Mad Amos Malone

by Alan Dean Foster

  He stopped in midsentence, holding his breath even as he left the dazed Malone to pick up the heavy buffalo rifle. The last howling of the wolfuls had faded into the distance, but it was not silent outside. A dull booming, as of some heavy tread, was clearly audible and growing steadily louder as he listened. He forced himself to keep his hands steady as he loaded the Sharps.

  The massive breathing was right outside the cave. Evidently they were not the first creatures to make use of its shelter. The horses were too terrified to whinny. They huddled together against the back wall, trembling.

  The moon went out as something immense blocked the entrance. Ruxton raised the Sharps and tried to hold it steady. Though he was a strong man, the weight of the weapon sent shivers along the muscles of his arms.

  Whatever stood there had to bend to fit beneath the twenty-foot-high ceiling. Its eyes were red instead of yellow like those of the wolful. An overpowering musk assailed Ruxton’s nostrils as the hairy leviathan paused to sniff loudly.

  It growled, and Ruxton felt his knees go weak. Imagine a whale, growling. The growl became a snarl that revealed teeth the size of railroad ties in the blunt, dark muzzle. It was coming for them.

  Ruxton pulled the trigger, and the Sharps erupted. He thought he’d prepared himself for the recoil, but he was wrong. It knocked him on his back. The echo of the gun’s report was drowned by an incredible bellow of pain and anger as the monster stumbled backward.

  The rifle was pulled from his numb fingers. Malone reloaded as Ruxton staggered erect. The owner of the cave was already recovering from the shock and preparing to charge again. This time it would not hesitate curiously. A second slug from the Sharps wouldn’t stop it. Not this time. As well to try shooting a runaway locomotive.

  Something went flying past him like black lightning: Ruxton had a glimpse of white fetlocks and flying mane. Worthless slammed headfirst into the belly of the monster like a Derby winner pounding for the finish line. The Gargantua went backward, falling head over heels down the slope.

  “Dumb, stupid son of a spasmed mare!” Malone growled as he gripped Ruxton by the shoulder. “Let’s git out of this damn possum trap!”

  They stumbled outside. There was no need to lead the remaining horses. Freed from their tethers, they sprinted madly past the two men. Malone and Ruxton ran downslope toward the forest, which was now devoid of roosting wolfuls.

  Ruxton risked a look backward. A less brave man might have fainted dead away right then and there or swallowed his tongue at the sight.

  Worthless had become a darting, spinning black dervish on four legs, nipping at the ankles of the immensity that now stood on its hind feet. It swiped at the much smaller but nimbler horse with paws the size of carriages. Each time a blow capable of demolishing a house descended, Worthless would skip just out of its reach.

  Only when the two men were safely in among trees too old and thick even for the leviathan to tear down did Worthless abandon his efforts. With a roar, the monster chased the horse a few yards. Then it bellowed a final defiance before dropping to all fours. Like a piece of the mountain come to life, it turned and lumbered back to reclaim its cave.

  Running easily, Worthless galloped past both winded men. He turned the fleeing horses, circling them until they slowed, nuzzling Malone’s pack mare until she stood quietly, spittle dribbling from her jaws. Then he snorted once, shook his head, and bent to crop the tops of some wild onions that were growing nearby.

  “Mr. Malone, that is quite a remarkable animal you have there.” Ruxton fought for breath as he rested his hands on his knees. “How did you ever train him to do something like that? ’Pon my word, but that was the most gallant action I have seen a horse take on behalf of its master.”

  “Train ’im? Gallant? The idjit bastard like to got hisself killed! I had a clean shot. Coulda stopped it.”

  “Stopped that behemoth?” Ruxton nodded in the direction of the cave that had initially been their refuge and had nearly ended as their grave. “Not even with that cannon you call a rifle, old chap. Your animal saved us for sure.”

  “Well—mebbe. But it was still a damn-fool thing to do.”

  Malone repeated the assertion to his mount’s face, shoving his beard against that squinty-eyed visage while holding it by the neck.

  “You hear me, you moronic offspring of a mule? Don’t you never try nothin’ like that again!”

  Worthless bit him on the nose.

  * * *

  —

  “What was it, anyway?” Now that they were well away from the nameless river and the canyon it had carved, Ruxton found he was able to relax a little. The sun was rising over his unsatisfied curiosity.

  Malone had spent much of the morning muttering curses at his mount while occasionally feeling gingerly at the bandage Ruxton had applied to his nose. It was an incongruous slash of white above the black beard. Personally, Ruxton had felt the animal justified in its response.

  “Somethin’ big enough to snatch a wolful right out of the sky. Nez Perce, they call it—wal, never mind what the Nez Perce call it. You wouldn’t be able to pronounce it, anyway. Me, I call it a grizzephant. Only the second one I’ve ever seen. If the Good Lord wills it, I’ll never see another. Reckon you could call it Ursus loxodonta.”

  “Why, Mr. Malone, sir. Latin? I do believe you are at pains to conceal a real education.”

  “Nope. Just don’t use it much ’cause nobody around here cares one way or t’ other. They don’t believe half of what I try to tell ’em anyways, so I just keep my mouth shut.” He leaned over to give his mount a reluctant pat on the neck. “Old Worthless here, I reckon he deserves a genus of his own. I just ain’t come up with the right one yet, though I kinda lean toward Equus idioticus. With the emphasis on the ‘cuss.’ ”

  Ruxton leaned forward for a better look. As he did so, he noticed that the leather patch that normally covered the animal’s forehead was hanging loose, having been dislodged in the fight.

  “Mr. Malone, would I be remiss if I were to suggest that your horse has a horn growing from the center of his forehead?”

  Malone leaned out for a look, straightened. “Drat. Got to fix that before we git to Randle’s Farm. Folks in these parts don’t rightly understand such things as unicorns.”

  Ruxton couldn’t keep from staring. The horn was six inches long and looked sharp. Undoubtedly it had helped keep the grizzephant’s attention last night. He could just make out the marks where Malone had kept it filed down.

  “I know an elderly Chinese gentleman who will give you a million pounds sterling and six of the most attentive and beautiful women you ever set eyes upon for that horn, sir.”

  “No, thanks, Lord. Be happy you got your jackalope.”

  “Yes, my jacka—” Ruxton’s eyes got very wide. “The jackalope! It was tied to the packhorse the wolfuls killed!”

  Malone eyed him evenly. “Want to go back and try again?”

  Ruxton turned around in his saddle. His shoulder still throbbed, but the injury was almost completely healed thanks to some strange-smelling herb powder Malone had rubbed on it while mumbling some nonsense about Tibet and Samarkand. He straightened resolutely, bringing his gaze back to the trail ahead.

  “I will mount the memory in my mind,” he said firmly, “and make do with that.”

  For the first time since they’d met, Amos Malone smiled. “I reckon mebbe you ain’t as dumb as you look, then, Lord. Even if you do ride funny. Ain’t that right, sweetie-dumplin’?” He caressed his mount’s neck.

  Worthless looked back out of his half-closed squint eye. A kind of thunder rolled across the Bitterroots one more time as the unicorn farted.

  The Chrome Comanche

  There was a time when elaborate hood ornaments on cars were as critical to signifying the status of the vehicle’s owner as the rest of the road machine itself.
These usually metal sculptures mounted on the front end of even cheaper models made a statement: about the car, about its owner, about the manufacturer. They varied from simple to elaborate enough to find their way into museums. Some were designed by well-known sculptors or companies such as Lalique.

  Such ornamentation is pretty much gone now, thanks to a proliferation of hood ornament thieves and an ever-increasing desire on the part of manufacturers to eke out even small improvements in a car’s aerodynamics. Loath to abandon its famous Spirit of Ecstasy hood decoration, Rolls-Royce has a built-in system that lowers the ornament down into the front of the car if it is tampered with.

  A number of these elaborate hood decorations featured American Indians. While I generally don’t like time-travel stories, the idea that sprang from this one was too much fun to pass up. That, and the alliteration.

  * * *

  —

  Esau was checking the wagon’s rear axle when the dog started barking. It was the middle of the day, and it made no sense. The dog ought to be asleep somewhere back of the barn, not out front barking in the sun. In any event, it stopped soon enough. The dog was as exhausted as the rest of them.

  At first he didn’t even bother to look up, so absorbed was he in his study of the wagon. It had to be loaded and ready to go by this evening so that they wouldn’t have to spend another night in the cabin. It wasn’t much of a house, but it was a home, a beginning. Rock and sod mostly, braced with rough-cut cedar and mesquite. What milled lumber he’d been able to afford had gone into the barn. It wasn’t finished, and the chicken house wasn’t finished.

  The only thing that was finished here on the south bank of the Red River was them, he thought.

  He didn’t raise his gaze until the dog came over and begin licking him.

  “What the blazes ails you, hound?”

  “He’s scared, I think,” said a deep voice. “I hope not of me.”

  Esau hesitated, then realized that the wagon offered little protection. Might as well crawl out and confront the speaker, whoever he might be. Were they now to have as little peace during the day as they’d found here at night?

  No spirit gazed back at him, though the animal the speaker rode was unusual enough. Esau knew horses, but this particular mount appeared more jumbled than mixed. The rider was nearly as unclassifiable, though from what could be seen behind the flowing black beard, Esau was pretty sure he was white. Esau had to squint to make out individual features. The more he squinted, the more indefinable the details of that face seemed to become. Though it was as full of lines as a sloping field after a storm, it didn’t hint of great age.

  The man himself was immense. The pupils of his eyes were of a blackness extreme enough to spill over and stain the whites. He wore fringed boots and buckskin, his attire not so much dirty as eroded. Like the face, Esau thought. Had man put those lines there or nature? Bandoliers of huge cartridges crisscrossed his chest, fuel for the Sharps buffalo rifle slung next to the saddle. The octagonal barrel was only slightly smaller than a telegraph pole.

  “You’re a long ways from the mountains, friend.” Esau shielded his eyes as he spoke, while the dog began to sniff around the horse’s hooves. The confused-breed piebald ignored the attention. “No beaver to trap around here. Not in North Texas.”

  “You’d be surprised what there is to trap in Texas.” The mountain man considered the little cabin. “But you’re right enough. I’m jest passin’ through, out o’ New Orleans on my way to Colorado.” He nodded in the direction of the chimney. “Saw your smoke.”

  A vast growl arose from the vicinity of the giant’s stomach, belly thunder heralding the approach of an expansive hunger. Esau smiled slightly, relaxing.

  “You’re welcome here, stranger. Come in and set a spell. Be right to have company for our last meal here.”

  Though the giant slipped off his mount, he seemed to lose nothing in stature as he stood on his own two feet. “I thank you fer your hospitality. Your last meal, you say?”

  Esau nodded gravely, indicating the wagon. “Just checking out the frame and the springs before loading her up. Never thought I’d have to do that again. We’d planned to live out our days here. This is a good place, mister. River’s always running, and the grass is high. Best cattle country I ever saw.” He shrugged fatalistically.

  The mountain man addressed the uncomfortable silence. “Name’s Malone. Amos Malone.”

  “Esau Weaver.” The rancher’s hand vanished inside the giant’s gnarled grasp. “Sarah’s inside fixin’ dinner. You’re welcome to stay for supper, too, if it suits you. We’ll be out soon after. Have to be.”

  “It ain’t in me to linger long in any one place, but I appreciate your offer, Weaver.”

  Esau led the visitor toward the home he was preparing to flee, unable to keep from glancing at his companion. “Didn’t think there were any of you boys left. Thought the beaver had all been trapped out, and the market for ’em faded away anyways.”

  “There’s still places in the backcountry where a feller can make a livin’ if he works hard and has half a mind for figures. Only real trouble’s that the country’s gettin’ too citified. Even Colorado’s fillin’ up with folks tired o’ city life.” He chuckled, an extraordinary sound. “So naturally, soon as they arrive, they all light out fer Denver. Folks sure are a puzzlement sometimes.”

  “Wish all I had to deal with were country neighbors.” Esau opened the door and called to alert his wife. Malone had to duck double to clear the low doorway.

  Behind them the dog concluded its inspection and disdainfully peed on the horse’s rear right leg, whereupon the mountain man’s mount did a most unequine thing. It raised its own leg and liked to drown that poor unsuspecting hound, sending it shaking and yapping around the back of the cabin. The horse, whose name was Worthless, let out a soft snort of satisfaction and went hunting for fodder. Malone had not tied him. Would’ve been useless to try.

  Sarah Weaver showed the lack of sleep the family had endured recently. She wore her hair pulled straight back and secured in a small bun, a simple long-sleeved dress, and an apron decorated with fine tatting. She hardly glanced at her husband and his guest. Her son, Jeremiah, was far less inhibited. He stared unabashedly at Malone, firing questions that the mountain man answered readily until the boy’s mother warned him to mind his manners.

  “Heck, ma’am, he don’t bother me none,” Malone said with a smile so ready and wide that the tense woman relaxed. “It’s good to be around young’uns. Reminds a man what the future’s for.”

  “I then take it that you’re not married, sir.” She dipped stew from the black cast-iron kettle that hung in the fireplace. Once things got settled, Esau had promised her a real stove, but now…

  “Name’s Malone, ma’am. As fer lockin’ up, I’ve had the urge once or twice, but as I ain’t the type to settle down, it wouldn’t be fair to the woman.”

  “I hope you like this stew.” She set the bowl in front of the visitor. “It’s all we have. What’s left of all I could salvage from my garden before they destroyed it.”

  Malone inhaled pointedly. “Ambrosia and nectar, ma’am. Though if you cleaned out your barn an’ boiled the results, it’d still be bound to be better than my own cookin’.”

  She smiled thinly and sat down opposite her husband. Jeremiah took the high seat opposite Malone.

  An unnatural silence settled over the table. Any slight creak or groan caused both rancher and wife to look tensely at walls or windows before resuming their meal. There eventually came a time when Malone could stand it no longer.

  “Now, you folks tell me to shut my food hole if you want to, but I’m afflicted with a confusion I got to vent. Friend Esau, you told me what a fine place you had here, and havin’ seen some of it, I don’t find any reason to dispute. So maybe you’ll sympathize with an ignorant bumpkin who sits here delightin�
�� in your wife’s fine cooking while wonderin’ why you’re in such an all-fired rush to leave.”

  Esau Weaver glanced at his wife, who said nothing. He started to resume eating, then paused as though considering whether to speak. Clearly it burned within him to share this matter with someone else.

  “Spirits, Mr. Malone.” The rancher broke a chunk of bread from the round loaf in the middle of the table. “Ghosts. Devils. Indian devils.”

  “They come upon us in the middle of the night, Mr. Malone.” Sarah Weaver had her hands on the table, the fingers twisting and twining. “Horrible sounds they make. They terrify Jeremiah. They terrify me.”

  “Got no heads.” Weaver was chewing his bread unenthusiastically, but he needed something to do with his mouth and hands. “Thought it was just raiders at first, till I got a look at ’em during a full moon. No heads at all. That don’t keep ’em from howling and yelling and tearing up the place. They want us off this land, and by God, they’re going to have their way. I can’t take any more of this, and neither can the woman.” Love filled his eyes as he gazed across the table at his wife; love and despair. “White men or Indians I’d fight, but not things without heads.”

  “Esau went into town and spoke with one of the pacified Comanche medicine men,” Sarah Weaver murmured. “He told Esau that this part of the country along the river was sacred to the tribe. But he couldn’t say how much. He did say there could be spirits here.”

  “There are spirits all over this country,” Malone said. “Some places don’t matter so much to ’em. Others do.” He sat back in his chair and it creaked alarmingly. “But you were told straight, I think. This lands reeks of medicine, old medicine. But not,” he added, his face twisting in puzzlement, “this place right here.”

  “You know about such things, do you, Mr. Malone?” Esau’s tone was sardonic.

  “A mite. I sensed the medicine when I was ridin’ in. But not where we’re sittin’. If there’s spirits about, I wouldn’t see them choosin’ this place for a frolic. Upstream or down, maybe, but not right here. Besides which, it ain’t like spirits to drive off cattle and tear up vegetables. If they’re real and they wanted you off, they’d be a sight more direct in their intentions.”