by Mike Ashley
The doctor rose from his seat and moved to open the door, admitting a man who stood in height somewhere between six feet and heaven. He was clad in dirty buckskin and wet Colorado. Two bandoliers of enormous cartridges criss-crossed his expansive chest. In his belt were secured a Bowie knife and a LeMat pistol, the latter an eccentric weapon favored for a time by Confederate cavalry officers. It fit the arrival, Fraser thought.
The man’s beard was not nearly as gray-speckled as Wonder Charlie’s, but there were a few white wires scattered among the black. His eyes were dark as Quantrell’s heart, and what one could see of his actual flesh looked cured as tough as the goatskin boots he wore.
“Cold out there this morning,” he said, striding over to the pot-bellied stove. He rubbed his hands in front of it gratefully, then turned to warm his backside.
The doctor closed the door against the cold and proceeded to make formal introductions. Fraser surrendered his uncallused palm to that massive grip gingerly. Wonder Charlie took it firmly, his age and infirmities notwithstanding.
“Now then, gentlemens, word’s out that you folk have got yourselves a little gold problem.”
“Bird problem, ye mean,” said Charlie promptly, before Fraser or the doctor could slip a word in. “Biggest goddamn bird ye ever saw, mister. Killed two o’ my partners and stole our poke. Took off with m’best mule, too. Out o’ spite, I thinks, for surely One-Thumb and Johnny would’ve made the beast a good enough supper.”
“Easy there, old timer,” said Mad Amos gently. “It don’t do to make your head hurt when the rest of you already does. Now, y’all tell me more about this gold-lovin’ bird of yours. I admit to being more than a mite curious about it, or I wouldn’t be here.”
“And just why are you here, Mr Malone?” asked Fraser curiously. “You have no assurance we are able to pay you for your services, or even what extremes of exertion those services might entail.”
“Why, I don’t care much about that right now, friend.” He smiled, showing more teeth than men of his profession usually possessed. “I’m here because I’m curious. Like the cat.”
“Curiosity,” commented Fraser, still sizing the new arrival up, “killed the cat, if you will remember.”
The mountain man turned and stared at him out of eyes so black that the agent shrank a little inside. “Way I figure it, Mr Fraser, in the long run we’re all dead.”
With the doctor and the agent nearby to assist his memory, Wonder Charlie related his story of the devil-thing which had attacked his camp and killed two of his partners. Then Fraser repeated what his set-upon driving team had told him. He and Charlie argued a little over details of the creature’s appearance, picayune disagreements involving color and size, but basically they and their respective stories were in agreement.
When they’d finished, Mad Amos leaned back in the rocking chair into which he’d settled himself. It creaked with his weight as he clasped both hands around a knee. “Shoot, that ain’t no bird you’re describing, gentlemens. I thought it weren’t when I first heard about it, but I weren’t sure. Now I am. What came down on you, old-timer,” he told Charlie, “and what lit into your stage, Mr Fraser, weren’t nothin’ but a full-blood, gen-u-wine, honest-to-goshen member of the dragon tribe.”
“Your pardon, Mr Malone,” said the doctor skeptically, “but a dragon is a mythical creature, an invention of our less enlightened ancestors. This is the nineteenth century, sir. We no longer cotton to such superstitions. I myself once had an encounter with a snake-oil salesman who guaranteed to supply me with some powdered unicorn horn. I am not unskilled in basic chemistry and was able to prove it was nothing more than powder from the common steer.”
“Well, y’all better readjust your heads a mite, ’cause that’s what got your gold, and those stealings ain’t no myth.”
“He’s right, there,” said Wonder Charlie sharply.
“I had thought perhaps a large eagle that normally resides only among the highest and most inaccessible peaks . . .” the doctor began.
“Haw!” Mad Amos slapped his knee a blow that would’ve felled most men. His laugh echoed around the room. “Ain’t no eagle in this world big enough to carry off a full-grown mule, let alone twenty pounds of gold in a Butterfield steel strongbox! Ain’t no eagle got batwings instead of feathers. Ain’t no eagle colored red and yellow and blue and pink and black and everything else. No, it’s a true dragon we’re dealing with here, gentlemens. By Solomon’s Seal it is!”
The Butterfield agent spoke up. “I cannot pretend to argue with either of you gentlemen. I have not your scientific knowledge, sir,” he told the doctor, “nor your reputed experience in matters arcane, Mr Malone. The question before us, however, is not what we are dealing with, but how we are to be rid of it. I care not what its proper name be, only that I should not have to set eyes upon it.” He eyed the mountain man expectantly.
Some said Malone had once been a doctor himself. Others said he was captain of a great clipper. Still others thought he’d been a learned professor at the Sorbonne in France. General opinion, however, held to it that he was merely full of what the squirrels put away for the Colorado winter. Fraser didn’t much care. All he wanted was not to have to explain away the loss of another strongbox filled with gold, and there was a shipment of coin coming up from Denver the very next week.
“That’s surely the crux, ain’t it? Now you tell me, old timer,” he said to Wonder Charlie, “how many appendages did your visitor have streamin’ from his mouth? Did he spit any fire at you? Was his howling high-pitched like a band of attacking Sioux, or low like buffalo in the distance? How did he look at you . . . straight on, or by twisting his head from one side to the other?”
And so on into the late morning, until the old miner’s head ached from the labor of recollection. But Charlie persisted. He’d liked Johnny Sutter and One-Thumb Washington, not to mention poor ole General Grant.
Canvas tents pockmarked the sides of the little canyon, their sides billowing in the wind. Piles of rails and ties were stacked neatly nearby, along with kegs of spikes, extra hammers, and other equipment. Thick smells rose from a single larger tent while others rose from the far side of the railroad camp. One indicated the kitchen, the other the end product.
The line from Denver to Cheyenne was comparatively new and in need of regular repair. The crew which had laid the original track was now working its way back down the line, repairing and cleaning up, making certain the roadbed was firm and the rails secure.
The muscular, generally diminutive men swinging the hammers and hauling the iron glanced up with interest as the towering mountain man rode into camp. So did the beefy supervisor charged with overseeing his imported workers. Though he came from a line of prejudiced folk, he would brook no insults toward his men. They might have funny eyes and talk even funnier, but by God they’d work all day long and not complain a whit, which was more than you could say for most men.
“All right. Show’s over,” he growled, aware that work was slowing all along the line as more men paused to gaze at the stranger. “Get your backs into it, you happy sons of Heaven!”
The pounding of hammers resumed, echoing down the canyon, but alert dark eyes still glanced in the direction of the silent visitor.
They widened beneath the brows of one broad-shouldered worker when the stranger leaned close and whispered something to him in a melodic, singsong tongue. The man was so startled he nearly dropped his hammer on his foot. The stranger had to repeat his query more slowly before he got a reply.
“Most unusual. White Devil speaks fluently the tongue of my home. You have traveled that far, honored sir?”
“Once or twice. I’m never for sure how many. Canton’s a nice little town, though the food’s a bit thin for my taste. Now, how about my question?”
The man hesitated at that. Despite his size and strength, the worker seemed suddenly frightened. He looked past the visitor’s horse as though someone might be watching him.
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p; Mad Amos followed the other man’s gaze, and saw only tents. “Don’t worry,” he said reassuringly. “I won’t let the one I’m after harm you, or any of your friends or relatives back home. I will not allow him to disturb your ancestors. Will you trust me, friend?”
“I will,” said the worker abruptly. “The one you seek is called Wu-Ling. You will find him in the third tent down.” He leaned on his hammer and pointed. “Good fortune go with you, White Devil.”
“Thanks.” Mad Amos chucked his horse and resumed his course up the track. The men working on the line watched him intently, whispering among themselves.
Outside the indicated tent he dismounted, pausing a moment to give his horse an affectionate pat. This unique steed was part Indian pony, part Apaloosa, part Arabian, and part Shire. He was black with white patches on his rump and fetlocks, and a white ring around his right eye. This eye was unable to open completely, which affected the animal with a sour squint that helped keep teasing children and casual horsethieves well away.
“Now you wait here, Worthless, and I’ll be right back. I hope.” He turned and called into the tent.
“Enter, useless supplicant of a thousand excuses,” replied an imperious voice.
Seated on a mat inside the tent was a youthful Chinese clad in embroidered silk robes and cap. He wore soft slippers and several jade rings. There were flowers in the tent, and they combined with burning incense to keep out the disagreeable odors of the camp. The man’s back was to the entrance and he gestured with boredom toward a lacquered bowl three-quarters filled with coins.
“Place thy pitiful offering in the usual place and then get out. I am meditating with the Forces of Darkness. Woe to any who disturb my thoughts.”
“Woe to those who meddle with forces they don’t understand, progenitor of a hundred bluffs.”
The genuflector whirled at the sound of English, only to find himself gaping up at a hairy, ugly, giant White Devil. It took him a moment to compose himself. Then he folded his hands (which Mad Amos thought might be shaking just a little) back into his sleeves and bowed.
Mad Amos returned the bow and said in perfect Mandarin, “Thy ministrations seem to have exceeded thy knowledge, unomnipotent one.”
A hand emerged from silk to thrust demandingly at the tent entrance. “Get out of my tent, Devil. Get out! Or I will assuredly turn thee into a lowly toad, as thy face suggests!”
Mad Amos smiled and took a step forward. “Now let’s just settle down, inventor of falsehoods, or you’ll be the one gets done to. I can’t turn you into a toad, but when I finish with you you’ll look like a buffalo carcass a bunch o’ Comanches just finished stripping.”
The man hesitated but did not back down. He raised both hands and muttered an important-sounding invocation to the skies.
Mad Amos listened a while, then muttered right back at him.
The would-be sorcerer’s eyes went wide. “How comes a White Devil to know the secret words of the Shao?”
“That’s a long, nasty story. ’Course, I don’t know all of ’em, but I know enough to know you don’t know what the hell you’re invoking about. I suspect that’s what got you into trouble the last time. I know enough to know this is all a show to impress your hard-working kinfolk out there. You ain’t no Mandarin, Wu-Ling, just as you ain’t no Shao sorcerer. You’re nothing but a clever amateur, a dabbler in darkness, and I think you got yourself in over your head with this dragon business.”
“So that is what inflicts you upon me. That damnable beast!” He threw his cap to the floor. “May its toenails ingrow a thousand times! I knew it would bring me problems from the moment the incantation expanded beyond my ability to control the signs.” He sat heavily on a cushion, no longer bold and commanding, now just a distraught young would-be lawyer whose pact with the forces of darkness had been overturned by a higher court.
Watching him thus, Mad Amos was able to conjure up a little sympathy for him, no small feat of magic in itself. “How’d you come to have to call him up, anyways?”
“I needed something with which to cow my ignorant kinsmen. There had been mutterings . . . a few had begun to question my right to claim their support, saying that I was not a true sorcerer and could not threaten them as I claimed, nor work magic back in the homeland for their relatives and friends. I required something impressive to forestall such uncertainties once and for all.”
“I see. How’d the railroad feel about your brothers supporting you in luxury while they worked their tails off?”
“The White Devil bosses care nothing for civilized behavior so long as the work is accomplished on time.”
“So you finally had to produce, magically speaking, or risk going to work with your own delicate fake-Mandarin hands. That about right?”
“It is as you say.” He turned and assumed a prideful air. “And I did produce. A dragon of whole cloth, of ancient mien and fierce disposition did I cause to materialize within the camp one night. Since then there have been no further mutterings among my kinsmen and my support has multiplied manyfold.”
Mad Amos nodded and stroked his luxuriant beard. “Yup, you got a nice little racket going here. ’Course there might be some trouble if I were to stroll outside and announce that you’ve got no more control over this dragon than I do over a thunderbird’s eye. I think your toiling kinsfolk would be a touch unhappy.”
The young man’s boast quickly turned to desperate pleading. “Please, you must not tell them that, White Devil! Please . . . they would linger over my killing for weeks if they once learned that I have no power over them.” His gaze sank. “I confess all this to You Who Know the Words. I have no control over this dragon. I tried to make it vanish once its purpose had been accomplished. It laughed at me and flew off toward the high mountains. I have tried to call it back, to no avail. Now it does as it pleases, threatening your own people as well. I was an overanxious fool, determined to overawe my people. I should have settled for a less dramatic materialization.”
Mad Amos nodded sagely. “Now you’re learning, inheritor of troubles. It’s always best to make sure you’ve put all the parts back into a disassembled gun before you go firin’ it. I kinda feel sorry for you. The main thing is, the damage this dragon’s already done wasn’t by your direction.”
“Oh, no, Honored Devil, no! As I confess before you, I have no control over it whatsoever. It does as it desires.”
“Okay, then, I’ll strike you a bargain. You quit dealing off the bottom of the deck with your brothers out there. Pick up a hammer and go to work alongside them. I promise it won’t kill you, and you’ll gain merit in their eyes by working alongside ’em when you supposedly don’t have to. Tell ’em it’s time for you to put aside wizardly things and exercise your body for a change. You do that, and I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
The young man rose to his feet, hardly daring to hope. “You would do this for me? My ancestors will bless you a hundred times.”
“They’d damn well better. I’ll need all the help I can gather if I’m going to do anything about this dragon you cooked up, Wu-Ling.”
“But you cannot! It will surely slay you!”
“Sorry. I’m bound to try. Can’t just let it wander about, ravaging the countryside. Besides which, this country of mine is a young one. It ain’t quite ready to cope with dragons yet. Havin’ enough trouble recoverin’ from the war and the devils it spawned. Now, this ain’t one of those types that likes to carry off women, is it?”
“It would be in keeping with its lineage if it chose to abduct and consume a virgin or two, I am afraid.”
Mad Amos grunted. “Well, even so, that ain’t a worry. There ain’t a virgin between here and Kansas City. That means it’s just this gold affinity we got to worry about. That’s a new one on me, Wu-Ling. What’s it want with this gold it keeps stealin’?”
“I thought one so wise as thyself would surely know, Honored Devil. Gold is a necessary ingredient in the dragon’s diet.”
“It eats the
stuff? Well, I’ll be dogged. And all this time I thought it was doin’ something normal with it, like buying up spare souls or accumulatin’ a memorable horde of riches or some such nonsense. Gulps it right down, you say?”
“Truly,” admitted Wu-Ling.
“Huh! World’s full of wonders. Well, gives me something to think on, anyways.” He gazed sternly down at Wu-Ling. The would-be sorcerer paid close attention. A baleful look from Mad Amos Malone was something not to be ignored. “Now, you mind what I told you and quit leeching off your kinsfolk out there. They’re good people and they deserve your help, not your imaginary afflictions. It’s tough enough gettin’ by in a foreign land. I know, I’ve had to try it myself. I’ve ways of knowin’ when someone gives me his word and then backs off, and I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit. You follow me, son of importunate parents?”
“I follow you, Honored Devil.”
Wu-Ling allowed himself a sigh of relief when the giant finally departed. He wondered by what method the dragon would slay him.
Mad Amos worked his way up into the heights of the Medicine Bows despite the signs that winter was arriving early that year. It would be bad if he were caught out on the slopes by a blizzard, but he’d weathered out bad storms before and could do so again if compelled to.
Near a fork of the Laramie River he paused and made camp, choosing an open meadow across which the river ran free and fast. To the west the crests of the mountains already slept beneath the first heavy blanket of snow.
“Well, Worthless, I guess this is as good a spot as any. Might as well get on with it. Oughta be an interesting business, unless I’ve figured it all wrong. In that case, you hie yourself off somewhere and have a good time. These mountains are full of herds. Find yourself some fine mares and settle down. Bet you wouldn’t be all that sad to see me go, would you?”
The horse let out a noncommittal whinny, squinted at him out of his bad eye, and wandered off in search of a nice mud wallow to roll in.
Mad Amos hunted until he found a willow tree of just the right age. He cut off a green branch, shaped it, and trimmed off the leaves and sproutings. Then he sharpened the tip with his Bowie, fired it in charcoal, and used the white-hot, smoking points to etch some strange symbols in the earth around his kit. Some of the symbols were Chinese ideographs, some were Tibetan, and a few were not drawn from the lexicon of man.
