-law out of his head and continued recounting the story. The Geist Führer launched a war against Europe: Jews, black folks, gypsies...the world.... Recent rumors abounded that Verdiss communed with this king, and the Geist Führer wanted the Pharaoh’s Staff. He feared the artifact could damage his war effort if it fell into enemy hands. Like most fairy tales, it was said the Pharaoh’s Staff gave great power...and as in those fairytales, no one said what those powers were.  
    â€œI knew the mambo was right!”  
    Jeb flinched, Crispus’s voice rattling in his head. “It’s balderdash. Nothing else.” He shifted his weight, trying to find a comfortable position. It was balderdash—but, then again, if asked a few weeks ago, Jeb would be calling himself insane for thinking his burns healed. He glanced at his arm, the skin looked healthier than it did before. He rubbed it. Still real.  
    â€œIt’s a bunch a balderdash.” He’d had enough sleep the night before, but his bones ached. His soul too. I hope they’re all right. Keturah...Bettina...New York. Jeb groaned. I should’ve sent them into the bayous—they’d have been safer there. New York’s full of gangs. All for an old piece of art that belonged in a museum. Worst thing was he had to continue. What if he was wrong? What if the staff was everything