Mad Amos Malone

by Alan Dean Foster

  It was quiet again in the stable. Across from the silent stall the dray pair gradually ceased their shivering.

  * * *

  —

  Amos Malone rose early and, as the other guests looked on in fascination, ate breakfast enough for any three men. Then he made his way outside. A few other pedestrians were about. They glanced occasionally in his direction, but not always. Unusual men frequented the frontier, and Malone was larger but not necessarily more unusual than some the townsfolk had seen previously.

  At the smithy he chatted awhile with the owner, then paid him his fee and entered the stable next door.

  “Well, Worthless,” he informed his steed as he set blanket and saddle on the broad back, “I promise you some oats first decent-sized town we hit. You look like you had an uneventful night.” The stallion snorted at Malone as he cinched the saddle tight, shaking its head and mane.

  The mountain man hefted the bulky saddlebags and prepared to secure them behind the heavy saddle. As he did so, he noticed the cup lying on its side in the dirt. Plonking the awkward load astride Worthless’s butt, he bent to pick up the stray vessel, considering it thoughtfully in the morning light. The old jet-black wood drew in the sunshine like a vampire sucking blood. With a sigh he moved to place it back in its container.

  “Warned him,” he muttered. “That ain’t the way it works. A smart man doesn’t go foolin’ around in another feller’s kit.” Reaching inside the near saddlebag, he pulled out a second cup and held it up to the light. The morning rays turned the burnished cedar the color of Solomon’s gold, pure and radiant.

  “Course, it didn’t help him that he got ahold o’ the wrong grail.”

  Neither a Borrower Be…

  Roy Rogers had Trigger. The Lone Ranger had Silver. Hopalong Cassidy had…c’mon now, western trivia buffs. All the great western heroes had great western horses.

  When I was a kid, it made me sick.

  I mean, come on, now. Who wants to watch a film or TV show where the horse is obviously smarter than the hero? Not to mention braver and better-looking. The giants of animation recognized this contradiction and jumped on it with all four pencils. In Robert Clampett’s Buckaroo Bugs the horse can barely stand his idiot master. Tex Avery (as one would expect) frequently gave the horse as many lines as the other protagonists in his western-theme cartoons. Chuck Jones satirized the western horse in Drip-Along Daffy, even allowing two of them their own shootout on Main Street.

  And the inimitable Jay Ward gave us a heroine in the Dudley Do-Right cartoons who quite senslbly (and with just a hint of borderline bestiality) preferred horse to hero.

  No, sir, pardner. If I’m expected to survive in the real Old West, I don’t want no gussified, slicked-up, pommaded palomino between my legs. I want a horse that’ll kick and spit and bite and go all day on a diet of sagebrush and tumbleweed. That’s to match me. One to match Amos Malone would be something.

  Might not even be a horse, strictly speakin’.

  * * *

  —

  For three days it had snowed hard enough to freeze a preacher’s sermon to his pulpit. Now it had let up some, but while Mother Nature had become less profligate with her precipitation, sporadic flakes still spiraled to earth fat and flat, heavy with moisture, while a blindingly blue sky flirted with the fast-moving clouds as intermittently as a Swedish dancer.

  The little brown box of a cabin was two-thirds blanketed and buried. Smoke curled fitfully from the stone chimney, winkling its laborious way skyward, cutting a sinuous path through the drifting snow. The rough-hewn unpeeled logs of which the modest structure was fashioned differed in appearance from the surrounding pines and firs only in their spatial orientation. The living trees towered above shelter and snowpack alike, their branches slack and burdened with hermetic whiteness. They dominated the surrounding mountain slopes, clawing toward the barren, rocky tree line.

  A bit away from the building, the crest of a split-rail fence barely showed above the snow. It enclosed a partially cleared oval of bare ground. Accepting of the deceptive moderation, the scraggly grass thus revealed thrust bravely toward a bright sun and a false spring.

  The clearing fronted a crude lean-to beneath which clustered three horses. A chestnut mare stood nose to tail with a roan gelding. Slightly off to one side, the third member of the equine contingent leaned against the rear of the shelter. It was a stallion of indeterminate lineage, being mostly black with white markings on rump and fetlocks and a distinctive white ring around its right eye. Thin straps secured a leather patch to its forehead. Part Shire, it loomed over its more svelte cousins. While they browsed on the newly sprung grass, quick-frozen exhalations emerging from their nostrils like the signatures of miniature steam engines, it chose to doze contentedly in the shade.

  A slight noise from the nearby forest caused the massive animal to straighten. Lifting its muzzle, the stallion sampled the air and peered into the dense woods with its good eye, the one that was white-ringed being half-shut in a perpetual squint. It stood thus for a long moment. Then it snorted a small cloud and relaxed again.

  When the heavy horse huffed, Fifth John froze. Only after it had turned away from where he stood crouched in the snow did he move, turning and hurrying back to where his companions waited anxiously by the little stream that flowed clear and free beneath sheets of clinging ice.

  Having mocked the warnings of wiser, more experienced men, they’d sure enough found themselves caught out unprepared by the early spring storm. With hopes and bravado dashed in equal measure, their thoughts had been only of making it safely back to the lowlands with nothing to show for their recklessness. Until now.

  His wide-brimmed, floppy hat slumped down over his face, and Fifth John cursed improvidently as he angrily shoved it back. It was nearly as filthy as the rest of his outfit, but then, he’d never been one much for personal hygiene. It wasn’t his mother’s fault, either, though his name was. A poor, simple woman gifted with minimal powers of cogitation, she and her dour husband between them had possessed just enough skills to feed themselves and about as much imagination as a Denver omelet.

  They’d had (“raised” being too genteel a term) five children, all of the male persuasion. The father’s name being John, they’d named the first boy John. And the second, and the third, and so on unto Fifth John, whose handle anyone could rapidly discern related no more to that portion of the good book than did its ornery namesake.

  He was the de facto leader of the importunate trio by virtue of determination and sheer meanness rather than any inherent talent, his skills consisting pretty much of humble expertise with a sharp knife and the ability to lie like a Tennessee lawyer.

  “There’s smoke comin’ from the cabin, but no movement. Couldn’t smell nothin’ cooking. I reckon they must all be asleep.”

  “Any pickin’s?” asked Great Knox, chewing on a finger. It was a wonder the huge mule skinner had any left. He always had a well-gnawed digit between his brown and yellow tobacco-stained teeth. John had seen him chew on his toes, too, the bulky Yankee displaying unexpected dexterity. It was good that he was comfortable in his habits, because he wasn’t apt to be invited to any local cotillions. He wore a hat too small for his head, a narrow brown beard that traced the lower curve of his face from ear to ear, and an old tobacco-juice-stained vest over his heavy winter clothes.

  Halfweed crouched nearby and listened. Though he was quite capable of speech, he chose not to say much, which was fine with his companions. Wiry and ruddy-hued, with a thin, down-arcing mustachio, he was good with both animals and a gun on the rare occasions when his brain and eyes managed to act in concert. His name descended not from his scrambled ancestry but from an addiction to peyote, which he’d acquired in the course of an extended jail stay down in Santa Fe.

  These three solid representatives of the republic squatted in the snow by the creek and contempl
ated larceny.

  “Three horses.” Despite their cover and the distance from the cabin, Fifth John was careful to keep his voice down. “All of ’em healthy and well rested, though one’s kinda weird-lookin’.”

  “What d’you mean weird-lookin’?” Great Knox pursed badly chapped, swollen baby lips.

  “I ain’t sure.” John scratched under his left arm. “Just weird. Big, though. Biggest damn animal I ever seen.” Beneath the brim of the battered hat, iniquitous eyes glittered. “Great for packin’. Bet he’ll fetch twenty, maybe thirty dollar in town.”

  Knox nodded. “We’re wastin’ time sittin’ here talking about it, then.”

  John agreed curtly. “You stay with the horses. Halfweed and I’ll do it.” The half-breed broke out into a wide, gap-toothed grin as he rose.

  Knox watched them go, pleased that their ill-conceived journey into the mountains wouldn’t turn out profitless, after all. He wondered idly whose animals they were stealing, hoping he hadn’t at some time in the past made their acquaintance.

  Leaving a man stuck in these mountains without a horse was not too different from shooting him in the back. Just slower.

  * * *

  —

  Caiben was preparing to clean the previous night’s dishes when he noticed the empty makeshift corral. As he straightened, his gaze instantly swept the surrounding forest, but there was no sign of movement. Setting the laden bucket aside, he dashed over to the fence line, ignoring the powdery snow that clung to his faded long johns and slid with icy slyness down into his boots. He yelled even as he was checking the gate and the double set of footprints nearby.

  In response to his shouts, two men emerged from the cabin. One had to bend low to clear the lintel. His companion replied, his words as sharp in the chilly afternoon air as if they’d been chiseled from granite and hung in the sky to read.

  “What’s happened, Caiben?”

  Caiben rejoined them, looking grim. “Bad doin’s, friends. Horses are gone. Two men. Whites, not Indians.” He shaded his eyes against the snow glare as he looked back and nodded toward the trees. “Reckon they got about a two-, three-hour start.”

  “Damnation.” The other man spit into the snow, making a tiny stained crater. “What you think, Amos?”

  The giant who stood next to him gazed phlegmatically at the forest, an incongruous sight in his bright red, custom-sewn oversized long johns. As he considered the situation, he slowly stroked the impenetrable tangle of black wire that was his beard. There were some folks who thought strange small critters lived within that ebon briar patch, but none ever had courage enough (or the reach) to examine the confusion for themselves. Beneath heavy brows, startlingly black eyes examined the distant line of tracks in the snow.

  “Never catch ’em in this.” He kicked absently at the deep powder. “Not on foot.” His expression was unreadable. “I don’t know about you two, but first off I’m gonna fix me some breakfast. Then I think I’ll go back to bed.” He squinted skyward. “Not much point in checkin’ the traplines while it’s still snowin’.”

  His companions exchanged a glance. “Is that wise, Amos?” the man next to him wondered.

  The giant peered down at him. “That depends, now, Jim, on whether or not you think I am.”

  Caiben shook his head slowly as he eyed the forest. “I dunno. They get more’n a day ahead of us, we’ll never find ’em even if this starts to melt.”

  “Don’t reckon we’ll need to.” Malone had turned toward the doorway. “Cold out here. I’ll put some wood on.” He bent to clear the opening and glanced back at his companions. “Y’all comin’?”

  They hesitated briefly. Then Jim Bridger sighed. “Hell, I remember once Amos told me we could make it from New Orleans to St. Louis in half the regular time, and we did. Never did tell me how he’d knowed that the Mississip was gonna reverse her course that day. Danged if she didn’t.” He followed the giant into the cabin.

  The third mountain man gazed longingly at the woods, then shrugged. The snow that had fallen into the bottom of his boots was starting to melt, a condition sufficiently incommodious to decide the immediate course of action for any man.

  * * *

  —

  The three thieves allowed themselves to hoot and holler freely once they were certain they were well clear of any immediate pursuit. Their plunder followed meekly behind Halfweed’s mount, each animal tethered securely to the one trudging on before it, with the unclassifiable prodigy bringing up the rear.

  “Hell’s fire if’n I wouldn’t give a dollar to see their faces when they wake up and find their animals gone!” Great Knox chortled and slapped his leg gleefully, his hand returning immediately thereafter to his mouth, regular as a homing pigeon.

  Fifth John rose in his stirrups and turned to peer back the way they’d come, their trail as definitive in the deep snow as if it had been bashed out by a six-team wagon. He could see almost to the top of the ridge they’d just traversed, and his little piggish eyes were sharp. He allowed himself to relax. There was no sign of any pursuit.

  Damned if they hadn’t brought it off, he thought with satisfaction. Tough for those marooned in the valley behind them, but it was their own damn fault for leaving good horses unguarded. Served ’em right. Fifth John sure enough knew all about life’s lessons. If only he hadn’t failed so many of them.

  “Me, I’m gonna get me some whiskey with my share.” Knox salivated around the finger he was masticating. “Not that cheap shit. Real drinkin’ whiskey. And a woman. I’m gonna have me a pretty woman. A big woman. With red hair. All night, on a real bed, with sheets.”

  Fifth John struggled to avoid mental contemplation of such an invidious collusion. Great Knox was a useful associate, a good man to have in front of you in a fight, but was afflicted with constipation of the brain. Whereas Halfweed’s hypothesized higher functions were much diluted by his daily intake of peyote, above the neck Great Knox was simply ill-endowed.

  Which was just as well. Fifth John was suspicious of anyone smarter than himself, which meant that suspicion was the country in which he most habitually dwelt.

  “Get drunk,” Halfweed mumbled as he swayed atop his mount. “Stay drunk a week. Maybe a month.” He grinned like a tubercular cherub.

  “They ain’t followin’ us, that’s fer sure.” Fifth John was mightily well pleased with himself. He’d take three good horses over a stack of beaver and otter pelts any day. “Thought we might have to ride on through the night, but looks like we can have a camp, somethin’ to eat. You boys done good.” Knox tried to smile in reply but was reluctant to remove his finger from his mouth. Halfweed was always smiling.

  They found a good spot near the base of a steep slope, largely clear of snow and not particularly muddy. After making certain all six animals were secured, Fifth John broke out the jerky while Knox and Halfweed worked to start a fire. They lucked into a stack of dead dry wood that had accumulated in the hollow of an old lightning-blasted fir and by the time night fell had a crackling good blaze going atop stones gathered from the hillside.

  Halfweed was making a last check of the tethers. Two of the horses they’d absconded with snorted and shied uncertainly at his approach, but the big stallion just stood motionless, watching him out of its good eye. Halfweed studied it intently.

  “Me, I know horseflesh pretty good, seguridad. But I never seen nothin’ quite like you, grande. What’s this for, huh?” Reaching up, the half-breed took hold of the patch over the animal’s forehead and tugged sharply. On the third pull it came away in his hands. His gaze narrowed in confusion.

  “Hey! I think maybe this big one got something wrong with him.”

  Fifth John looked up from the fire. “What, fer instance?”

  “I dunno.” Halfweed reached up to gingerly feel of the two-inch-high conical bump that protruded from the animal’s skull. “He
got some kind of risin’ or somethin’ on his head. But it ain’t soft like a risin’. It’s hard. Like bone.”

  “So he’s got a funny head. Nothin’ wrong with his teeth or his back an’ legs, an’ that’s all what matters. We’ll cover it up agin afore we sell ’im. Meanwhile, leave that piece o’ leather off. Maybe the air’ll help the spot heal.”

  Halfweed nodded to himself, turned to rejoin his companions, and found himself glancing back over his shoulder. He could’ve sworn that, just for an instant, the big stallion had been grinning at him. That was crazy. Horses occasionally smiled. They didn’t never, ever grin.

  Especially not like that.

  Fifth John lit the stuffing in his pipe and leaned back on his bedroll, much gratified with the way things had turned out. It was not a sensation he’d been able to experience often.

  Unfortunately, it did not last long.

  The howl made Knox sit up fast. Then he smiled a trifle warily and lay back down again. The fire continued to sputter, and he tossed another broken branch in the middle of it. Embers flew up like escaping moths.

  “Wolf,” he mumbled.

  “Yeah.” Fifth John turned in his bedroll. “Shet up and go back to sleep.”

  Knox nodded and closed his eyes. He ignored the howl when it was repeated. When it was picked up by a second animal, he ignored that, too, and tried to cover his ears when the nocturnal choir was joined by a third.

  The fourth howl, however, made them all sit up quick.

  “Madre de Cristo.” Eyes wide in the firelight, Halfweed sat erect in his dirty roll and stared into the night.

  “What in hell…?” Fifth John squinted hard. Twitching skittishly, their mounts were pawing the ground where they’d been tethered. Two of the stolen horses were also moving, though less restively.