Free The White City by John Claude Bemis Page B

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    Ray should have been afraid, but somehow fear had been replaced by something else, something he seemed to have drawn from the earth.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 angerand 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