Mad Amos Malone

  “They’re real enough, Mr. Malone,” Sarah Weaver said. “If you don’t believe us, stay and see for yourself, if you dare.”

  “Well, now, ma’am, I jest might do that. Been a while since I seen a gen-u-wine spirit. Oh, and that Comanche medicine man you talked to? He might’ve been right or he might’ve been wrong, but one thing’s sure: he weren’t pacified. You don’t pacify the Comanche. They jest got plumb tuckered out.” He glanced at his host.

  “Now, you say these here no-heads keep y’all awake a-yellin’ and a-hollerin’. Do they sound somethin’ like this?” Somewhere behind that bear thicket of a beard, lips parted as Malone began to chant.

  Jeremiah’s jaw dropped as he stared in awe, while his parents sat stock-still, listening. Night, not due for hours, seemed to encroach on the little cabin, and a breeze probed curiously where moments earlier the air had been as still as a bad man’s eulogy.

  “That about right?” Malone finally inquired.

  Esau shook himself back to alertness. “Something like that but deeper, long syllables.”

  Malone tried again. “Closer?”

  Sarah Weaver found herself nodding unwillingly. “That’s it, Mr. Malone. That’s it exactly.”

  “lnterestin’. First chant was Comanche. Second was Shoshone. Now, the Comanche and the Shoshone are related, but there ain’t no love lost between the tribes and there ain’t no Shoshone in these parts. Too far east, too far south. Makes no sense.”

  “Neither do headless devils, Mr. Malone.”

  The mountain man nodded somberly at the rancher’s wife. “That’s a truth fine as frog hair, ma’am. The devils I know always keep their heads about them, if not their wits. A head’s something man or spirit tends to get used to and downright lonely without.

  “You said they’re about to run you off this land, but all they’ve done is make your lives more miserable than North Texas weather?”

  “Maybe you’re not afraid of devils, Mr. Malone, but I have a family to protect. I’ll take no chances with something I do not understand.”

  “I comprehend your position, Esau. You’re a good man in a bad spot. Now, a fool like myself loves to take chances with what he don’t understand. Mrs. Weaver, I will take you up on your offer to stay and see for myself. But I don’t fancy doin’ so all by my lonesome. You’ve stuck it out this long. Could you see your way clear to stickin’ around one more night? If my suspicions are wrong, I’ll be the first to up an’ confess my sins.”

  “Another night?” Sarah Weaver’s exhaustion showed in her tone and expression. “I don’t know. What would be the good in it?”

  “Might not be any good in it, ma’am.” Malone didn’t mince words with her. “Might be only understanding, and that ain’t always to the good. But I’ve got a hunch it ain’t your place the spirits hereabouts are concerned with.”

  Esau Weaver leaned forward. “Then you do believe there are spirits here?”

  “Didn’t I say that? This is old Comanche land. Lot o’ coups counted here, lot of warriors’ bones interred along this river. What I said was I don’t see why they’d bear you folks any malice. You ain’t even turnin’ the soil.”

  “Why should you want to help us? You said you were just passing through.”

  “That’s my life, Esau. Passin’ through. The time to stop’s when good people like yourselves are havin’ trouble. It’s what we do in the passin’ that’s remembered.” He beamed at Sarah Weaver, and despite her exhaustion, she surprised herself by blushing. “Notwithstandin’ that I owe you fer the best meal I’ve had since leavin’ New Orleans.”

  Weaver was wrestling with himself. His mind had been made up for days. He would not go so far as to allow himself to hope, but this towering stranger was so damned sure of things.

  He glanced one last time at his wife, who acquiesced with her eyes. Then he turned back to Malone. “You mind sleepin’ in the barn with the horses?”

  “Not if the horses don’t object. Uh, you got any mares in heat?”

  Weaver made a face. “No. Why would you ask that?”

  “Don’t want t’ cause a ruckus.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the door. “Worthless may not look like much, but he’s able to do more than trot when his back’s up.”

  “I’ll find you some blankets, Mr. Malone.” Sarah Weaver started to rise from the table.

  “Now, never you mind me, missus. I’ve got my own blanket. Buffalo robe’s good enough fer me. Warmer than homespun and strong enough to keep the mosquitoes away.”

  “Thick pile, is it?” Weaver inquired.

  “Not especial. But it ain’t been washed in a bit, and the smell’s strong enough to mask my own.”

  Jeremiah gazed wide-eyed at the mountain man. “What if the headless spirits come for you, Mr. Malone? What if they come for you in the barn when you’re asleep and all alone?”

  That huge wrinkled face bent close. The boy could smell the plains and the mountains, the sea and suggestions of far-off places. For just an instant those black eyes seemed to shine with a light of their own, and Jeremiah Weaver was sure he could see unnameable things reflected within them.

  “Why, then, son, we’ll have ourselves a gen-u-wine set-to and we’ll gamble for souls or answers.”

  Malone guessed it was around two in the morning when Worthless’s cold, wet tongue slapped against his face. Grunting, the mountain man swatted at the persistent protuberance as he sat up in the darkness, hunting for his boots.

  “Godforsaken miserable son of a spavined mule can’t let a man get a decent sleep.” Worthless snorted and turned toward his waiting saddle and blanket.

  “No, you stay here.” Malone hop-danced into one boot, then its mate. “Bright night like this, you’d stick out like Tom Sawyer’s fence. I won’t be too long. Meanwhile, you leave those two mares alone. They ain’t interested in you, nohow.”

  As Malone traipsed out of the barn in the direction of the faint sounds, his mount stuck out his tongue at him. Then Worthless turned to begin chewing at the rope that secured the paddock gate.

  There was ample moon, though Malone didn’t need it. He could track them by their movements. They were chanting already, but softly, as if practicing. Peculiar and peculiar. Spirits didn’t need rehearsals, and it was hard to imagine any Indian, real or ghostly, crashing through the brush like a runaway mine cart.

  But there were spirits here. That he knew. So he continued to tread silently.

  Then he could see them. There were about a dozen, advancing slowly on the cabin, crouching as they walked. They wore painted vests and leggings and, just as the Weavers had insisted, had no heads.

  Maybe that explained why they were so clumsy, Malone thought. Spirits floated. Comanche floated, almost. These critters, whatever they were, bulled their way through the brush.

  Only one of them was chanting louder than a whisper. Malone focused on him. There was something about the way he moved that was real. His feet caressed the earth instead of bludgeoning it, and he wore moccasins. His companion spirits wore boots. A few were equipped with spurs. Odd choice of footgear for a ghost.

  The crackling anger of a thousand crickets made Malone look down and to his left. The snake was already tightly coiled. So intent had he been on observing the advancing “spirits” that he’d neglected to note the leathery one close by his feet.

  The rattler’s tongue flicked in Malone’s direction. Malone’s tongue jabbed right back. If it had any sense, the rattler would bluster a few seconds more and then slither off in the grass. Snakes, however, were notoriously short on common sense. This one struck, aiming for Malone’s left leg.

  The mountain man disliked killing anything without good reason, and the snake’s unwarranted attack was evidence enough it was already deranged. So instead of drawing the bowie knife, Malone spit, faster and more accurately than was natu
ral. His spit caught the snake in the eyes as its target leapt to one side.

  Confused and queasy, the rattler lay silent a moment. Then it hurried off into the brush. It would not come back.

  Unfortunately, it had been heard. Four headless figures surrounded Malone. All of them carried Colts, distinctly unethereal devices. The man in their midst regarded them thoughtfully.

  “Didn’t think you’d chance it forever on your singin’ alone.”

  The one nearest Malone reached up and yanked at his chest. Painted fabric slid downward in his fingers, revealing a quite normal face. At the moment the expression on it was pained.

  “You’re a big one. Where’d you spring from?”

  “The seed of an eagle and the loins of a cat—not that it’s any of your business.” Malone studied his captors thoughtfully as the speaker carefully removed bowie knife and LeMat pistol from the mountain man’s person. Malone made no move to retain them. “What’re you boys doin’ out here in the middle o’ the night in those getups? I didn’t know the circus had made it this far west.”

  The speaker’s expression turned sour. He was about to reply, when two other figures arrived. Those holding the Colts quickly made room for the newcomers. One of them was the loud chanter. Malone studied his features intently. Shoshone, all right. Teetering the horizontal side of half-drunk and, by the look of him, not caring much about his condition.

  His companion was bigger and older, made up to look like what he wasn’t. He was neither ghost nor spirit, though the scent of the Devil was surely about him. He had about him the air of one with no time to waste, clearly a man poisoned by impatience.

  “Who the hell are you?” he inquired belligerently of the mountain man.

  “Malone’s the name. Amos Malone. Mad Amos to some.”

  “That I can believe. Well, Mr. Malone, I don’t know what you’re doing out here, but I am told that the country on the north side of the river is more hospitable to strangers. I would suggest that you betake yourself there as soon as possible. Perhaps sooner.”

  “Your solicitude is touching, but I like it here, Mr.…?”

  “Cleator. This is my associate, Mr. Little-Bear-Blind-in-One-Eye.” He clasped the Shoshone possessively on the shoulder. It was enough to shake the other man’s none-too-stable equilibrium.

  Malone murmured something in Shoshone to the chanter, who promptly and unexpectedly straightened. He blinked hard, as if fighting with his own eyes, trying to focus on the man who’d spoken to him. Meanwhile, the mountain man gestured at those surrounding him.

  “Kind of an obscure locale fer a theatrical performance, ain’t it?”

  “This is not theater, sir. This is seriously real.”

  “Might I inquire as to its purpose?”

  Cleator gazed at him. “Why should I trouble myself to explain to a passing nonentity? Why should I not simply have you shot?”

  “Because you don’t want any shooting.” Malone indicated the still-sleeping cabin. “If that’s what you wanted, you’d have killed all three Weavers long ago instead o’ constructin’ this elaborate masque.”

  “You are surprisingly perceptive. I am intrigued. You are, of course, quite right. I dislike killing, because dead people cannot sign legal documents. It is much better for them to sign willingly, while they are still alive.”

  “This show is all because you have a hankerin’ fer the Weavers’ land?”

  “Certainly. It lies between two of my holdings. But that is not the most important reason.” He paused, studying Malone, and then shrugged. “I will show you. Understanding will make you dangerous to me. Then I will have no compunctions about having you shot if you refuse to depart.”

  They led him to the edge of the Red. Little Bear followed but stayed as far away from Malone as possible. He was still fighting to focus his eyes.

  Cleator pointed upstream, then down, and lastly at the far side of the river. “My land, Mr. Malone.” He kicked dirt with his boots. “Weaver’s land. Notice anything unique about it?”

  Malone studied the river, the far bank and the near. “This is a narrows.”

  Cleator smiled, pleased. “Very good, sir. Very good, indeed. I may tell you that in fact this is the narrowest part of the Red River for many miles in either direction. Can you suspect why it is of such interest to me?”

  “You need a bridge.”

  “Running cattle across a bridge saves the need of fording them to reach the railhead north of here. Every extra mile a steer runs costs weight and therefore money. I need this land to build my bridge.”

  “Why not simply lease the portion you need? I’m sure Weaver would be amenable to a fair offer. A bridge could be o’ benefit to his stock as well.”

  “Of course it would, but I don’t want to benefit his stock, Mr. Malone. Nor do I wish the uncertainty of a lease. I want to own it all.”

  “You’re goin’ t’ all this trouble fer that?”

  “No trouble, Mr. Malone. I invent some mischievous spirits to frighten away the Weavers, and then I buy their land at auction.”

  “If you jest asked him, he might be glad t’ sell out direct.”

  “But in this fashion I obtain a much better price.”

  Malone considered. “Mr. Cleator, you are an evil man.”

  Cleator shrugged. “I am ambitious. They are not the same.”

  “I find it hard to separate the two much o’ the time. Joke’s on you, though.”

  The rancher frowned. “What joke, sir?”

  “You didn’t have t’ invent no spirits to haunt this place. The spirits are here already. Have been fer a thousand years or more.” He turned sharply on Little Bear. “Ain’t thet right?” And he added something in Shoshone.

  As wide as the chanter’s eyes got, this time they had no difficulty focusing. Little Bear began to gaze nervously around him. Ordinary rocks and bushes suddenly caused him to retreat, to stumble.

  “What did you say to him?” Cleator asked curiously.

  “Nothin’ he don’t know. The whiskey you give him kept his eyes from workin’, if not his mouth. He’s seein’ now, takin’ a good look around, and he don’t much like what he sees. Always been bad blood between Shoshone and Comanche. He’s feelin’ dead Comanche around him now, and he don’t care for it. I wouldn’t, neither, were I you, Mr. Cleator.”

  A couple of the hired gunmen were starting to glance around uneasily. Malone had started them thinking. North Texas is a bad place for a man to be thinking with the moon glaring down at him accusingly.

  “Really? And why not? Am I supposed to fear a few dead Indians?”

  “I’m jest sayin’ that if I were you, I wouldn’t try to put no bridge over these narrows.”

  Cleator was grinning now, enjoying himself. “Mr. Malone, you are a caution, sir. I defy the Weavers, I defy the Comanche, and I defy their dead or anything else that attempts to slow progress on this land. Do not try to frighten me with my own intentions.”

  “Sometimes it’s healthy to be a mite afeared o’ progress, Mr. Cleator. It can jump up when you ain’t lookin’ an’ bite you severe.” He looked up suddenly at the opposite bank, his heavy brows drawing together like a small black version of the bridge Cleator proposed to build.

  The gunmen jumped when Little Bear let out a cry and bolted. One of them raised his weapon, but Cleator stopped him from shooting.

  “Let him go. We’ll track him down later. He’ll be in town, drunk.”

  “I wouldn’t figure too near on that,” Malone informed him. “I think our friend’s seen the light. I reckon by tomorrow he’ll be headed northwest if he can find himself a horse. You see, he saw what was waitin’ fer him here and did the sensible thing by lightin’ out.”

  One of Cleator’s men stepped forward. “We’re losin’ the night, boss.” A very large knife gleamed in his righ
t hand. “Let me stick him, and we’ll dump him in the river and get on with this.”

  “Very well. Now that he knows, by his own wish, he is a threat, and as previously stated, I can have no compunction about terminating a threat. Therefore, you may…”

  He broke off, gazing across the river at the spot Malone was watching. One by one the men wielding the Colts joined him in staring.

  “Hell’s bunghole,” one of them stuttered, “what is that?”

  It was larger than a bull buffalo, with teeth the size of an opium dream and burning yellow eyes. Even at that distance they could hear it growl as it raced toward them.

  “Mr. Cleator, I wouldn’t linger in this vicinity if I were you.”

  The rancher was shaken but otherwise unmoved. “I am not afraid of night beasts, Mr. Malone. That is no spirit. I don’t know what it is, but if it is alive, it can be slain.” He wrenched a rifle from the man next to him. “This will be my land, and I will build my bridge here. I will deal with any intruders.” He glanced back and smiled. “You set this up, didn’t you? You and the Weavers. Some kind of trick. It will not work. I am no gullible plainsman, sir. And you are dogmeat.” He looked sharply at the man with the knife.

  “Stick him or shoot him, as you please.”

  But the gunman was staring across the river, staring at the unbelievable thing that was coming toward them faster than a train could travel. As he stared, he kept backing up, until he prudently decided to turn and run. He was accompanied.

  Cleator roared at his fleeing men. “Come back! You cowards, idiots! Can’t you see it’s a trick! That damn farmer will be laughing at you tomorrow!”

  A couple of the men slowed to turn, but what they saw made them tremble with fear and run faster still. The monster reached the far bank of the river. It did not stop but kept coming, soaring through the night air as easily as the fabled roc of legend, as cleanly as a bad dream. They were not particularly brave, those men, and they were not being paid well enough to stay and tussle with Hell.