“It were that black ruff o’ yours,” he murmured to the big cat. “I saw the connection right off, but ’tweren’t no reason at the time t’ pursue it.” He nodded toward the damaged doorway. “Until it were forced. On the both of us.” Leaning forward, he whispered into the lion’s right ear.
This time the cloud shrank instead of expanding. Which was a fortunate adjustment, because it was unlikely the town itself would have survived a cat-thing of any greater dimension. When the last of the gilded cloud vanished, it left behind on the tobacco-stained floor a tabby of normal size, gold and tan in color, with an odd black streak in its hair that stretched from shoulder to shoulder. It shook itself, licked one paw to briefly groom the fur on its forehead, and then began to arch its back and rub against Malone’s right boot. Reaching down, the mountain man picked it up and placed it gently on the now-deserted sweep of mahogany bar. Then he leaned forward and over to peer down behind the barrier.
“Barkeep.”
Trembling visibly, the bartender rose from where he had been hiding. He looked at Malone, at the cat sitting contentedly near the giant’s right hand, then back at Malone.
“Wh-wh-wh-what’ll it be…sir?”
“Whiskey. Same label.” Malone indicated the serene feline seated nearby. “And a saucer of milk for my friend. Straight up.”
The barkeep managed to nod. “This…this is a saloon, sir. Milk, I’m not so sure…”
“This here’s also a hotel, friend. Got t’ be some milk or cream on ice in the kitchen.” He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. “Go find it. And you’d best come back.”
No one else entered the saloon that night. No one else came near the saloon that night. Its interior was occupied solely by its shaky proprietor, a mountain man of measureless smells and unsuspected abilities, and the gold and tan cat seated comfortably on the bar off to his right. Not his cat. Together the three passed the remainder of the evening undisturbed and mostly in silence, until the time finally came for Malone to exit. At this the bartender allowed himself to faint gratefully and with some grace. He did not hit the floor too hard.
The cat followed Malone outside. After the mountain man finished admonishing his horse for eating half the hitching post, he turned to look back at the plank sidewalk. The cat was sitting there, its tail switching slowly back and forth, staring at him in the unblinking, fearless manner of cats everywhere. For certain a most ordinary cat.
“G’night, puss. Got t’ be on my way. Watch your step. Don’t eat any mice I wouldn’t eat.”
The cat turned to depart, looking back only once to meow.
That is generally remembered as the Manhattan, Kansas, earthquake of 1867.
Stuck
Has anyone ever asked you, “If you could be reincarnated, what creature would you come back as?” Oddly enough, I always knew the answer. Or least, I have ever since my family visited the Sierra Nevada’s national parks when I was seven years old. From that time on I knew what I would wish to come back as. It’s a choice that hasn’t changed in the intervening sixty-four years.
Of course, even among such imposing life-forms there are bound to be those inclined less to conviviality than irritability. I would hope that, should such a reincarnation occur, I could be more accommodating than the example set forth in this story. Especially if I were to be granted the opportunity to meet Amos Malone. And equally so, his human counterpart in this final tale.
* * *
—
Without question the grove of cinnamon-red, giant trees was one of the most beautiful, inspiring, soul-rejuvenating, spirit-calming, downright sacred places Amos Malone had ever visited. At least, it was until he heard the cry for help.
Riding astride Worthless, who was less than happy with the limited flavors of the local undergrowth and ventured his opinion by occasionally spitting out something the horse deemed not worthy of dissolution by his digestive juices, Malone had made his way up into the fabulous mountain country that had been described to him down in the valley. If anything, the farmers with whom he had spoken had understated the majesty of the untouched sequoia forest. The gargantuan ginger-toned columns that towered around him on either side reminded him less of other trees and more of the massive stone columns of the great temple at Luxor.
The cool lingering droplets of a just-concluded Sierra storm still perspired from branches high overhead and mushed beneath Worthless’s huge feet. Swathed in his buckskin and furs, Malone was quite comfortable. Familiar with the vagaries of mountain weather, he suspected that by midmorning he would need to doff his outer raiment lest he begin to sweat himself. This dermatological exposure would inevitably set free a personal bouquet which he, from experience, was reluctant to inflict even on a passel of passing marmots, far less upon another human being. Fortunately, there appeared to be none of the latter about, and so his questionable personal hygiene would remain a matter for he himself.
There was, however, the possible intrusion on his solitude of someone unknown calling out for help.
Despite the notoriety the giant trees had begun to acquire, lack of ready accessibility to their mountain vastness had kept the grove through which he was currently wandering free of all but the most determined adventurer. That was a situation that would likely change with time, he knew, but for the moment the peace and tranquility of his surroundings remained inviolate. Except for the intermittent cry for assistance.
Pulling back lightly on the reins, he brought Worthless to a halt, leaned forward, and listened intently. There was no panic in the shouts he was hearing, no intimation of fear. Whoever was calling for aid was not being attacked by a catamount nor clinging perilously to the knife edge of a cliff. It was a measured, periodic yelp, forceful and determined but absent of panic.
Yet a cry for help was a cry for help, Malone knew. Straightening in the saddle and tugging again on the reins, Malone inclined Worthless in its direction. Responding with a characteristic squint eye, the muscular mélange of Percheron, quarterhorse, Shire, Arabian, Indian pony, and something not of the current reality as most folks know it, turned and headed in the indicated direction, picking up the pace as he did so. All the while, Malone listened, adjusting his mount’s path according to the perceived location of each periodic outcry.
It wasn’t long before they entered a small glade within a cathedral-like grove of the gigantic trees. It was there that the calls for help seemed to resound the loudest. A quick survey of the surroundings revealed no supplicant. It was dead silent, if one discounted Worthless’s intermittent passing of horse gas. It was not soon after their arrival, however, that the voice Malone had been hearing once again called out strong and clear.
“Up here!”
Leaning slightly back in his saddle, Malone looked up. And up, and up, having to squint almost as hard as Worthless. It took a moment for him to spot the man standing where a branch emerged from the mighty trunk some two hundred and fifty feet above the ground. While Malone’s vision was sharp, the distance and intervening verdure made it difficult to distinguish details. What he could see of the caller revealed a man of about Malone’s own age, but smaller and slenderer. Even at that distance it could be seen that he boasted a beard of impressive proportions. One that in length, at least, surpassed Malone’s own equally lush facial undergrowth.
“Let me guess,” Malone shouted upward. “You have conquered this ’ere imposin’ ascent only t’ find you are unable to make your way down again, either by your original route or any other.”
Peering down, the man high up the tree called back emphatically. “Not at all, sir. I am more familiar than most with all manner of trees in these mountains, and would have no difficulty making my way down the imposing bole of this one, save for one entirely unexpected peculiarity.”
Malone pursed his lips. “Perhaps I kin be of assistance. I am by way o’ experience somewhat acquainted with unexpe
cted peculiarities, Mr.…?”
“John,” came down the voice from above. “Call me John. Everyone does. John of the mountains, sometimes.”
“Then I will partake o’ the general verdict, John, and call you thet. If you will instruct me as to the particular peculiarity that prevents you descendin’ from your elevated perch, I will endeavor t’ lend a hand. Most particular, I have to ask…why can’t you come down?”
“This most obstinate and infuriating tree won’t let me.”
“I see.” It was then that Malone’s vision noted the pair of smaller branches that were wrapped respectively around the man’s chest and thighs, pinning him to a trunk that was still impressive in girth even at altitude. He pondered a moment. Worthless glanced back at him, snorted, and bent to masticate pinecones. The consequent crunching, which produced a sound like boots punching through a crust of new-frozen snow, echoed through the forest. “Why not?”
“Och, how should I know?” came the somewhat exasperated voice from on high. The Scottish burr was unmistakable.
“Well now.” Malone scratched at the back of his neck where something small and multilegged was presently attempting to set up residence without paying rent. “Have you tried askin’ the tree?”
A moment’s silence preceded the slowly considered reply. “There are some who say that I am mad, sir, for doing things like climbing trees to experience the full fury of a thunderstorm in the mountains. That was the specific situation that brought me to my present inexplicable condition and finds me trapped here. But know that I am not mad when I say that as soon as I tried to descend, branches of this giant caught me tight round the body and have held me captive here for some hours now.” The speaker paused, then added, “I fear that in addition to increasing thirst and hunger, I am in some desperate need of a change of undergarments.”
Malone nodded to himself. “There be some also t’ say that I am mad, John of the mountains, so it appears we are brothers in insanity. I reiterate: have you tried asking the tree?”
“Many are the birds whose calls I can imitate, and the cry of the bobcat and the warnings of the deer as well,” came the response, “but while I have addressed terms of admiration and endearment to a wide assortment of growths, I have never yet managed to evoke a reply. Nor, I venture, has any human being.”
“A good deal of it, John,” Malone called back, “has t’ do with the accent. Pine is soft and spoken wholly with the lips, birch speech more of a whispering, while cypress talk must first be begun with a growl and a murmur.” Whereupon the mountain man formed his lips, tongue, palate, and epiglottis into such a wholesale confusion of body parts that any physician able to observe the result would have fainted dead away at the sheer impossibility of the biology. When everything physiological was in place, Malone formally addressed the sequoia.
“ ’Ere now, you great overgrown slab o’ termite grub: what’s behind this discourteous business o’ holdin’ prisoner that poor thirsty, hungry, soiled feller you’ve got caught in your upstairs?”
There issued from the depths of the ancient growth a rumbling so deep, so subsonic, that it would have made the private cursing of the African elephant seem positively falsetto. John up the tree did not hear it…but he felt it. The blue jays hunting beetles in the needle piles did not hear it. Neither did the fish, nor the fox, nor the ants underfoot hear it. Only Malone possessed the learning and the sensitivity to understand the voice that came forth, seemingly formed of the very earth itself.
“HIS PRESENCE…OFFENDS ME.”
Malone pushed the wolf’s-head cap back off his forehead and wiped away sweat. “Wal now, I didn’t know a tree could take offense.”
“YOU ARE, LIKE THE REST OF YOUR KIND, IGNORANT OF THE WORLD AROUND YOU.”
“Hold on there, big twig. I may be many things, but ignorant ain’t one o’ them. If I’m so ignorant, how come I’m talkin’ t’ you right now?”
There was a pause, then, “I CONCEDE THAT YOU MAY BE MARGINALLY LESS UNKNOWING THAN THE REST OF YOUR KIND.”
Malone decided to be satisfied with that. Arguing with an obstinate sequoia would get him nowhere, nor would it provide the captive John with his much-desired change of underwear.
“If you don’t mind my askin’, what precisely about your visitor’s presence offends you so much that you refuse t’ let him down?”
“HE CAME UP WITHOUT ASKING. THAT IS HOW I HAVE SEEN HUMANS TREAT MY KIND. THEY DO WHATEVER THEY DESIRE, WITHOUT ASKING.”
Ever since their arrival in the glade, a pair of brother wolves had been stalking the new arrivals. They were very close now, crouched just behind a thick clump of bushes. Tongues lolling, they charged, aiming for Worthless’s copious hindquarters. Snarling, they leaped with mouths agape and fangs dripping. Malone spared them a brief glance before returning his attention to the sequoia.
Without looking back, Worthless kicked out with his hind right leg. It caught the first wolf under his jaw. The impact caused the unfortunate predator to describe four complete backward somersaults before finally landing in a dense copse of gooseberry from which subsequently only a confused whimpering could be heard. Lunging for a leg, the second wolf found itself pinned beneath an oversized hoof. With Worthless’s weight atop it, it scrabbled frantically at the ground with its paws, fighting for breath, as the horse calmly resumed his methodical devastation of nearby grass, primrose, and bracken fern.
“This John, he strikes me as a good sort o’ feller,” Malone continued. “One who holds nothin’ but the greatest respect fer all Nature, and especially fer trees. I’m sure he’d be happy to apologize fer any imposition.”
“TOO LATE!” the sequoia roared. Upper branches shook while lower branches that were themselves greater in diameter than the surrounding pines and firs trembled ever so slightly. “I HAVE MADE MY DECISION! LET HIS REMAINS BE A LESSON TO ANY WHO SHOULD COME AND TRY TO DO LIKEWISE. I WILL HOLD HIM CLOSE UNTIL WIND AND RAIN AND TIME HAVE REDUCED HIM TO WORM FOOD!”
“Now, now,” murmured Malone soothingly, “turnin’ admirin’ visitors into worm food ain’t very hospitable. There’ll likely be more a-comin’ t’ gape at you and yours, and no matter how many you try to worm-food-ize, ’tis likely you’ll fail to do ’em all.” He gestured with a huge, gnarled hand. “Fer one thing, you’re somewhat handicapped by a noticeable lack o’ digits. You just got lucky when John here decided t’ favor you with a visit.”
“I WILL FIND A WAY!” The entire enormous bulk of the sequoia quivered slightly. “I WILL HOLD THEM ALL, ONE BY ONE, UNTIL THEY LEARN THE WISDOM OF KEEPING THEIR DISTANCE!” Silence was followed by a comment that sounded somewhat uncertain. “YOUR ANIMAL IS DEFILING MY ROOTS.”
Leaning over, Malone glanced down at the ground beneath Worthless, then straightened. “That by its simple liquid self ought t’ prove to you that if a visitor don’t make contact with you directly, there ain’t much you can do. Oh, I suppose you could drop a branch or two on ’em, but self-mutilation has its limits. Why not try bein’ a mite friendlier instead?” Rising slightly in the saddle, he took in the rest of the magnificent grove with a single sweeping gesture. “Your relations hereabouts don’t seem near half as aggrieved as yourself.”
“THEY CHOOSE TO REMAIN STUPID, IGNORANT, AND SILENT, INDIFFERENT TO INTRUSION.”
Malone shook his head sadly as he sat back down. “You’d suppose thet after a couple o’ thousand years o’ sittin’ in one place and jest thinkin’, you’d have developed a better sense o’ community.” Slipping his left leg up and over the pommel, he dropped clear of the saddle and down to the ground.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” The great tree was unafraid, but wary.
“Why, since you won’t let poor John go, I reckon I’m goin’ to have t’ come up and git him,” Malone replied as he twiddled his fingers at one of the saddlebags that was slung over Worthless’s back. The buckle obediently came open.<
br />
“YOU WILL NEVER REACH HIM. YOU WILL NOT SURVIVE!”
Ignoring the threat, Malone slipped the steel tree spurs onto his boots. Though fire-resistant, almost bug-proof, and sometimes more than two feet thick, the auburn-colored bark of the giant sequoia was comparatively soft and fibrous. The spurs would find excellent purchase. Pulling a coil of rope from the same saddlebag, Malone slung it over his right shoulder.
Walking up to the base of the tree, he had to lean back to locate the most promising way upward. Without preamble, he began to climb. His thick, powerful fingers dug almost as deeply into the tree’s outer layer as did the sharp metal of the spurs. The sequoia of course felt no discomfort. But it was wholly aware of Malone’s presence as he ascended.
The mountain man was far above the ground before he reached the first enormous branch. This extended outward as if a full-size Douglas fir had been jammed sideways into the trunk. Repositioning his grip, Malone started to swing himself up and onto the curved, waiting platform.
It jerked violently, intending to throw him off and send him on a death spiral toward the ground.
As he clung with fingers and spurs to the sheer face of the tree, a worried voice called down from above.
“Hoy, sir! Are you all right?”
Malone glanced down at the ground. It was very far away and its surface appeared unwelcoming. For one of the few times he could recall, Worthless looked…small. Mouth tightening, he resumed his climb.
Searching upward, he finally spied what he had been hoping for: a stub of a smaller, broken branch that projected stolidly from the side of the tree not far from where its unwilling guest was being restrained. Balancing himself against another branch that remained blessedly immobile, Malone unlimbered the lariat he had brought with him. Leaning back, he formed one end into a loop and flung it swiftly upward. It caught around the stub first try. Snugging it tight gave Malone a speedier way upward. This he proceeded to use to his advantage.
Mad Amos Malone Page 34
