by Hondo Jinx
“If it bothers you so much, darlin, go ahead and wash it out. Just have some coffee ready by the time I come back.”
Her eyes flashed. “Don’t you dare talk to me that way, Mr. Braddock. I am not your servant.”
“And I’m not yours. You want to switch roles? If so, say the word. I’ll stay here and brew coffee, and you go down in the canyon and see what you can salvage.”
“Don’t be stupid. There’s no point in bringing those things up here anyway. Father will rescue me today.”
“Is that so?”
She lifted her chin. “I guarantee it.”
“You guarantee it.”
“Yes. Father loves me.”
Braddock chuckled. “That’s nice. I’ll be back, darlin. Get that coffee going.”
“Make it yourself!” Elizabeth whipped her arm, and Braddock’s trusty coffee pot clanked off the stones.
He walked over, picked up the pot, and frowned at the dent she’d made. “Every man has his vice, Elizabeth. Mine just happens to be coffee. If you bust this pot, I’ll stake you out for the centaurs.”
“You probably would, you heartless brute! I knew you were a savage the first time I set eyes on you.”
He turned his back on her and went outside and greeted the buckskin. One of the first things on his agenda was getting the mustang some cover and gathering feed against bad weather. Braddock needed to figure out a corral and stable.
Elizabeth stood in the gap, hurling insults at him. “You are callous, cruel, selfish, and stupid, Mr. Braddock. A bloodthirsty killer with no conscience.”
“The men I killed all had a chance,” he said, saddling the buckskin. “I never shot anybody in the back.”
He mounted up, tipped his hat, and started across the field.
“Wait!”
He turned.
Elizabeth ran toward him across the field, her skirt dark with the heavy dew. Sudden panic burned in her eyes. “Take me with you.”
“No. You’re safer here.”
“What if the centaurs come?”
He unholstered one of the six-shooters. “You know how to use one of these?”
“I’ve shot rifles with Father.”
He handed her the pistol and explained the basics. “If you have to shoot, use both hands.”
She nodded, lifting the big pistol in a two-handed grip.
“A rifle bucks up, but the kick’s in your shoulder. Pistols are different. Your hands and wrists take the recoil.”
She nodded, staring up at him with round eyes.
He didn’t have the time or ammo to teach her to absorb recoil with her arms and shoulders, so he just told her to stay calm. “If you shoot more than once, take care to get your sights back on target before pulling the trigger again. And don’t shoot at all unless you absolutely must. We have no ammo to spare.”
Braddock rode the gloomy trail back down into the canyon. Behind him, the light of the rising sun broke over the ridge and glowed cheerily upon the colorful foliage of the opposite hillside.
At the bottom of the trail, he drew the mustang to a halt.
A mantle of swirling fog obscured the gurgling river and its bank. He couldn’t even see the wagon downstream.
He sat a moment, looking and listening.
Birds twittered in the trees, announcing the break of day.
Through the swirling fog, he detected movement in the water. Leaning, he made out the wavering shapes of fish. They were sizeable and many, like a run of salmon.
Such bounty here.
But he was on a quest for things nature would’t provide.
He crossed the river and stony bank slowly, making as little noise as possible, then moved along the soft, grassy strip beside the bank. The ground was all churned up with paw prints as big around as the belly of a bacon barrel.
Luckily, that was the only sign of the giant bear he could see.
The wagon appeared, a pancake of vague debris within the swirling fog.
The buckskin twitched and whinnied.
Braddock reined him to a stop, little pins prickling up his spine.
They weren’t alone. Braddock could feel that.
You spend enough time in the wilderness, you either develop a danger sense or die for the lacking.
He dismounted and covered the remaining distance on foot, rifle at the ready.
An explosion of small creatures scampered from the wreckage like a covey of startled birds taking flight.
Braddock tracked them with his sights but didn’t fire.
A foot tall and covered in fur, the fleeing creatures ran on hind legs like little men, squealing as they scurried off through the fog, bits of colorful fabric trailing behind them like capes.
They were carting off clothes. Elizabeth would be angry.
So be it. Braddock reckoned she was going to be angry a lot no matter what happened.
He stepped closer to the wagon, moving slowly and quietly, ready to stomp anything that tried to bite his ankle. But reaching the wreckage, he saw no more of the little creatures.
The giant bear had demolished the wagon. Through rents in the fog, Braddock saw shattered barrels and wagon slats stomped into the ground.
Spotting the double-bladed ax, he pried it from the mud, pleased to find the tool unbroken.
Other items hadn’t fared so well. Within a nearby paw print, a flattened suitcase and its indistinguishable contents were pressed into the mud and intermingled with the shattered remains of the O’Boyle’s fancy, brass work clock.
Something thumped softly behind him.
He whipped around, dropped the ax to the muddy ground, and shouldered the rifle.
Another thump.
A half-smashed barrel wobbled slightly. Inside, something grunted.
Giving the barrel wide berth, Braddock crept around the other side, where a pasty blanket of spilled flour stretched atop the dewy ground.
Corkscrews of mist lifted, banished by brighter sunlight.
The barrel wobbled again.
Moving closer, he saw the furry rump and pointy little tail of a small creature kneeling inside the barrel, snuffling and rooting, its dark fur frosted with a powdering of flour.
Reaching out, Braddock rapped the barrel with the rifle muzzle.
The creature squealed, thumped around, and spun with a growl.
The small, bearlike humanoid bared a mouthful of sharp teeth and jabbed the air with a spear not much bigger than one of Dr. O’Boyle’s scalpels.
Caked in flour, its round face looked like a growling moon. The creature sneezed, pitching a white cloud into the air.
Braddock didn’t mean to laugh, but he couldn’t help it.
The creature gaped at him, so obviously bewildered that Braddock laughed even harder. And then harder still when several rapid-fire sneezes rocked the creature, sending puffs of flour into the air.
Then the little bear-thing joined in with high-pitched giggling.
After they caught their breath, the creature lowered its spear and waddled out of the barrel, grinning up at Braddock. It shook like a wet dog, shedding flour, and brushed itself off, revealing a coat of chocolate brown fur.
The creature’s limbs were thick and stubby, and its blunt head seemed to sit directly upon its rounded shoulders. A crossbody strap stretched from one shoulder across its pot belly to the little satchel at its hip.
“You like flour, huh?”
The thing tilted its head quizzically, then spoke in a high-pitched voice.
Unable to understand the words, Braddock mirrored the quizzical head tilt.
For a few seconds, they grinned at each other like a couple of idiots. Then Braddock had an idea.
He rooted around the wreckage, found several squares of pilot bread among the debris, and held out a biscuit. “Here. If you like flour, try this. But mind your teeth. It’s harder than a boomtown judge.”
The creature hesitated, eyeing the hardtack with gleaming eyes. A furry hand reached out tentatively and
accepted the gift.
The bear-thing gave a deep bow then examined the hard biscuit. It poked and sniffed and grunted, sounding curious. When the creature finally took a nibble, its beady little eyes lit up.
“Enjoy, partner.” Braddock tucked the other biscuits in his pocket and went back to prying tools from the mud.
Behind him, the bear-thing gnawed the hardtack, growling with delight.
Daylight drove darkness from the canyon. The remaining mist followed, drifting up the dark green hillside.
Every second Braddock lingered, he risked discovery.
He whistled, and the buckskin trotted over.
Startled, the little bearlike creature fell into a fighting stance and jabbed the air with its tiny spear.
Braddock patted the mustang’s shoulder and smiled at the fierce little bear-thing. “Put down your weapon. He’s with me.”
The creature sighed with obvious relief, lowered the spear, and followed Braddock, eating hardtack and jabbering a high-pitched monologue as Braddock tucked small items into his packs and pockets and lashed larger tools to the stallion.
“This is going to take a while,” Braddock said, securing a hammer to the saddle.
He couldn’t overload the horse, not when they might need to hightail it out of there any second.
“There’s a sorry sight.” He pointed to the smashed remains of Elizabeth’s trunk. Portions of garments jutted from the mud like the petals of a many-colored flower.
Uprooting the clothes, he piled them atop a muddy blouse, gathered the shirt around the mass, cinched it together, knotted the sleeves, and tied the pitiful bundle to the horse.
“Miss O’Boyle will not be pleased,” he told his companions, “but I reckon if she wants to complain, she can take that up with the centaurs or the bear, her choice.”
Then he spotted something, jerked to a stop, and grinned.
“Life is good, my friends.” Moving aside a bit of wagon canvas, he tugged free the sack of coffee he had spied. “Life is very good.”
The bear-thing gave a happy cheer, catching Braddock’s emotions if not his precise meaning.
The buckskin sniffed the wreckage, discovered a pile of spilled oats, and set to munching.
Braddock tucked the coffee in his saddle bag.
Having finally finished its biscuit, the bearlike creature brushed away the crumbs, patted its furry chest, and squeaked, “Chundra.”
“Chundra?”
Chundra grinned and nodded excitedly. “Chundra.”
Braddock smiled, recognizing a moment he had shared with various Indians and foreigners over the years, and patted his own chest. “Braddock.”
“Braddock,” Chundra parroted.
Braddock nodded and pointed back and forth a few times, saying their names.
Chundra did the same, then turned to the buckskin and jabbered expectantly.
Unperturbed, the stallion kept eating oats.
“He doesn’t really have a name.” Braddock walked over and patted the buckskin’s flank. “Horse.”
“Hore,” Chundra said.
Braddock grinned and patted the stallion again, figuring the buckskin would appreciate a little clarification. “Horse.”
“Horse,” Chundra said.
Braddock turned back to the work at hand.
“The butter churn’s cracked, but the stove’s okay.” He glanced at the ridge high above. “Question is, how can I get a three-hundred-pound stove all the way up there?”
Chundra looked at the stove then regarded Braddock with a quizzical head-tilt.
“Here’s the situation, Chundra, old buddy. I want to get that,” he said, pointing at the stove then gesturing to the hilltop, “up there.”
Chundra pantomimed picking up a heavy load and straining beneath its weight.
“Yes, it’s very heavy.”
Chundra pointed at the buckskin.
“No. He might be able to drag it on a travois, but the trail is steep and narrow and full of hard switchbacks.”
Chundra started bouncing up and down, squeaking with sudden excitement.
“You know a way?”
Chundra tugged Braddock’s pant leg and pointed upstream, then started in that direction, whistling happily.
Could Chundra really have a solution?
Doubtful.
Still, Braddock reckoned it was worth checking. He was curious. Besides, even if nothing came of the stroll, it was an excuse to spend more time with Chundra, who was a far more pleasant companion than the angry redhead who’d awakened Braddock with a kick.
But before they went anywhere, Braddock had to try to communicate something to his new friend.
6
“Chundra,” Braddock called.
Chundra stopped and turned, looking eager and impatient.
Braddock crouched and held out his hand, pointed to Chundra and pointed to his palm, then made a scooping motion, as if he was lifting and holding his small friend. Then he nodded to the horse.
Chundra gave an excited squeak and rushed forward, his stubby little legs pumping in a furry blur.
They rode upstream. Braddock put Chundra on his lap, but the nimble little creature scrambled behind him, climbed his back, and perched atop his shoulder. Thankfully, Chundra managed to avoid slicing him with the tiny spear, which was tipped in a sharp-looking sliver of dark, glassy stone.
Squatting atop Braddock’s shoulder, Chundra gripped his shirt collar and pointed the spear, directing him upstream.
To the west the hillside steepened into a sharp cliff of raw stone topped in dark forest.
Did the caterwauling beast lurk within those trees?
Braddock wished he could ask Chundra about what he had heard.
Braddock was good with languages. He learned Spanish and German growing up in Texas; spoke enough French, Shoshone, Blackfoot, and Crow to get along; and knew a smattering of Sioux and Apache and just enough Comanche to insult their ancestors, which was all you really needed with the Comanche. They weren’t exactly chatty. If they got close enough to talk, you were likely dead.
Braddock didn’t know, though, if he could ever learn to squeak like Chundra. It seemed unlikely.
The canyon curved. Along the western elbow the river widened, eddying in a deep and misty pool fed by a sparkling waterfall that tumbled down the cliff of dark stone.
It was very pretty.
A little further on, the canyon widened, the eastern wall veering back and making room for a forest.
Chundra pointed, growing more excited.
Braddock rode into the trees. Intermittent shafts of morning sunlight pierced the canopy, deepening the surrounding gloom.
Chundra tugged Braddock’s collar until he hauled back on the reins. Suddenly rigid, his bearlike companion stared up through the trees, sniffing the air, ears twitching.
“What is it?” Braddock whispered, studying the sky between the trees.
A huge bird passed silently overhead.
How huge? He couldn’t say. It’s tough with birds, depending on how high they’re flying.
But he reckoned the thing had a wingspan of at least fifty feet.
Chundra muffled a frightened squeak and pointed the spear toward a large tree.
Braddock rode beneath the umbrella of the colossal hardwood, and they hid there, weapons in hand, hardly breathing.
A few minutes later, Chundra relaxed, and they restarted their journey.
Braddock pointed at the sky. “What was that thing?”
“Rock,” Chundra squeaked.
“Rock, huh? Boulder is more like it.”
A quarter of a mile upstream, they came to a beautiful meadow full of butterflies and birdsong. A sprinkling of bright flowers decorated the deep green grass, which sparkled with dew.
Chundra tugged Braddock’s collar again, so Braddock reined the buckskin before entering the meadow.
Chortling with excitement, Chundra bounced up and down scanning the lovely field, then gave a happy wh
istle and pointed.
For a second, Braddock couldn’t see what Chundra was pointing at. Then, with a sinking sensation, he did.
A tiny, green bird was zipping back and forth, sipping dew.
“Really?” Braddock said. “That’s what you brought me here to see? You think a hummingbird can carry a stove up the hill?”
Chundra beamed triumphantly and jabbed the spear.
Braddock rode forward.
Chundra whistled happily.
As they drew closer, Braddock noticed something strange. The bird was carrying something. A little basket?
He squinted, trying to solve the mystery, and the meadow in front of them exploded.
The buckskin reared, almost pitching Braddock.
Huge chunks of sod hurtled into the air. A massive humanoid rose out of the ground, sloughing clouds of dirt.
Struggling to stay atop the panicked horse, Braddock registered the being’s thick build, immense size, and stony hide.
Then a furry potbelly eclipsed his view as Chundra hugged Braddock’s face, squealing with terror.
Braddock unholstered a pistol with one hand and peeled Chundra from his face with the other.
Chundra came away giggling.
Which was crazy.
But Braddock didn’t bother trying to sort out his companion’s bizarre reaction, because the towering creature in front of them flexed its four arms and roared with a voice as deep and rumbling as a rockslide. Which made sense, given that the thirty-foot-tall beast looked like it was made of stone.
The monster swung a leg forward and stomped, shaking the ground.
The buckskin backed to the forest’s edge, but Braddock reined it in. His whole life, he had burned with curiosity. That was the root of his wanderlust, the reason he had tried so many things. Above all else, he wished to see extraordinary things.
And this creature was nothing if not extraordinary.
Chundra jabbered excitedly, trying to explain something. But if Braddock had learned one thing that morning, it was never take advice from a little bearlike creature.
The living mountain took another earthshaking step in their direction and grumbled menacingly, displaying a huge mouth full of jagged rock teeth.
Braddock raised his pistol, aiming at one of the sunken black eyes. “That’s close enough, big boy. You keep coming, I’ll shoot you in the eye.”
