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Rags stiffened. That had been the name on Bones’s tag. Captain J. Ledger.
“Yeah,” said Ledger. He pointed to the woman with the matchstick. “I’m going to take a wild guess here and say that you’re Mama Rat, am I right?”
The woman merely grunted.
“Mama Rat,” repeated Ledger, nodding to himself. “And these seven geniuses are what’s left of the skull-riders. Geez. Skull-riders. I have to believe alcohol was involved in the process of coming up with that name.” He shook his head. “So sad, really. You hear the rumors and you want to believe the hype. People in the refugee camps talk about the skull-riders like they’re the biggest, baddest bunch of butt-kickers since the Visigoths. People tell stories about you ass-clowns, you know that?”
He sighed and shook his head.
Rags had no idea what was going on. There were seven armed men, all of them younger than this old guy. And yet he was making fun of them. Was he nuts? Was that it?
“You’re that old ranger,” said Mama Rat. “Joe Ledger.”
“Guilty as charged,” Ledger admitted as he rose slowly to his feet. He was very tall and had an empty holster on his right hip and a sheathed knife on his left. “And if you know my name, honey, then you know why I’m here. And you know that I don’t take kindly to anyone messing with one of my dogs.”
The woman cleared her throat. “Your . . . dogs . . . ?”
“Uh-huh. Dogs. Plural. Oops!” Ledger snapped his fingers, and with a clatter of nails and a deep-chested whuff, a second dog stepped out from between two cars.
It was massive, and its coat was the color of dirty snow.
It had one brown eye and one mint-colored eye.
It looked exactly like Bones.
Except that it was a lot bigger.
“Now ain’t this a pickle?” said Ledger with a contented little chuckle.
9
Mama Rat and her seven brutish skull-riders gaped at this new dog. So did Rags. It was the biggest dog she had ever seen. Easily two hundred pounds, and probably closer to two-fifty. It wore a coat of leather studded with steel bolts whose shafts had been sharpened to deadly points. A metal cap was strapped to its head, and from its dome sprouted a dozen wickedly sharp blades. Another line of blades stood up along its spine like the plates of a stegosaurus.
“Let me make introductions,” said Ledger. “Baskerville, meet the clown college. Clown college, meet my friend Baskerville. I’m sure you’ll all get along swimmingly.”
Baskerville bared his teeth. There were a lot of them, and his eyes blazed with such heat that Rags thought she could feel it. Beside her, Bones barked once, twice, again. Deep-chested and challenging. Baskerville responded with a booming bark that seemed to shake the street.
All seven men stepped back, fear blooming like weeds in their eyes.
Only Mama Rat held her ground, and despite everything, she smiled up at the big man with the big dog.
“Yeah,” she said, “you’re pretty darned impressive. You fit the stories people tell about you. The showmanship, the smart mouth.”
Ledger gave her a small, comical bow.
“But there’s still more of us than there are of you,” said Mama Rat.
“You like those numbers? Seven idiots who couldn’t find their own butts without a road map and a compass against me, Baskerville, and Boggart?”
Boggart? thought Rags. Beside her, Bones barked when he heard that name.
His real name.
In a strange way it made her sad to know that he wasn’t really Bones. Not her Bones. The big dog belonged to this strange man. Bones—Boggart—was family to the other dog. Brother, maybe. Or son.
Either way, he didn’t belong to her, and despite everything it made Rags want to cry.
Mam Rat said, “Eight to three is good enough odds most days. I’m sorry to spoil your bit of drama here, though.” She reached into her hoodie pocket and produced a whistle, the kind coaches use. Mama Rat put it to her lips and blew a shrill, piercing note that rose high above the scene and floated away on the wind.
