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Gutsy fished a rough horse blanket from under the bench seat and wrapped it around her and Alethea. It was getting chilly, as deserts do very quickly in the evening, and this action would seem normal. As agreed, Alethea kept her right arm straight out to the side to make it look like there were two people huddled together for warmth. Gutsy bent low and tumbled off the wagon, rolled quickly and was deep in the shadows beside the tank in under two seconds.
Sombra leaped after her. Gutsy tried to warn him back, but the dog wriggled in tightly beside her as if he understood the need for concealment. The wagon rolled on and Aleth
ea kept her arm out, selling the fiction until they were far away.
Gutsy let out a sigh of relief, then turned and scowled through shadows at the coydog. “You’re a dummy. You could have been safe and warm at home.”
She couldn’t see him very well, but she heard his wagging tail thump against the steel tread of the army tank.
They lay there and waited for night to own the world.
30
THEY CAME BY MOONLIGHT.
Four of them, dressed in long yellow canvas coats—dusters, Gutsy thought they were called—with hats pulled low. The hats weren’t like the cowboy style the riders in town had worn; these were like ball caps with curved bills and old American flag patches sewn on the crowns. One wagon carried them all, two up front and two in the back. They entered through the main gate and went straight to Mama’s grave. It confirmed what Gutsy suspected about the cemetery being watched.
Gutsy and Sombra hid between two mounds of dirt heaped next to a pair of open graves, a thin blanket of dark wool pulled over them. She’d smeared her face and hands with dirt. Sombra was invisible beside her. His body rippled with nervous anxiety and a mix of other emotions she could not begin to define. Gutsy leaned close and whispered, “Shhh,” to him.
The wagon stopped beside the grave and the four got down. It was soon apparent that there were three men and one woman. The gibbous moon was bright and she could see their faces clearly. The woman was maybe fifty years old, very fit, with black hair cut into a short, almost masculine style. She had dark eyes and an air of cold command. From the way she spoke to the others, it was clear she was in charge.
Without doubt this was the woman rider from the previous night. Same eyes. Same coldness.
There was a very large black man standing with her. He had wide-set eyes and a handsome face except for a small, pinched mouth. He wore steel-rimmed glasses and seemed to be second in command to the woman.
The other two were very similar except for race—one white, one Latino. Both were average weight, average build, very fit, and in their late twenties or early thirties. They did whatever the woman or the black man told them to do.
As they milled around, turning on a lantern, checking the area and so on, they spoke very little, but enough so that Gutsy would recognize their voices again. She heard the white man call the woman “Cap,” and the Latino man called the black man “Loot.” Since they had a definite military air about them, Gutsy reasoned that the nicknames were short for captain and lieutenant. But . . . of what? There were people in town who used to be soldiers, of course, but none of them were active. How could they be? There was no army anymore. No air force, navy, or marines. And yet these four acted like there was an active chain of command, and they moved with precision.
Gutsy found that curious but also deeply disturbing. Then they removed their dusters and she saw that all four of them were wearing identical military uniforms. Neat, new, and professional.
“What the . . . ?” she murmured, then caught herself. The soldiers did not hear her, though. Gutsy hunkered down and studied them, making sure to commit every line, every detail to memory. These people were strangers to her. They did not look like maniacs, and definitely not ravagers. They looked calm, intelligent, and they moved with efficiency and purpose, but they could not be good people. Not if they were here, sneaking to her mother’s grave under cover of night. One of them tossed shovels to each of the others.
“Let’s dig this rat up and get back,” said the woman.
The words hit Gutsy with a one-two punch.
This rat.
Rat?
Gutsy felt a fierce and deadly outrage at the cold contempt they showed toward her mother’s body. That immediate reaction was swept away by a deeper realization triggered by what that word meant. Rat. Her mother’s dying words came back to hammer at her.
“The rat catchers are coming, mi corazón. Be careful. If they come for you . . . promise me you’ll run away and hide.”
Mama had been terrified when she said that.
“Ten cuidado. Mucho cuidado. Los cazadores de ratas vienen.”
“Oh my God,” breathed Gutsy as she realized that Mama’s words had not been conjured by the dark magic of a dying mind. Even while teetering on the edge of the drop into the big black, Mama had used her last breaths to try to warn her daughter about a very real threat. A real terror.
Take care, take great care . . . the hunters of rats are coming.
The Rat Catchers were real.
The Rat Catchers were the riders in town.
And the Rat Catchers were here.
