Its head somewhat resembled a dog’s, but with the features exaggerated and grotesque. The ears protruded back like splintered horns, and its muzzle hung with gruesome tendrils of skin. It moved with none of the grace of an animal but followed Muggeridge with a gait made stilted by rotating gears and pumping pistons.
Ray sucked in his breath as the Hound brought its steely eyes around to meet his. The monster snarled and lunged. Muggeridge tightened his grip and said, “Easy there. Slowly. Slowly. Over here.”
As the Hoarhound approached, Ray sat back, leaning on his hands to stifle the trembling in his arms.
“Stay right there,” Pike ordered him.
The other agents watched from the steamcoach. Muggeridge kept his eyes fixed on Ray.
The Hoarhound drew closer, closer. Ray could feel the cold seeping into the blistering earth, drawing small beads of moisture up through the parched dirt. The Hound panted, clouds of frost seeping from between its dagger-like teeth. Gears whined and machinery buzzed beneath the Hound’s hide.
Ray cringed as the Hound brought its metallic nose within inches of his face and sniffed. A tingling grew in his limbs. His hands, which had been cold from the ground, grew warm and then hot. Ray felt something rising through the earth into his palms, up his arms, into his chest.
The spilled charms from his toby trembled in the dust. The twists of roots, the bundles of herbs, the stones, and objects were shaking as if a locomotive were passing. Even the empty flannel pouch was fluttering.
The Hoarhound growled.
Muggeridge gripped the Hound’s frosty hide with both hands and pulled. “Back!” he ordered.
But the Hound snarled, its lips quivering around jagged fangs.
Ray should have been afraid, but somehow fear had been replaced by something else, something he seemed to have drawn from the earth. He raised his hand. It felt ripe with an intense pressure, an oppositional force. He brought his hand close to the Hound’s jaws.
The Hoarhound’s eyes widened. A terrible grinding of machinery whined from its innards. The Hound buckled and yipped.
Ray dropped his hand in surprise, and the Hound’s metallic eyes flashed as it erupted in ferocious roars.
“Stay!” Muggeridge shouted at the Hound and drew a tin whistle from his pocket. Ray scrambled back from the snapping beast. When Muggeridge’s whistle shrieked, the Hoarhound stopped and leaped back from Ray, knocking Muggeridge to the ground.
Agents rushed from the steamcoach, shouting, jabbing their rifles at Ray. “Down!” Pike yelled at Ray. “Get your hands down! Roll over!”
Ray flattened against the earth as the strange tingling drained from his arms. He was suddenly tired and, for a few moments, dazed. He glanced over at the contents of the toby, but they were no longer moving.
The agents kept shouting until Muggeridge hauled the Hoarhound back into the car and roared to restore order. “Back away, men! Firearms down. He’s not going anywhere. We’ve got him.”
Mister Pike approached Muggeridge and asked, “You all right there, sir?”
“I’m fine,” Muggeridge said, brushing the dust from his black suit.
“You see those little curios from his mojo there moving?” Pike asked.
“I saw.”
“So you agree he’s the Rambler boy?” Pike asked.
“Of course he is, but where’s that damn paw? That’s what we’ve got to find out!”
Pike looked around at the men, their faces filled with anger and apprehension. In a whisper he said to Muggeridge, “I fear the men will kill the boy if we don’t act quickly.”
“They’ve got orders,” Muggeridge snarled softly. “We’ve got orders. Return the boy and his rabbit’s paw to Mister Grevol in Chicago. We’ve got to bring him that paw!”
“I figure Fort Hudson’s near here,” Pike said. “Just a frontier outpost. But the men can rest, see.”
“And what about the paw?” Muggeridge asked.
“The boy knows where it is even if it’s not on his person. He’ll tell us with the proper motivation.” Pike’s nostrils flared. “Let’s get him to the fort. Then … we’ll interrogate him.”
Muggeridge looked down at Ray. Ray still lay flat, his cheek in the gravel and dust. Muggeridge called to Murphy, “Gather the Rambler boy’s mojo. We’re taking him to Fort Hudson.”
The interior of the steamcoach’s carriage was little more than a stifling box with wooden benches. In the heat and half dark, the agents glared at Ray. Ray felt a grim comfort that Mister Pike was seated at his side. But even his presence did not keep the men from jeering and making cool threats.
“Maybe he’s swallowed that golden paw, yeah. So want me to find out, Mister Pike?”
“Yes sir, some Rambler. Why don’t you turn into a bullbat and fly away?”
Ray closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the plank wall, turning his thoughts to B’hoy. He searched for the crow but could not reach him. With luck, he was flying west, looking for Jolie and Sally.
What had happened with his toby back there? Had he drawn some strange power from the earth, or had it come from his toby? He had always used the objects individually or occasionally in pairs or small combinations. But this seemed like all of the objects were working together to give him some unexpected force. He had never known the toby to work that way nor heard of any Rambler using it like that.
Mile after jostling mile, hour after hour after hour, Ray rode with the agents of the Gog around him. He opened his eyes later to find darkness at the tiny windows. The steamcoach had stopped, and men were talking outside. One called out, “Open the gates!” The steamcoach continued a short distance and then stopped again. The men grumbled as they exited stiffly. Pike clutched Ray’s arm and led him out.
Fort Hudson was a small collection of buildings and stables surrounded by a palisade of sharpened pine poles. Soldiers in blue uniforms peered curiously at the strange locomotive, while Muggeridge spoke with an officer. He gestured back toward Ray, and the officer nodded, pointing to a cabin. Muggeridge waved Pike over, and they led Ray to the cabin.
The officer opened the door. “Don’t have any prisoners at the moment.” The four walked inside the cobwebbed interior. The officer lit a lantern and placed it on the table. With a key, he unlocked a door to a back room. Pike shoved Ray inside as the officer spoke to Muggeridge. “There’s two bunks for your men keeping guard. I’ll show the rest of you to quarters. The cook will prepare a meal for your men and the prisoner.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant Craig,” Muggeridge said. “We appreciate your hospitality.”
“What’s the boy done that’s brought Pinkerton agents this far west?”
“Horse thieving. A rancher over in Cheyenne hired us after the boy and his father stole nearly twenty horses. There was a gunfight. The boy killed the rancher. We’ll bring him back to stand trial after he helps us locate his father hiding out in the mountains.”
“Well, my men are at your disposal,” the lieutenant said.
“We’ll be fine, sir,” Muggeridge said. “But don’t be worried if you hear some noise. You know how it is trying to get information out of these types.”
“I certainly do. We see the worst sort out here.…”
The men departed, leaving Ray alone in his cell. There was no bed or furnishings, just a chipped enamel pot. Ray slumped to the dirt floor.
He woke sometime in the night when Muggeridge unlocked the door. Ray blinked at the harsh lantern light. Muggeridge dropped a plate of beans and coarse bread to the floor. Most of the contents splashed out.
“Supper,” Muggeridge said. “Enjoy it. After this, you’ll have to earn your meals.”
Ray sat up but didn’t reach for the plate.
“That’s how it is, huh?” Muggeridge said. The agent glared down at Ray a few moments before saying, “You know what we want. Tell us where the rabbit’s paw is and you can go free.”
Ray knew Muggeridge would never do that. And the Hound surely still
sensed that the rabbit’s foot was elsewhere. He might have stopped the agents temporarily from pursuing Sally, but he still had to hope they wouldn’t send the Hound out.
“They’ll come for me and you’ll be sorry,” Ray murmured coolly.
“What’s that?” Muggeridge said with a surprised blink.
“You heard me,” Ray said. “My friends have the rabbit’s foot. They’re Ramblers too. They’ll come for me, and you’ll wish you’d never captured me.”
Muggeridge stroked his beard. “Will I, now? Your friends, these Ramblers. They have the rabbit’s foot, huh?”
Ray simply glared up at the Bowler.
With a smug nod, Muggeridge turned, unlocked the door, and left. Ray heard him say, “Murphy, you and Anderson watch him tonight. We might have company soon. I’ll get the men ready.”
As Ray heard the door to the cabin shut, he picked up the plate and ate the beans and bread, wondering how he was possibly going to escape.
The following day Ray tried again to reach B’hoy, but the crow must have been too far away. He decided to try again to take crow form, hoping that if the men opened the door, he might fly out.
He closed his eyes as he sat on the dirt floor, thinking back. How had he done it? He had been sharply attuned to the forest, to the crow, to his surroundings, but as he tried now, all he could think of was the cell and his grumbling stomach and the miles of distance between him and Jolie and Sally.
“Rambler?” Sandusky called through the heavy wooden door. “I thought you said your friends were coming. Oh, hey. Looks like they did come. And wouldn’t you know, they ate your dinner, see. Sorry about that.”
Ray could hear another agent snort before Sandusky left.
By the next morning, Ray’s hunger was growing unbearable. The guards brought him water, but it was stale and offered no satisfaction to his stomach.
He woke in the afternoon with De Courcy standing over him. Ray had not heard him unlock the door, and this worried him because it meant he was becoming less aware without food.
De Courcy’s bandages were gone, and he had his hands behind his back. Fearing that he might be carrying a club or some weapon, Ray scrambled to sit back against the wall.
“What’s got you so jumpy already?” De Courcy asked. “I just came to tell you an interesting story, yeah.” He took a step closer. “See, when I was a youngster, I used to make these slipknots. They’re easy to make. You ever tried? No? Well, believe me, I got pretty good with them. If you set one of those slipknots up on a limb or fence, or in this case here tonight, the ground outside this brig, and you put something attractive in it—something like that little red pouch of yours, yeah—you can catch all kinds of things.”
Ray felt his pulse quickening.
“I used to put bits of bread and food in them as a kid. Snag a dove or sometimes a squirrel. Yeah, positively lots of fun to be had with slipknots.”
“No!” Ray lunged to his feet.
De Courcy swung a fist, catching him in the ear. Ray fell back against the wall, toppling into the dirt. His vision swam, and as he tried to sit up, he saw De Courcy holding B’hoy by the neck and feet. The crow beat his wings against the agent’s chest and squawked.
“Where are your pals, Rambler?”
Ray held up a hand. “Don’t.”
De Courcy tightened his grip. “Are you lying to us? Is anyone coming for you? Or is it just this stupid crow?”
“No,” Ray pleaded.
De Courcy scowled down at him. Then, with a twist of his wrists, the wings stopped. De Courcy dropped B’hoy to the dirt and walked out, locking the door behind him.
“No. No.” Ray crawled to him. Tears blurred his vision as he reached for the limp crow. He picked B’hoy up and held him to his chest. “No. Why did you come here? Oh, B’hoy …” He grew quiet as he heard the guards laughing in the other room.
Ray wiped his nose and sat with his back to the wall and B’hoy in his lap. He shook with silent sobs as he ran his fingers over B’hoy’s black feathers.
Pike and Muggeridge did not come the following day. Ray no longer felt hunger, only weakness and a dull pain beneath his ribs as he thought of B’hoy. When De Courcy and Sandusky came on duty that night, De Courcy opened the door to put down a pail of water. Ray glared at the man angrily, B’hoy still in his lap.
Before De Courcy shut the door, Sandusky called, “Hey, why don’t you let me go talk to our friend in there and find out if the Rambler cavalry is ever going to show.”
De Courcy closed the door and locked it quickly. “Pike wanted me to make sure we didn’t go in with the prisoner anymore.”
“I only need a damn minute,” Sandusky said. “Aren’t you ready to get back home? There ain’t no Ramblers coming for him. That paw is hid out there somewhere. Sooner we get him to tell us where, sooner we’re back in Chicago.”
“Come on, Sandy,” De Courcy said. “We going to play cards already or what?”
Ray listened as the men settled down to the table and began shuffling the cards. “Look what I got us,” Sandusky said. There was a tinkling of glass and the squeak of a cork being pulled out.
“That whiskey, yeah?”
“Kentucky bourbon!”
“Where’d you get that?” De Courcy laughed.
“Bought a few bottles off one of the soldiers.”
“Well, pass it over, my friend.”
The men began dealing cards and laughing more and more as they drank the bourbon. A plan formed in Ray’s mind. It wasn’t a particularly good plan, he admitted, but he was desperate. He got up to stand by the door, listening intently. After an hour, De Courcy stood, stumbling out of his chair as he rose. Sandusky laughed. “Where you going?”
“Relieve myself. Be right back.”
After De Courcy left the cabin, Ray said through the door, “How about some food in here?”
Sandusky’s chair clattered. “The hell? What you going on about?” His speech was slurred with the bourbon.
“I’m hungry.”
“Yes sir, it gets to you, don’t it?” Sandusky came over to the door. “You ready to tell us where that Rambler charm is?”
“I want some food first,” Ray said.
Sandusky chuckled. “We ate it all, and believe me I ain’t walking all the way to the blasted mess hall for more tricks from you.”
“How about a drink of that liquor, then?” Ray asked.
“Kid, you’re too young to drink.”
“Do you want the rabbit’s foot?”
“What are you going on about?”
“I’ve got it in here.”
Sandusky snorted. “Got what?”
“The foot,” Ray said
“You know something? If you’re fooling around with me, I’m going to bust this damn bottle over your head.”
“Unlock the door,” Ray said. “It’s right here.”
With a jangling of keys, Sandusky opened the door. Ray backed into the shadows. Sandusky wasn’t wearing his bowler hat, and with his mop of orange hair and disheveled shirt and drunken expression, he looked somewhat like an unruly child.
“So where is it already?” Sandusky said, an empty whiskey bottle dangling from his hand.
“Right over there,” Ray said, pointing to the shadows on the other side of the cell.
Sandusky turned his bleary-eyed gaze to the floor. “Where—?”
Ray charged at Sandusky, catching him in the stomach. As he did, De Courcy staggered through the door. “What’s going on?” he shouted.
Ray knocked Sandusky flat to the floor of the cell and made for the door. De Courcy drew his gun from his belt. “Back in that cell! Sandusky, get up.”
Regaining his sense, Sandusky snapped around toward Ray. “Nope,” De Courcy told him. “You fight him, we’ll have Pike down here in a minute, yeah, and if he sees us drinking …”
Sandusky spat at Ray and grabbed the keys still in the lock. Before he pulled the door shut, Ray spied his red toby on a bench by t
he door of the cabin. The door closed, and darkness returned to the cell.
“What the blazes were you doing?” Ray heard De Courcy ask.
“He said he had that rabbit’s foot with him.”
“Yeah, and you believed him?”
“Shut up and deal another hand.”
As Ray slumped to the floor, his eyes fell to something lying in the dirt. The empty whiskey bottle.
Ray may not have had his toby, but he had a charm now. He grabbed the bottle and looked at the floor. A sliver of light from under the door was enough to locate Sandusky’s footprints in the loose dirt.
“Another pair of jacks?” De Coury scoffed. “Come on, Sandy. You’ve won the last four hands already.”
Ray removed the cork and slowly sifted the dirt that formed Sandusky’s footprint in through the narrow mouth of the bottle.
“Yes sir, going to win the next one too,” Sandusky said.
Once the footprint was collected, Ray replaced the cork with a firm tap.
“We’ll see about that,” De Courcy laughed. “I’m dealing this hand.”
Ray stood at the door and shook the dirt about the inside of the bottle. “I’m ready to come out,” he called.
The two agents were silent, then a chair slid back. “You hear that, Sandy? The Rambler’s ready to come out. Yeah, well, shut up in there so I can concentrate on my hand.”
“Unlock the door,” Ray ordered.
Keys jangled from the table. “What are you doing now?” De Courcy asked Sandusky. “Didn’t I tell you we can’t rough up the kid?”
Footsteps came to the door, and the bolt unlocked.
“Sandy?” De Courcy called out with a perplexed turn to his voice.
Ray put his hand to the door. “Mister Sandusky, knock Mister De Courcy out.”
“That’s it, Rambler!” De Courcy shouted. “Yeah, I’m coming in there to—”
There was a scuffle and then the sound of splintering wood before a body thumped to the floor.
The White City Page 7