Chapters (22)
By the time the hoppers arrived at the Gate, the sun was high and hot overhead, and all five of them were dewy with sweat. The Gate bowed toward them in places, the metal warped in the shape of rampaging feral bulls that had seen something worth having on the other side of the grate, but it was intact, and still looked strong. Debris floated in the water around the grate—sticks and leaves that hadn’t been cleared by the crew of old soldiers who manned the outpost. Rosa picked through the water around the sticks, lifting her nose high in the air. Archie nudged her forward, peering at the grate. Ruby nosed at the sticks freely, searching for anything that appeared edible and ignoring Houndstooth entirely. Betsy, meanwhile, bowled through the flotsam, kicking up waves of water that soaked Cal to the waist and sent leaves flying at the other hoppers.
As they neared the outpost, they were greeted by the warning report of a rifle. A ranger peered down at them from one of the four high towers that dotted the thirteen-mile-long Gate, his face shaded by a broad-brimmed, sweat-stained hat with a Bureau of Land Management badge affixed to the brim.
“Alrigh’ down there,” he shouted. “Let’s see your badges, just hold ’em high, now. No trouble.”
Houndstooth produced a waxed wallet instead. He removed a large sheaf of paper and waved it in the air with one hand, cupping the other around his mouth.
“We don’t have badges, but we have a contract with the federal government. We’ve got free passage.”
The ranger peered down at them, mopping his creased brow with a well-worn kerchief. Then, understanding bloomed across his face. “Are you the same Houndstooth what Alberto let through t’other day? Thought he told me you was a British fella.”
“Yes, yes, that’s me,” Houndstooth called back up with a barely perceptible sigh. “Winslow Houndstooth, at your service, my good man. Would you terribly mind letting us through?”
The ranger spat brownly over the side of the Gate, well away from the five riders. “Sure enough, sure enough. Where’ll you be staying?”
The voice that answered from beyond the Gate was smoother than a newborn hop’s underbelly. “Not to worry, Harold. They’ll be staying with me.”
The ranger startled so violently that his hat fell off, dropping thirty feet from the tower. Hero caught it neatly, spinning it in their hands.
“Yes sir, Mr. Travers, sir,” the ranger said, a quaver in his voice.
“Real subtle-like,” Cal muttered to Houndstooth, his hand rising to touch the bandage over his left ear. Then he raised his voice, inclining his head toward the small, sleek man on the other side of the Gate. “Mr. Travers. What a fine surprise this is.”