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Hoof only notices because he’s been doing it for three days. It’s not impossible: you could try on a well-fueled humbug, or a trike, if the ground were flatter here. But no one’s ever kept up with her on foot this long.

So she makes camp and waits until he walks up and plops down next to her fire, smiling shyly. He puts his sword down without a glance at the gun in her lap.

“What kind of robber are you?” says Hoof, in some bewilderment.

“I’m Found Dog!” he says cheerfully. “Found Dog is a good person to be!”


“How come they gave you a… a lady voice?” says Kincaid, five drinks later.

“Because I’m female, you sot.” Hoof’s tail flicks irritably, but Kincaid doesn’t know that sign. She watches his eyes move over her hard, glossy pectorals to her flat abs and anticipates the question.

“I was engineered as a brood mare,” she sighs.

“Then how… y’know, feeding?” Kincaid watches her drink; it’s weird to see her big hands tossing shots into her long equine mouth.

“The lab never intended me,” says Hoof grimly, “to nurse my offspring.”

Kincaid feels so bad about humanity that he has to barf.