The White City (9 page)

Pike didn’t flinch, but the other agents anxiously watched the exchange between their commanding officer and his second-in-command. Pike said, “So he started running from us and put up a fight when he was caught. He hasn’t spoken a word to explain who he’d be otherwise.”

Muggeridge looked down at Ray. “You the Rambler boy?”

Ray locked eyes with Muggeridge but offered no reply.

“You hear me?” Muggeridge said, kicking a spray of gravel against Ray.

“Want me to get him to talk, sir?” Sandusky asked.

Muggeridge sneered but shook his head. “I’ve just been in the back with our Hound. He’s still got the scent and it’s still to the west. Doesn’t sound like this would be our Rambler, does it?”

“But, sir—” Pike began, but his words were cut off.

“It’s some Rambler trick, yeah!” De Courcy growled, nursing his injured arm against his side.

As an angry murmuring made its way around, Ray sensed
the Hoarhound’s presence. He lifted a hand slightly and felt the tingling, the strange draw of the mechanical beast.

“The Hoarhound is following the Rambler’s charm,” Muggeridge barked. “Now, it could be that the boy there has hidden the rabbit’s paw up in those mountains, but why would he do that? And why turn back toward us? Frankly I don’t think we have the Rambler here.”

“Damn if this ain’t the Rambler!” Sandusky said. He holstered his pistol and charged forward at Ray, pulling him to his feet.

“What are you doing?” Muggeridge said.

“Look!” Sandusky began roughly feeling along Ray’s pockets, down his legs, and then at his chest, where he stopped as his fingers clutched the toby sack. “What have we here, see?”

Ray twisted away from the agent, but Sandusky had him locked in his grip. With a tug, the agent popped open the top buttons of Ray’s shirt. Ray fell back, and when he landed, the red flannel toby lay exposed.

Muggeridge’s eyes widened. “Let me see that.”

Mister Murphy ripped the toby from Ray’s neck and handed it to him. Muggeridge opened the string and emptied the contents into his palm: roots, a dandelion petal, a twist of rue, dried herbs, and other charms. He continued shaking them out and letting them spill to the ground as he searched.

Mister Pike said, “The Ramblers were known to carry mojo pouches of these here hoodoo curios.”

“But there’s no rabbit’s foot in it,” Muggeridge said, throwing down the empty red flannel sack.

“The hell! He’s got it hidden on him somewhere else!” Sandusky cried, and Pike tightened his grip on his arm.

“Strip him,” Muggeridge ordered.

Ray tried to remain impassive as Murphy and another agent removed Ray’s clothes until he stood in the baking sun in only his underclothes and socks. “Where is it?” Sandusky looked as if he were about to attack Ray again.

“Some sort of spell he’s cast on it,” one of the other agents suggested.

“To make it invisible,” another agreed.

“I’m not looking for a discussion,” Muggeridge barked. “I want some order here with you men!”

“We’ve been out here for weeks on these blasted plains!” Sandusky shouted. “How much farther we going to go? To the Pacific? To China? Yes sir, we’re chasing a ghost!”

“Put Mister Sandusky in the coach,” Muggeridge told Pike.

Sandusky furled his brow but allowed Pike to lead him away. Muggeridge said, “You men get to your posts. Ready the steamcoach.” The men reluctantly backed away as ordered.

Muggeridge looked at Ray after they were alone. “Put your clothes back on, boy.”

Ray began dressing. When Pike returned, he asked Muggeridge in a low voice, “Sir, are we going to continue pursuit?”

“We have orders to bring back the Rambler boy and his rabbit’s paw,” Muggeridge said. “And this kid isn’t carrying it.”

Pike’s voice was tight. “The men are nearly mutinous, Mister Muggeridge. Supplies are low. Morale is worse. And I absolutely feel we have convincing evidence that this here boy is the Rambler we’re after, even if we can’t find the charm. Let’s find out.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Bring out the Hound.”

Ray had just fastened the last button of his shirt. He kept his gaze down, trying to mask the fear twitching at his jaw.

Muggeridge paused. “All right. You watch the boy.”

He turned toward the back of the steamcoach. Pike thumbed the hammer back on his pistol and motioned toward Ray. “Sit on down there.”

Ray sank to the dusty earth.

Muggeridge unlatched the door and entered the car. After a moment, he came back out, his hand clutching the Hoarhound at the throat. Ray had only ever seen the creature at night, images that had been blurred by darkness and the terror of the encounters. But now, as the frost-armored beast steamed in the hot air, Ray had time to see Grevol’s creation more clearly. Bigger than a bull, the Hound had enormous jaws that hung slack, and its back was stitched up crudely from the battle with the rougarou.

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.