Hero didn’t ask what had happened. They rode in silence for another thirty minutes or so as the sun dipped low, kissing the tree line. They set up camp a few miles outside the Harriet Gate. There would be no fire that night, but the air was warm enough that they didn’t need it. They laid out their bedrolls and sat, listening to the cacophony of nighttime insects and frogs singing. They passed a flask of whiskey back and forth while Ruby and Abigail splashed and grumbled in the water, looking for good patches of grass to dine on. The sky went grey; a few bright stars announced themselves. There was no moon, but the star-filled sky cast just enough light for Hero and Houndstooth to see each other’s outlines.

After a few more minutes, Houndstooth grunted, leaning back on his bedroll and propping himself up on his saddlebag. “I’m going to kill the man who burned down my ranch, Hero. You should know that.”

Hero stared hard at him. “If that’s what you have to do to make something right,” they said. “If you feel ready for it.”

“I’ve been getting ready for years, Hero,” Houndstooth murmured. “He’s been hiding from me on the Harriet. And I’ve been waiting for the need to kill him—the hunger for it—to die down. But it hasn’t. And now?” He patted his saddlebag. “Now I have a warrant to get onto the Harriet, and not even Travers can turn me away at the Gate.”

By way of an answer, Hero held out the flask. Houndstooth reached up for it. He misjudged the distance in the dark, and his fingers closed over Hero’s wrist. They both froze for a moment—then, Houndstooth slid his hand up over Hero’s. His fingers felt their way slowly past their hand, past their fingers, over their fingertips, finding the flask.

Houndstooth unscrewed the top of the flask, taking a long drink. Then, finally: “I wish you could have seen it. The ranch.”

Hero’s murmur only just carried over the hum of insects that rose around them. “Tell me.”