by Sarah Gailey
“They sure know how to treat a pregnant girl, eh?” She grinned over her glass at Archie, who sat in a wide wicker-backed armchair opposite her, turning the feral bull’s tusk over and over in her hands.
“Why are you worried?” Adelia asked. “The worst thing that happens is they try to kill us.”
Archie continued worrying at the tusk. She muttered something under her breath.
“Que?”
“I said,” Archie replied deliberately, “that I’m not sure it’s them I’m worried about.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean they knew that we would be getting to the Gate today. They knew ’ow many of us to expect. They ’ad exactly six spots in the paddock, one for each ’ippo. And they ’ad enough rooms set aside for six people, which means they knew about . . . about Neville.”
“So?”
“So,” Archie said, her hands going still, “I think that someone told them about us. I think that someone told them what route we would be taking. I think—”
“What’s all this about?” Hero said, striding into the lounge.
“Archie thinks that we have a spy in our midst,” Adelia said with a crooked grin. Hero looked sharply at Archie.
“A spy?”
“Oui,” Archie replied, her brows high. “I inspected the Gate while ’oundstooth was talking to that ’illbilly ranger. It was sturdy, intact, no recent welding that I could see. And we all know that a ’ippo isn’t going to reach higher ramming speeds overland than in the water.”
“What’s your point, Archie?” Hero asked, not unkindly.
“My point is: if the Gate was not broken, then ’ow exactly did a single feral bull escape the Harriet and find us? Just the one? Not enough for us to notice and change course? I’ll tell you how: Monsieur Travers snapped ’is fingers, and that guard let it out. I’d guess that ’appened on the same day we ’it the road. The only question is, who was gone long enough to send a telegram?”
Adelia, Archie, and Hero looked at each other. None of them wanted to be the first to speak.
The doors to the lounge swung open, and Houndstooth strode in briskly. “Well! Why the long faces, you three? And where’s Calhoun?”
Adelia rattled the ice in her glass. “I’d imagine ’e’s at the blackjack tables,” she said, plucking out an ice cube and pressing it to her neck. “Ay, it’s too hot.”
“You alright, Adelia?” Hero asked.
“Si, si, it’s just—nobody ever told me that having a little girl would make me so hot all the time!”
Houndstooth, being a gentleman, said nothing; he kept his eyes averted from Adelia’s ripe belly. Hero, having no such compunctions, laughed heartily. “Get used to it, ma’am. We have a saying where I’m from—boys will make you cry, but girls? Girls will make you sweat.”
* * *
The lamps that lit the riverboat inside and out had come on by the time Archie found Cal on the casino floor. He swayed gently on his stool, and it was readily apparent that bourbon, rather than the rocking rhythm of the boat, was what moved him. Archie pulled up a stool beside him and mentally tallied the cash that rested in stacks on his side of the felt.
“’Ow are you doing, there, mon ami?” she asked softly. Cal swung his head around to her and grinned broadly. Blood was seeping through the bandage over his left ear. He had two toothpicks in his mouth. One was fresh; the other was chewed nearly to splinters, as though he’d forgotten to discard the old one.
“Archie! Or should I say, Regina?” He leered as he said her name, and she thought she could guess what pun he thought he was making.
“Actually, cherie, it’s Regina. Rhymes with Pasadena.”
His leer dissolved, and he became morose so quickly that Archie feared he would fall off his stool.
“You know Pasadena, oui, Calhoun? That is where you met our Adelia—on a supply trip for Mr. ’oundstooth, was it not? A decade ago, oui?”
“I don’t wanna talk about Adelia,” Cal slurred. “I miss Adelia so—” He hiccupped. “—so much, and I don’t wanna talk about her. She won’—she won’ even talk to me about the baby, Regina. After what I did for her? She came back to me and then, and then she left, an’—I don’t wanna talk about her, no, no thank you.”
“Ah, of course, of course—” Cal interrupted Archie before she could finish agreeing not to talk about Adelia.
“I met ’er in Pasadena, you know,” he said, having already apparently forgotten that Archie had said just that a few moments before. “I met ’er there and I loved—I loved her right away. I was so nice to her, but she just wouldn’t even lookuhme.” He slapped the table with the palm of his hand. “Wouldn’t go home with a ranch hand, no sir. Too good for that!” His too-loud voice suddenly wobbled. “Too good for me. But I showed her, I did everything he asked me to do and then some—”
Other patrons of the Sturgess Queen’s bar were starting to stare. Archie put a hand on Cal’s elbow. “Perhaps we should get you to bed, non? It would appear that you are winning. Best to quit while you are ahead, is it not?”
Cal shook his finger at her, squinting. “Not yet,” he said in a stage whisper. “Not yet. I’m not done yet.” He turned back to the dealer, who had observed this exchange with the removed patience of experience, and slapped the felt hard enough that one of his stacks of cash fell over. He left his hand where it lay, and his gaze swam up to meet the dealer’s eyes. “Himme.”
The dealer did as he was told, and Archie saw at once that she should not have allowed Cal to touch the table.
“Twenty-one. Again. Excellent, Mr. Hotchkiss.” The dealer smiled at Cal, but his smile did not extend to his eyes. He moved his hand as though to shift more cash to Cal’s side of the table, but at the last moment, he seized Cal’s wrist instead.
Archie sprang from her stool, her hand going automatically to her empty holster, as the dealer gripped Cal’s wrist and waved his other hand in a signal. Mr. Travers appeared as though from thin air, his hands clasped soberly behind his back.
“Well now, Mr. Hotchkiss. What have you been up to?”
The dealer lifted Cal’s hand, revealing a single card underneath it.
“This is the fourth card he’s swapped, Mr. Travers, sir. I wasn’t sure at first, but, well.” The dealer smiled at the small army of empty highball glasses that littered the table. “He got sloppy.”
Cal looked from the dealer to Travers’ unsmiling face, and then to Archie. His expression was that of a boy who has fallen into a well at dusk, and who has yelled himself hoarse with no answer but the rustle of wind through buzzards’ wings.
“Mr. Hotchkiss,” Travers said, reaching into his breast pocket and pulling out a bloody, folded pocket square. “I believe you’ll be needing this back.” He tucked the pocket square into Cal’s shirt pocket. Cal blanched and started muttering the word “no” under his breath, over and over, like an incantation.
“Mr. Travers, sir, Cal is drunk. Might I take ’im up to his room to sleep this off? He is not ’imself.” Archie’s voice was dripping honey. Travers regarded her with frank interest.
“Why, Miss Archambault. It is so refreshing to see someone willing to stick up for a friend. But I’m afraid that Mr. Hotchkiss here is a cheat. Ah, ah—” He held up a finger, cutting off her interruption. “He may be drunk, but he is still a cheat. He was a cheat before he was drunk and he’ll remain a cheat when he sobers up tomorrow.” He took a step away from Cal. The dealer did the same.
Cal bolted for the door. The band stopped playing to watch him pass. He was fast—but Travers’ security goons were faster. They caught him under the arms midstride, hauling him into the air with the brisk efficiency and remorselessness of experience.
“No!” he cried, his legs kicking in the air but finding no purchase as he was dragged bodily across the casino floor. “No, wait, Mr. Travers, sir, please! You can’t, you can’t—after what I did for you? After what I did to that British bastard for you? Please, sir, I won’t—I wa
sn’t—”
Travers laid his fingertips on Archie’s arm, as though to comfort her. “Watch now.”
And she did. She watched as Travers’ men paused at the window. Cal’s eyes roamed the room, sightless with terror. He screamed. He begged.
Travers’ men did not seem to hear. They swung him once—heave-ho, and his toothpicks fell to the floor—then hurled him bodily through the open window.
He screamed as he fell; the splash seemed to echo in the silent casino. Then, he screamed again. It was not a scream of terror, but a scream of pain.
After a moment, the screaming stopped—but the splashing continued.
Travers clapped his hands once in front of his chest, then addressed the now-silent patrons who filled the gambling tables of his casino. “Ladies and gentlemen, my apologies for the disruption!” He turned to the bar. “To make up for it, a round of champagne for everyone, on the house!”
Travers signaled the band, and the music started playing once again. He laid his fingertips lightly upon Archie’s arm once more as the casino floor erupted in cheers.
“I hope, Miss Archambault, that you can understand. Mr. Hotchkiss was a thief, and I cannot abide thieves.” His use of the past tense was not lost on Archie. “I, of course, would not even begin to consider allowing his shortcomings to color my opinions of the rest of your little hopper gang.”
Archie managed a smile, and touched his fingertips with her own. “I . . . I am so grateful, Mr. Travers. We ’ad no idea that Cal—” But she saw his wry, knowing smile and started again. “Of course, we knew that he was a scoundrel, but we would never imagine that he would besmirch your ’ospitality so.”
“Of course not, Miss Archambault. Of course not.” A waiter approached holding a silver tray of glasses, and Travers handed one to Archie before taking one for himself. He touched his glass to hers, making the crystal sing.
“Cheers, Miss Archambault. May you enjoy your stay on the Sturgess Queen, and the very best of luck in all your endeavors.”
“Santé,” Archie answered, and drained her glass without looking away from Travers’ twinkling eyes. Travers signaled the band to play louder, and they did—but the music couldn’t mask the bellowing of the ferals fighting over their feast in the river below.
Chapter 10
“I’M NOT SURE I UNDERSTAND what you mean, Archie.” Houndstooth’s voice was low. If Archie hadn’t known better, she’d have thought he was furious. But she did know better—she’d saved the man’s life somewhere between nine and a half and ten times, and she knew his moods better than her own.
So she knew that he was perched on the edge of panic.
“Dead means dead, mon ami. Nothing more to it.”
Houndstooth ran his hands through his hair as he paced back and forth, staring at the carpet. Hero, seated on the divan, followed him with their eyes. “But . . . but if he’s dead, then—then I can’t—then I didn’t—”
Archie put a quelling hand on his shoulder. “Perhaps it is best this way, non?” she whispered. “Without the revenge.”
He looked up at her, his eyes flashing. “How did you know?”
She looked uncomfortable. Before she had to answer—before she had to tell him what Cal had said just before he died—the door banged open. Adelia stared in at the two of them. “Well, Archie. I suppose this means you and I each get our own suite.”
“It also means we’re all up to our necks in the bog without so much as a hop to ride,” Houndstooth said in a clipped voice. “We can’t do this without Cal.” He began to pace the suite, running his hands through his hair.
Hero didn’t look up from their whittling. “If you’re so beside yourself about it, Winslow, I can chew on toothpicks and sling racial slurs with the best of ’em. Might need to practice some, but I’m sure I can get in fightin’ shape by mornin’.”
Houndstooth laughed—a genuine, easy laugh—and then sat heavily on the bed next to Archie.
“Look around the room, Hero. What’s missing?”
Hero glanced around the suite. “Palpable body odor.”
Houndstooth laughed again, but this time, the laugh seemed forced. Adelia and Archie exchanged a glance.
“We’re missing a white boy,” Adelia murmured, stroking her belly.
“So what?” Archie huffed. “If we need one so bad, I am sure I can drag one back up here for you, Winslow. There’s no shortage.”
Houndstooth was staring at Hero. Hero stared back at him for a long moment.
“What is it? What are we failing to understand here, Winslow? What’s so tough about pulling off this hippo caper without Cal on board?”
Houndstooth dropped his head into his hands. “We need your supplies, Hero. And nobody on the Harriet is going to sell your supplies to a stranger, not even for easy money. We’ve been corresponding with a dealer and he’s expecting Cal to come buy the goods from him, and we’re working with him on the strength of Cal’s reputation on the Harriet. He’s expecting Cal. He’s expecting a white man with a terrible mistake of a moustache.” He rubbed his face with his hands, groaning. “And it’s not a caper; it’s an operation.”
Hero whittled faster, sending hickory shavings flying into the plush red carpet. “Right, right. All aboveboard. So, ask your federal boy. I’m sure the army can send something.”
Houndstooth looked uncomfortable. “I can’t ask him.”
Hero’s lips quirked into a half smile. “Oh, honestly. You’re embarrassed?”
Houndstooth scowled at them. “No, I’m not embarrassed, it’s just that—he doesn’t know what we’re going to do, here. He’s assuming we’ll net each feral, one by one, and escort them out of the swamp. That’s why the contract is for a full year.”
Adelia swore under her breath. “That’s . . . idiotic.”
“That’s dangerous,” Archie added.
“That’s why we’re not doing it that way,” Houndstooth said. Houndstooth slapped the edge of the map, his cheeks pink. “It was a great goddamned plan, and it’s sunk.” Hero put a calming hand on his arm. His cheeks reddened further.
“So we need a white boy por quoi? To buy dynamite?”
Hero nodded. “Lots of it. And detonators. Fuses, timers—oh, and wax. A lot of wax.”
Archie left the room without saying another word.
“Where is she going?” Adelia asked.
“Probably to go charm some poor kid into buying Hero’s groceries,” Houndstooth replied. “I suppose that’s why she’s on the team—she could talk a hippo into thinking it was a rhinoceros without breaking a sweat.”
A few minutes later, the door burst open again. Adelia smirked.
“Giving up so soon, eh Ar—oh,” she said.
Archie stood in the doorway, transformed. She’d slicked her hair down on either side of a part so razor sharp it put Houndstooth’s to shame. Her pinstriped breeches and satin waistcoat had been exchanged for a flawlessly tailored three-piece linen suit. She spun a matching bowler hat between her hands. Her boots were half-covered by diamond-white spats. A blond moustache—one that would have kept Cal up at night with envy—bristled its way across her upper lip.
She had become an impeccably outfitted gentleman.
“You needed a white boy, oui?” she asked, her voice pitched an octave lower than usual. “Et voilà.”
Houndstooth gaped at her as Hero crossed the room to examine her. “Where did you get this suit?” Hero asked. “I don’t mean any offense, but I can’t imagine you just grabbed it off some poor mark in the hallway just now. And that moustache—good God, Archie, it’s nothing like Cal’s, but it’ll do!”
“I keep it around for special occasions,” Archie replied with a grin. “Sometimes my heart calls more to suits than skirts. It is fluid, oui?” She waved her hand vaguely through the air. “It changes. The tailor, ’e was confused when I told ’im what I wanted, but for the right price, anything can be ’ad. Isn’t that right, Adelia?”
Adelia’s head snapped up
from where she was staring at the map. “Que?”
Houndstooth seemed to come to his senses. “Archie, you . . . you brilliant woman, I could kiss you!”
Archie and Hero both scowled. “You will ruin my moustache, ’oundstooth. Best to keep that kiss for someone who wants it, eh?” She placed the bowler hat on her head and turned to Hero, whose eyes went wide.
“Do you ’ave a list for me?”
“A list? Oh! A list. Of course, yes, let me just—” Hero scrambled for paper and scrawled out a list of supplies, handing it to Archie.
“Well, my friends, off I go. I expect all three of you to be drunk at the bar by the time I return.” She tipped a wink at Hero. “We must make a good show of enjoying our stay on the Sturgess Queen, non?”
* * *
Archie didn’t return until the wee hours of the morning. As she and Rosa approached the dock, she looked around at the Harriet. She hadn’t really paid attention to it the day before—she had been more focused on the guns Travers’ goons were carrying. Through the night, it had been too dark to really take in. As the sky began to lighten, she realized that the Harriet was precisely what she had expected: a huge, flat, muddy stretch of water, dotted with tiny islets and bracketed by humps of dogwood-covered land. She found herself wishing it was more beautiful, more shaded and lush—but then, she thought, it would be good marshland for hippos rather than a prison for ferals and riverboat thugs.
She unloaded Rosa’s saddlebags onto the floating dock that bridged the gap between the Sturgess Queen and the paddock. She brushed Rosa’s teeth and put medicated drops into the albino hippo’s pink eyes. Then, she sang Rosa a short lullaby and began dragging her load aboard the boat.
She tapped on the door to Hero and Houndstooth’s cabin with one fingernail, then with two. When there was no answer, she gave a single rap on the door with her knuckle.
Hero answered the door, breathless, still tying the belt of a robe around their waist. Their eyes were glassy—their lips, swollen. Archie grinned wickedly.
