Mr. Singh rode along and did not like it either. He was too far from Rebecca and did not like to be such with a murderer of redheaded women lurking right under their noses. It made him kick his mount’s sides and ride all the more quickly. He trusted Halsted, knew the man could do what he needed to protect their daughter, but it made him uneasy, nonetheless. He would not rest comfortably until he was back by her side.
“The sooner we get this over, the better for us all, Mr. Hobbs.”
They were an unlikely pair of enforcers and Hobbs looked down forlornly at his marshal badge stuck in the left lapel of his vest, just to the left of his fluttery heart. He looked over to Mr. Singh, who sported a copy on his suit coat.
He’d not worn a badge since the fateful day when the assassins tried their best to rub their little company out. The day he lost Francis and the day he’d help kill more men than he wanted to think about.
Hobbs half expected Singh to be wearing his badge on his turban, like he’d seen in the old photographs in Halsted’s collection of memorabilia from his time in India. The Sikhs wore insignia and badges and all sorts of strange things in and on their turbans, some even sporting daggers. Instead, Mr. Singh had an odd metal ring, resting like a great shiny collar, about halfway down the saffron head covering. He nodded at it and inquired.
“It is one of the ancient weapons of my people, Mr. Hobbs. It is called a chakkar. It is used to throw at the enemy.” Allingham; Desperate Ride