“Nay, stand and consider a moment.” Novalst, the chief, gestured at the white-capped sea beside which he and his tribe had been deposited. “This is not our ancient coast. Smell. Drink deep of it. It is not the same. The land is similar, the climate familiar, the sea alike, yet all are different.”
Reluctantly, his second-in-command complied. As he did so, some, but not all, of his initial fury faded. “So. I concede the point. Another sea it is. But of gold I smell naught.”
“It is here. It is here.” Novalst turned a slow circle. “I can feel it.”
At that moment several of their companions came running toward them. In their cupped hands they held sand taken from the nearby beach. Among the particles of quartz and feldspar were flecks and nodules of…gold.
Novalst looked upon this wonder and was pleased. Even Ögrad experienced a deeply felt change of heart. “I am ashamed. The giant was not merely true to his word: he bested it. Who could think of such a thing? A beach full of gold!” Turning, he surveyed the frozen, barren landscape that was so like that of their ancestral home. “This will make a fine place to live. And no humans.”
“No.” Kneeling, Novalst picked up some of the gold-rich sand that had been deposited there and let it trickle free between his fingers. “But they will come. Sooner or later they will come here. Humans always find such places. Yet this I predict: The first of them will be men who know and respect us, and so will not interfere with our dwelling underground in this land. Others will follow and settle here, and though they know us not will call it after us.” Rising, he spread his arms wide, ignoring the chill Arctic wind that was whipping his shirt around him.
“This place will be known as the City of the Gnome!”
* * *
—
As black kettle after black kettle was lifted from the pit, the unsettling sensation that had started in the pits of the miners’ stomachs grew progressively more discomfiting.
“A lot of gold they’re taking out.” A patently unhappy O’Riley was chewing on his lower lip as he followed the procedure.
“An awful lot,” agreed his partner edgily.
“Their ‘fair share.’ ” Having relit his pipe, Malone gazed down at the two men. “You agreed. Unless both of you wish a shillelagh up your respective fundaments, I wouldn’t interfere. Also, I’ve seen the blight an’ sickness these folk can inflict on those who cross ’em.”
“What?” McLaughlin could not help himself. “What happens to those who do?”
“Why, they find themselves transformed, forever to dwell ill and afflicted among those whom they have tried to cheat.” The tiny fires of Hell bristled in the bowl of his pipe. “They become leperchauns.”
The late-rising moon was still in ascent when the last of the enchanted little people from the old country paid their farewells. Tired and sore but demonstrably content, the taoiseach confronted Malone where he was seated by his campfire.
“ ’Twas an experience as unique as it was unexpected to be called hither by you, Amos Malone. A rud is annamh is iontach.”
Malone smiled pleasantly. “I quite agree. ‘That which is strange is wonderful.’ ”
“One would almost think you had a bit o’ the green in you yourself. “
“I am a reservoir to all shades of magick,” the mountain man told him. “When I ain’t skinnin’ beaver, that is.” He nodded toward the other side of the fire, which blazed no less bright than the lights at the bottom of his jet-black eyes. “Best to tell your people over there thet Worthless ain’t fer stealin’. Couple o’ your boyos already tried when I was busy seein’ off your northlander counterparts.”
The leprechaun was mightily offended. “Sir, you accuse my men of attempted theft? I withdraw my compliment, sir!”
Malone shrugged. “As you will. While you’re at it, you might withdraw the last o’ your innocents from Worthless’s immediate environs. I’m afraid not all o’ them escaped his attentions.”
Uncertain, the leprechaun leader beckoned for several of his followers to join him. None offered an apology, but when the enormous equine lifted his right front foot off the ground and revealed what was stuck to the bottom of his hoof, they set to work scraping off the greenish remains with uncommon alacrity.
The last of them had vanished when a cry rang out from the vicinity of the mine pit. Peter O’Riley’s anguished wail rose above the crackle of Malone’s fire and the sounds of the night.
“Gone! It’s all gone! They’ve taken everything!” Then he was charging down the hillside toward Malone. McLaughlin tried but was unable to stop his partner from getting right up in the mountain man’s face, the smell notwithstanding.
“You son of a bitch! You let them take all our gold! All that trouble and fighting, for nothing! We’d have been better off dealing with the gnomes ourselves. We could’ve given them ninety percent share and still been better off than this! Go hlfreann leat!”
Throughout the full length of the miner’s diatribe, Malone had continued staring at the fire. Now he lifted his gaze. What the irate miner saw there made him draw back behind his fury.
“I’d calm down if I were you, friend. It’s said that too much anger can be bad fer a man’s health. As fer your suggestion, I’ve already been to Hell and back, thank you very much.”
McLaughlin was pulling his friend away now, to one side of the fire, and trying desperately to settle him down. Realizing he had no real hope of taking out his frustration on the giant mountain man and that it didn’t matter anyway now that the gold was gone, O’Riley fell to sobbing.
“Gone. All gone. Spirited back to the old country in a damn lot o’ kitchen pots, no less. And us that set it all in motion left with nothing.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” Malone rose. “You still have your claim. I reckon there’s still some gold in it.”
Pushing away his partner’s attempts at comfort, an unashamed O’Riley wiped at his eyes. “All the easy gold’s gone. Taken by that lot o’ unscrupulous green midgets. Nuggets an’ dust just lyin’ there in the water at the bottom o’ the pit, waitin’ t’ be scooped up, an’ they surely did the scoopin’. What’s left, if anything, is for hard rock mining, for them that has the resources.”
“Or the will.” Malone had walked over to his horse and was making preparations to depart. McLaughlin could have sworn the empty coffeepot hopped up into an open saddlebag all by itself—but then, it was dark now. “You two can do it, if you’ve the backbone. Get a loan, hire help, do the work. The difficult work.” His tone hardened. “Instead o’ tryin’ t’ bring out gold with buckets and wishes.”
“Oh, sure an’ ’tis easy for you to say.” Though not as impetuous, McLaughlin was no less upset than his partner. “Do you know what hard rock mining entails, Mr. Malone?”
“Tough work. Dedication. Drive.” The mountain man paused. “Or I reckon you could sell out t’ someone who has those qualities you seem to find so elusive.”
“Right.” A despondent O’Riley laughed. “Who’d be fool enough to buy a claim from which the easy gold has been taken and the rest o’ which is a mess of rocker-ruining blue-black muck? He’d have to be half-crazy.”
“Got just the man for you.” Malone mounted up. “Old Pancake.”
McLaughlin frowned. “T.P.? You’re right, he is half crazy.” He shook his head. “Buy out this gutted claim? What a load!”
“Couldn’t’ve put it better myself, Mr. McLaughlin. Work it yourself or sell out. ’Tis up to you, as life is to any man. Meanwhile you might have a closer look at your blue-black glar.”
“Huh!” O’Riley spat. But sideways, careful to lead with the liquid well away from the mountain man. “Reckon we might as well entertain offers, if anyone’s loony enough to actually be interested.”
“A man’s life teeters on such choices.” Once again Malone did nothing to the reins yet
his animal began to move as if he had been clearly instructed. Or perhaps had decided to start off on his own. The two miners watched as the enigmatic mountain man disappeared over a ridge, his departure silhouetted by the moon as he passed in front of it. Or maybe over it.
To the end of their days they could never decide which.
Holy Jingle
Here’s another tall tale about an immigrant to the American West. A story that also takes place in a real town, in a real building. Not a farmer, this particular immigrant, nor a hardscrabble miner, nor a railroad worker, nor a thief. An individual you’d probably greet warmly, just as you yourself would be greeted. Made to feel welcome, you would be. Made to feel important, and powerful, and sky-screamingly triumphant. From this immigrant you would sense the power of something special at work.
Just be sure you understand who you’re dealing with. And if things don’t go well, you’d best retain enough of your wits about you so that you can explain, as much as you’re able, what transpired. That is, if you’re not too embarrassed to do so. Or too weakened. Or too dead.
As in “Claim Blame,” a fair number of the locations and personalities in this story actually existed, as did the problems described herein. Just not always in the way the history texts relate them. Where history is concerned, certain details always seem to get left out of the final telling. Perhaps because, sometimes, they don’t seem sufficiently real to qualify as fact. Not unlike Amos Malone himself.
It’s true Malone had a distinctive manner of speech and that sometimes he scrambled his language. But at least he didn’t suffer a scrambling like the poor fella in this story.
* * *
—
CARSON CITY, NEVADA TERRITORY, 1863
San Francisco was beautiful in the spring, Malone reflected as he and his horse, Worthless, ambled toward town. Unfortunately, the town was Carson City, Nevada. Wild, seductive San Francisco still lay many days’ ride to the west, over the imposing crest of the Sierra Nevada. Malone didn’t brood over the time required, however. He would get there soon enough. He always got there, wherever there happened to be.
Heading down the last bit of forested hill into the city proper, they were closely watched by a pack of gray wolves. Lying in wait for something small, opportune, and filling, the wolves instead glimpsed Malone and Worthless and, so glimpsing, held their peace. Wolves are intelligent critters, and this pack no less so than the average. Or maybe it was the wolf’s-head cap that Malone wore that caused them to shy off, or the fact that the cap turned to look at them with glowing eyes. Instead of the howls of outrage that might have been expected to resound from the pack upon encountering such a sight, there arose from the cluster of predators little more than a few intimidated whimpers. Also, one or two peed themselves.
It had to be admitted that there wasn’t much there to Carson City, but its civilized surrounds were a considerable improvement over the vast desert wilderness Malone had just crossed. He was tired and thirsty and hungry and thirsty and sleepy and thirsty. Leaning forward, he gave his mount an encouraging pat on the side of its massive neck.
“Oats a-comin’, Worthless. Oats and a soft straw bed. Enough o’ the former so’s you won’t be tempted t’ eat the latter, like you did that time in St. Louis.”
As the steed of impressive size and indecipherable breed turned its head to look back at Malone, the mountain man noted that the leather strap across the animal’s snout was bulging again. Have to attend to that, he told himself. Wouldn’t do to get the locals gossipin’.
Room and stable stall arranged, Malone repaired to the bar in the front of the hotel, sequestering his odiferous enormity at the dimly lit far end of the counter so as not to unduly panic the other patrons. The husky mustachioed bartender with the wide impressionist apron waited upon him with good cheer, which the mountain man downed steadily and in copious quantities.
That was where Hank Monk found him. The stagecoach driver noted the impressive number of empty bottles arrayed like so many tenpins on the wooden bar in front of the slumped-over giant, carefully appraised the looming imbiber’s degree of sobriety, and determined to embark on the potentially risky business of conversation. While the whip was somewhat smaller than the average man and Malone a bit larger than the average bear, the driver was possessed of the surety of someone who made his living guiding rickety, rattling coaches pell-mell down ungraded mountainsides. He was cautious but not intimidated as he cleared his throat.
“Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Amos Malone?”
Thundercloud brows drew together and eyes like mouths of Dahlgren cannons swiveled round to regard the supplicant. “Don’t know as how many folks regard it as a pleasure, but unless there be another hereabouts sportin’ the same nameplate, I’m him.”
Monk smiled politely. “I have heard it tell that you are a bit mad.” The man seemed fully prepared to chuckle or bolt for the front door, depending on the response.
The giant shrugged, the action jostling his expansive salt-and-pepper beard. “So have I.”
“But not to your face.” Monk stroked his own, far more neatly trimmed, beard. “It would take a brave man to say that.”
“More usual-like they’re addled. I ignore all thet they say. Actually, the entire species is crazy. Mr. Darwin failed to note that observation in his book. I called him on it but have yet to receive the courtesy of a reply.”
This response, like the name Darwin, held no especial meaning to the stage driver, so Monk continued with his petition. “I would beg your assistance in a small matter of considerable urgency, Mr. Malone.”
Turning away, the mountain man picked up a bottle with a particularly garish label rich with Spanish words of false promise, and proceeded to down the remaining quarter liter. This explained, Monk now understood, the absence of glasses on the bar.
“I don’t much cotton to beggin’.”
Monk pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Well then, I’ll pay you.”
Malone set down the empty bottle. “Better.”
“I’m presently a bit low on ready cash.” Monk dug into a vest pocket. “But I’ll give you this.”
Intrigued, Malone turned sideways and leaned forward to inspect the pocket watch. It was beautifully engraved and chased with raised images of horses and a coach. “A fine example o’ the timekeeper’s art, Mr. Monk. Real gold, too.”
Monk looked proud. “Was given to me by Mr. Horace Greeley of New York, for getting him on time to a meeting in Placerville everyone said he couldn’t make. I’ll give it to you in return for your help.” He nodded at the timepiece. “Worth five or six hundred dollars, I’m told.”
Malone examined the watch a moment longer before handing it back. “I reckon you’ve used that watch as collateral in more than one dealing, Mr. Monk, and I expect there’ll come a time you’ll need it again. What need is so desperate, then, that you’d be willin’ to hand it over to a stranger like myself with no guarantee o’ receiving its worth in return?”
“I’ve a shipment to deliver to California and gold to bring back. The only man in either state who I trust to ride shotgun messenger on such a trip is John Barrel. He has been rendered indisposed by an affliction for which I am unable to find a cure. From what I’ve heard whispered and rumored, Amos Malone might be the one man with the wherewithal to bring him back to his duties.”
“I see.” Half-hidden beneath the lower lip of the wolf’s-head cap, furrows appeared in the granitic prominence of the mountain man’s forehead. “And would there be a name fer the nature o’ this affliction?”
Monk nodded curtly. “Love. Or more properly in this instance, infatuation. One so fast and unbreakable that poor John appears unable to move from the proximity of the woman who has caught him fast.” The driver’s expression darkened. “A woman of the East, no less.”
“New York?” Malone mused aloud. “Chicago? Dare I say
Boston?”
Monk shook his head sharply. “Would that it were so, Mr. Malone, would that it were so. The East to which I refer is at once less and more civilized than those fine upstanding American cities. There are over a thousand Chinee in Carson City, sir, and this woman is of that country that supplies to us both labor and mystery. She has enchanted my friend, Mr. Malone. Bewitched him from the blond curls of his young forehead to the accumulated fungus between his toes. No argument, no logic, no reason or threat or promise of wealth has proven sufficient to bestir him from her quarters. I am not the only one who finds it more than passing strange. If there is not more to this than the straightforward draw of the loins, sir, I’ll gnaw the hindquarters off a northbound polecat!”
Malone considered. “If your need be so urgent, and the attraction so unambiguous, why not go with a few armed companions and drag him out by the heels?”
“I thought to do just that, sir, but this woman has friends and a respected employer. Somehow, she commands others with words as well as with movement, to the point that those who might help find themselves dissuaded in her company and depart her presence wondering what became of their senses. I have felt a touch of it myself. The sensation is akin to drunkenness, but without the vomiting. Also, it smells strongly of jasmine.”
The mountain man sighed and turned back to his drinking. Monk looked on anxiously. As the whip teetered on the cusp of certainty that his appeal had failed, Malone turned back to him once more and rose. He had been slumping on his bar stool in a courteous attempt to somewhat mute his mass, and, now, standing, his head nearly scraped the ceiling. Conversation in the room grew quiet, as though an unearthly presence had suddenly made itself known.
The djinn was out of the bottle, Monk realized. Or rather, out of the bottles. There was no backing down now. It occurred to the driver only briefly to flee. He was a brave man, having in the course of his employment faced down everything from starving catamounts to desperate bandits. All these paled, however, in the shadow of the immense and ripely unwashed simian shape that now stood, swaying ever so slightly from having ingested a truly phenomenal quantity of liquor, before him.
Mad Amos Malone Page 28
