Mad Amos Malone

  Sitting back on its haunches, its long head thrown back, lips parted and teeth white in the firelight, the outlandish heavy horse was baying at the moon. Its howl was perfectly indistinguishable from that of the unseen carnivores, melding with and simultaneously inspiring the chilling moonlight chorus.

  Great Knox was shaking his head slowly. He was so stunned, both hands hung at his sides. “That ain’t no horse. No horse never made a noise like that.”

  Fifth John hesitated, then deliberately lay back down in his roll. “Course it’s a horse, you dang fool. Looks like a horse, walks like a horse, smells like a horse. A mighty big horse, true, but a horse nonetheless.”

  “Don’ sound like no horse.” Halfweed’s voice had dropped to a whisper, and he was looking around uneasily, as if the night itself were watching him.

  John glanced up irritably. “An’ you don’t sound like no normal man, neither, but I still ride with you. But that’ll come to quittin’ if you don’t shut your food hole and go to sleep.”

  The horse continued to howl. John tried, but with the woods by now resounding to what seemed like the concerted wailing of a hundred wolves, it was impossible for any man to rest. Frustrated, he rose to realign his sleeping kit, when he heard something else. Something different.

  “You hear that?” he asked no one in particular.

  Knox blinked sleepily. Somehow the great oaf had managed to fall asleep. “Hear what?”

  “I hear it.” Halfweed rose and stood trembling in his long johns, looking around edgily. “I hear it, yes.”

  As the two men listened intently, the suggestion became a whisper, then a rumble. Then a thunder that woke even Great Knox.

  “Hey, Fifth. What’s makin’ thet…?”

  John’s eyes became as wide as Halfweed’s. “Run! It’s the Devil’s own signature! Run for your lives!” Still half-asleep but waking up fast, Great Knox struggled with his bedroll. It had become all twisted around him in his sleep and was reluctant to release his legs. The horses whinnied and shied, rolling their eyes. All except for the big black, which continued to sit and howl.

  Fifth John’s chest heaved until he thought it would burst as he raced down the mountainside in the darkness. He could feel the snow catching up to him, teasing him, toying with his backside. He slid, fell, and came up scraped and bleeding but still running, leaping over fallen logs, sliding down talus crumbly as stale johnnycake. When he could run no more, he scrambled desperately behind the biggest tree he could find and closed his eyes tight.

  It was like being swallowed by an express train. The tree shook, quivered, even bent a mite, but stayed put. As quickly as it had gathered strength, the avalanche began to spend itself, spreading out like white butter across the land. Only when it was done did Fifth John allow himself to leave the shelter of the tree and begin the long, difficult slog back uphill.

  Of their camp there was no trace. Kettle, pan, bedrolls, clothing…everything gone, swept downslope and entombed beneath tons of snow. Only the horses remained. Apparently the angle of the cliff beneath which they’d been tethered had caused the bulk of the avalanche to just miss them. It infuriated Fifth John to realize that had he kept his wits about him instead of panicking, he could have survived alongside the horses and completely avoided the dangerous downhill flight.

  Halfweed joined him a few moments later as John was dragging his insufficient but nonetheless welcome spare clothing from the saddlebags they had providentially left near the horses. The skinny half-breed was terrified but otherwise unhurt. He looked around, blinking in the moonlight.

  “Where’s Knox?”

  John continued to dig at the saddlebags. His good buffalo coat was gone, and he’d have to put on every stitch of clothing he had left in the world if he expected to keep from freezing. “Dunno. He ain’t with you?”

  “No, man.” Shivering, Halfweed crossed his arms over his sallow chest. “I thought he’d be here.”

  “Well, he ain’t, so I guess it’s done for him.” Fifth John grunted. “More for us. Split the money from the horses two ways.”

  “Yeah. Hey, yeah, that’s right.” Halfweed relaxed a little, his smile returning. It didn’t stay long. “Hey, Fifth, you notice somethin’?”

  “No, what?” the other man replied testily.

  Halfweed was looking around again, jerkily scanning the woods. “It’s quiet. Howlin’s stopped.”

  Fifth John eyed the night sky and the treetops, then returned to his digging. “Yeah? What of it? Avalanche scared ’em off.”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “Check the animals.”

  Halfweed nodded, glad to have something to do to take his mind off the misfortune that had just struck their camp and taken the life of their beloved friend. Friend, anyway. Well, maybe casual companion.

  The horses, at least, had survived unharmed. The way east out of the mountains was clear, and their four-footed booty was intact. He was about to rejoin John when something made him squint into the moonlight. The stallion stood munching a green branch it had pulled from a nearby tree. Once again it stood placidly and allowed him to approach. Halfweed reached for the broad forehead, ignoring the bad right eye, which swiveled up to watch him.

  “Uh, hey, Fifth?”

  “What now?” Fifth John did not look up as he wrestled a ragged shirt over the upper half of his long johns.

  “That bump I told you ’bout? On the front of the big one’s head? Pork me for a nervous nun if it ain’t got larger.”

  John shoved his head through the reluctant shirt, wondering what his companion was babbling about. “What’s that?”

  “Come look for yourself.” The half-breed stepped back.

  Fifth John slogged over and frowned. The broad-backed stallion regarded him expressionlessly. Fingering his goatee, John ran his fingers the length of the bony protrusion, then gripped it hard and pulled. The animal’s head didn’t move, nor did it otherwise react.

  “Cabra del diablo.” Halfweed tried to cross himself, nearly stuck his finger up his nose, tried again. He was more or less successful the third time, but by then he entertained serious doubts that the Virgin Mother was still paying attention.

  “Naw, it ain’t the Devil’s goat,” John groused, “though I grant you it’s passin’ strange. You’re right about t’ other, though. It is bigger. ’Bout six inches long now, I reckon. Grows fast, whatever it is.” He shrugged, secure in his ignorance. “Don’t matter none so long’s the rest of the animal is sound. We’ll cut it off before we sell.” He turned away, grumbling to himself. “Now, where the blazes did I put those old coveralls?”

  By morning his good mood had returned. Too bad for Great Knox but better for him, and Halfweed. ’Tis not an ill wind that gives the other man pneumonia, he mused. There was still no sign of any pursuit, and by evening even Halfweed had mellowed. The half-breed didn’t have sense enough to stay upset or unhappy for very long. Truth be told, he didn’t have sense enough to find his ass with both hands.

  As the sun scurried for cover behind the mountains, it started to snow again, just hard enough to be indifferent. Fifth John was thinking of fashioning a lean-to when he spotted the opening in the hillside.

  Halfweed took one look at the shadowy fissure and shook his head violently. “I ain’t goin’ in there, man.”

  “What’s the matter, toad cojones? You frightened?” John dismounted. The rifle that had providentially been secured to the back of his horse in one hand, he hunted up the precious box of matches and fashioned a torch of reasonably dry pine needles and twigs. Burning taper in hand, he was able to enter the spacious cave standing up.

  Halfweed held on to his reins and waited nervously, his face turned skyward, on the lookout for the tentative moon. A deep moan from within the cave made him sit bolt upright in his saddle.

  He’d half turned to flee w
hen John reemerged, smiling maliciously. “Scared you, didn’t I? Damn fool crazy half-breed.” He gestured curtly at him with his rifle. “There ain’t nothin’ in there. Ain’t been for some time. It’s dry an’ warm, plenty of room for both of us to stand and walk around, even.”

  Halfweed slid out of his saddle, as much relieved as angry. “Dumb sumbitch. You didn’t have to do that.”

  “Yeah, I know. But it was fun. Shoulda seen the look on your face. For a moment you was even dumber-lookin’ than usual.” John started to remove the saddlebags from his mount. “Let’s get a fire goin’. Rate we’re travelin’, I figger by tomorrow this time we’ll be well on our way to startin’ out of these damn mountains. Then it’s over the trail back to town and the high life.”

  “Right.” Halfweed perked up at the thought.

  They built the fire near the entrance so it wouldn’t smoke up the cave. In such snug quarters even the tired old jerky tasted good.

  “Got to take a piss.” John rose and headed toward the outside. Halfweed didn’t bother to look up, concentrating on his jerky.

  Something close by went snuf.

  “Hey, man, no more jokes, okay?” The half-breed flailed absently behind him. Much to his irritation, the sound was repeated. Smiling to himself, he deliberately extracted his revolver from the gun belt lying nearby.

  “Okay. I ain’t afraid o’ no duende. Since you won’t answer, I guess you some kinda animal now and I got to defend myself, verdad?”

  “Defend yourself ag’inst what, you loco freak?” Fifth John stood framed in the entrance to the cave, fastening his pants.

  “Fifth?” Halfweed fumbled for a flaming brand from the fire as he cocked his pistol. He tossed the burning stick toward the unexplored recesses at the back of the cave.

  Something monumental rose up in the light. Primeval fire glinted from black eyes and off teeth the length of a man’s hand. The bear raised forepaws equipped with claws like bent railroad spikes. It was ten feet tall—no, fifteen—with silver hairs shimmering among the brown. The Great Bear of the Arapaho, the bear overwhelming: the ur-bear.

  “Jesus!” An openmouthed Fifth John stumbled backward, fumbling with his belt. In the confines of the cave, the bear’s roar was Vesuvius and typhoon and the Port Royal earthquake all rolled into one. It shook the ground underfoot and shattered rock from the walls.

  “Oh, Gawd, John, help me!” Adding to the frantic pandemonium as the bear lumbered forward, Halfweed fired his Colt repeatedly, six times in all. All this did was make the brute mad, a tactical decision not dissimilar to Napoleon’s decision to invade Russia.

  Between the earthshaking roars of the bear, Halfweed’s Colt going off, and its owner’s terrifying screams as the monster dismembered him one limb at a time, it was a choice cut of purgatory.

  “John, John, it’s eating me, it’s killin’ me, oh Gawd, help me!”

  Fifth John had not survived an upbringing among four tormenting elder brothers each as mean and ornery as himself without becoming pretty good at sizing up his chances in a fight. It was deuced clear to him that poor Halfweed was already as good as finished and that even with rifle in hand he didn’t stand much of a chance against a grizzly from Hell, and what would be the point, anyways?

  Too bad, Halfweed, he thought sorrowfully as he swung into his saddle. Unlike Great Knox, who’d been tolerated, he’d genuinely liked the greasy, addled dimwit. The bellowing from the cave followed him down the mountainside as he struggled to lead five horses behind him. They were all understandably skittish and edgy. All except for the big black-and-white, who brought up the rear docile as an old hound.

  He thought of the money he was going to make selling the five and how Providence had decreed he was going to have to spend it all by himself, and it did help to drown out the memory of Halfweed’s final piteous shrieks.

  When he was confident he was safely beyond the attentions of the monster bear should it have felt any unsociable inclination toward his person, he stopped and tied his animals. Then he passed methodically among them, speaking to each in a reassuring voice, rubbing its muzzle and neck until it calmed down. Only when that was done did he think to give a care to himself.

  “I saw that!” He whirled, simultaneously drawing his gun. “You wuz grinnin’ at me, you gawddamned big-butted squint-eyed sumbitch!”

  Easy, Fifth, he told himself. Horses don’t grin. They dang well can’t grin. You’re jest tired an’ upset. And no wonder, what with the past couple days’ goin’s-on.

  Mighty peculiar goin’s-on at that.

  Funny thing how that avalanche come up on that howlin’ horse. He’d about forgotten that, but it came back to him now, sharp an’ clear. That big old animal a-howlin’ like a wolf, and then the snow crashin’ down on them and buryin’ poor Great Knox and somehow just missin’ all the horses. Then that bear. Biggest gawddamn bear ever was. But he’d checked that cave himself and woulda swore it was cleaner than the inside of a crinoline skirt.

  Down the mountain then, all the animals a-frothin’ and a-rollin’ their eyes until he could quiet ’em. All except this one, this oversized, overfed, great ugly four-legged bad-eyed bastard of a horse with a lump growin’ out of its head. He blinked in confusion. Damn thing was more’n a foot long now, and pointed at the end, an’ all twisty-curly round like a stick of store-bought peppermint candy.

  Impossible or no, he’d have bet a quarter eagle then and there that it had winked at him.

  “What are you, anyways?” He approached with caution. It raised its head from where it had been cropping the grass that poked green threads through the snow, and gazed back at him blankly, innocently. Just another dumb animal.

  Fifth John wasn’t afraid, but he kept the muzzle of his pistol aimed straight at the creature’s forehead, just below the ivory-colored spiral spear.

  “You cursed? Thet what it is? You a bad-luck beastie? I heard tell o’ such down in New Orleans. Island people come up and put curses on chickens an’ such. Or maybe you’re jest bad luck. I kill you, I still got t’ other four to sell. You worth the trouble? I wonder.” He was within arm’s length now. As before, the animal just stood patiently and gazed back at him out of bland equine eyes.

  Reaching out, he stroked the spear that grew from the creature’s forehead. It was smooth and warm to the touch. Fifth John lowered his pistol. “You’re different, that’s fer sure. Reckon you might be worth a passel to the right buyer. Maybe you are worth the trouble. But from here on I’m gonna be watchin’ you as well as my step, hear?”

  Carefully but with increasing confidence, he began to circle the animal, patting it on its flanks, inspecting its withers. It was sure enough an odd-lookin’ concoction: a blind Quaker could’ve told that. But all muscle underneath that peculiar back. No, he wouldn’t kill it. Too much money to be made, and he’d already put up with enough trouble to make it worth keepin’ him.

  He smiled and nodded at nothing in particular. “Guess you’re all right, big’un. Somebody pay plenty to have you hitched in their team.” A hot, wet sensation made him glance down at his boots.

  The horse was pissing on his right leg.

  “The hell with it, you damn four-legged play-actor! I knewed you wuz grinnin’ at me!” Irate beyond common sense, he raised the pistol.

  The big animal swung its head around to regard him thoughtfully. As John leveled his gun at his impassive target, he noticed that something else was different about it. Something new.

  Lit from beneath, from inside, the white circle around the bad eye was glowing intensely. And that eye weren’t squinting now, weren’t more’n half-shut. It was full open, open all the way wide. And staring straight…at…him.

  Mesmerized, Fifth John looked deep into that eye and let out a meager, completely involuntary moan. His whole body started to shake. That wasn’t surprising because in an instant his mind had bec
ome as unhinged as his body. At the end of his arm, his gun was waving up and down like a semaphore flag in the grip of a high gale. The precarious moan rose up in his throat as if trying to escape.

  The animal was growling at him. That was crazy. Horses didn’t growl. The growl became a snarl. Crazier still. Horses didn’t snarl. Tremendous unsuspected muscles rippled and tensed in its back legs, its hindquarters, its neck, as it prepared to spring. That was madness. Horses didn’t spr—

  * * *

  —

  “I’ll be hornswoggled and hog-tied.” Caiben turned and yelled back toward the cabin. “Amos, Jim! Git out here and have a look at this!” Clutching the water bucket and heedless of the cold, he splashed through the stream back toward the cabin.

  Amos Malone and Jim Bridger emerged, Malone with skillet in hand. It was his turn to do the cooking. Bridger specialized in rabbit, while Caiben wasn’t good with anything more than beans. They didn’t much understand what Malone was talking about when he served them medallions of elk béarnaise au poivre or trout almondine with new potatoes and asparagus hollandaise or even how he came by the fixin’s. Smart men that they were, they didn’t push the question too hard.

  Ignoring the icy water dripping from his deerskin leggings, Caiben joined his trapping companions as they watched the six horses, with Malone’s in the lead, wander solemnly back into the crude corral from which three of them had been abducted. Once within, they dispersed amiably and began to nibble at the greening grass.

  No small man himself, Caiben got a crick in his neck looking up at Malone. “Well, you were right, Amos. Danged if you weren’t right. They come back.”

  “Wonder what happened to the thieves,” Bridger murmured.

  “Reckon they had enough.” Malone started toward the corral. His companions followed.

  “What’s that thing on your animal’s head?” Caiben asked. “Looks like he got somethin’ stuck in it.”

  “Just a growth,” Malone murmured. “ ’Tain’t hurtful. I’ll take care of it.”