Mad Amos Malone

Jackalope

A good story usually comes about when two or more elements fuse together. Sometimes these may relate to one another, sometimes not. Beloved of inventive tellers of tales and maniacal taxidermists alike, the jackalope is to be found stuffed and mounted in innumerable western bars and honky-tonks, patient recipient of whiskey stains, crude jokes, and the occasional criminally misplaced dart. Yet rumors of its actual existence continue to surface, even if largely due not to scientific reports but to the rumor-mongering persistence of elderly bewhiskered gentlemen comfortably ensconced in wooden rocking chairs on creaky porches.

The critter itself is story element one. Element number two derives from the steady trickle of European aristocrats who came to visit the Old West, marvel at its landscapes, exchange greetings with the fascinating Native Americans (some bewhiskered, some not), and slaughter as much of the local wildlife as nineteenth-century munitions would allow. All the while dining on tea and crumpets and roast pheasant set out on tablecloths of Irish linen adorned with the contents of wicker baskets filled with embossed silver service. It was all very elegant, civilized, and bloody.

Bragging rights among this imported mélange of dilettante toffs usually went to whoever had killed the most game, or sometimes the most unusual game. Hence one imperial and imperious visitor’s insistence on finding and blowing away the extraordinarily elusive jackalope.

Or maybe something else.

“I’m sorry, gentlemen, but there is nothing left to tempt me. I’ve killed everything there is to be killed.”

Lord Guy Ruxton extracted an imported Havana cigar from a jacket pocket, utilized an engraved Italian cutter to snip the end, and turned slightly to his left so Manners could light it for him. As he puffed it to life, there was a subtle but unmistakable shifting of bodies in the saloon as cardplayers and drinkers leaned in his direction in a vain but hopeful attempt to partake, however infinitesimally, of that expensive aromatic smoke that would forever lie beyond their modest means.

Though they shared the best table in the house with him, Ruxton’s audience of Butte’s leading citizens was equally admiring of the drifting fragrance, if not nearly so obvious in their appreciation. Being connoisseurs of silver, they admired the cigar cutter as much as the smoke. The town of Butte would not exist save for silver.

Ruxton was a rara avis in Montana Territory: a wide-ranging world traveler and hunter of big game. A fine orator, he held his after-dinner companions spellbound with his tales of tracking exotic animals to the far corners of the earth. Miners and bankers were enthralled by stories of stalking tiger in British India, oryx in Arabia, and all manner of dangerous game in Darkest Africa. Ruxton was only mildly condescending to the colonials, and they responded in kind. Still, it was clear he was bored. He took a sip of the best scotch Butte had to offer.

“I think the time has come for me to pack it all in, gentlemen, and retire to my estate in Hampshire. You see, there is nothing left for me to hunt. The walls of my trophy room will see no further additions because there is nothing further to add. I lament the end of excitement!”

Silas Hooten had founded the town’s first bank and watched it grow along with the production of silver. Now he smiled and put down his drink.

“If it’s excitement you crave, why not have a go at hunting buffalo in Sioux territory?”

Ruxton regarded his cigar rather than the banker. “Because there is nothing to hunt in the eastern portion of your benighted territory except buffalo, and I have found that animal a singularly uninspiring quarry, though I have hunted it with bow and arrow in the fashion of the savages as well as with rifle. The presence of red hostiles in the vicinity does not alter the object of the hunt.” He sighed tiredly.

“No, gentlemen. I have sampled the best of your cuisine, your scenery, and your women. Now I fear it is time I return permanently to England. I do not fault your bucolic hospitality. America was the only land remaining to be hunted. That I have done. Would that there were more truth and less wind to some of the tales I have heard of this country.”

“Jackalope.”

Ruxton frowned and peered past Hooten. “I beg your pardon, sir.” His drinking companions turned to stare with him.

“Jackalope, I said. Got ears, ain’tcha?”

The mouth that had given birth to the word was hidden by a massive buckskin-clad back. The individual seated at the bar looked like a chunk of dark granite blasted from the depths of one of the town’s mines, hauled in by mine trolley, and set up on a stool like some druidic monolith. A hat fashioned of the neck and head of a wolf crowned the huge head. Black curly hair lightly flecked with white tumbled in an undisciplined waterfall from beneath the incongruous headgear.

As miners and bankers and visiting nobility looked on, the man turned like an Egyptian statue come to life. Deep-sunk black eyes regarded them from beneath Assyrian brows. The hair at the back was matched in front by a dense beard that might have been forged of wrought-iron wire. Two thick, gnarled fingers supported a beer mug full of whiskey.

“I was sayin’, sir, bein’ unable to avoid overhearin’ part o’ your conversation, that it might be you’ve never hunted for jackalope.”

“Yes. Well.” Ruxton noted that his companions were now smiling and chuckling softly among themselves. He lowered his voice. “Who is this extremely large chap, and what is he nattering on about?”

“Malone.” Orin Waxman ran the biggest general store in town. “Amos Malone.”

“Mad Amos Malone.” Hooten pointed a finger at the side of his head. “The man’s crazier than a field of drunken prairie dogs, but it’s a rare soul who’ll say so to his face.”

“Looking upon him, I can understand that. You say he’s mad?” Several of the men nodded. “What’s this ‘jackalope’ thing he’s on about?”

Waxman shook his head, grinning. “There is no such animal. Somebody somewhere faked one up, and it’s turned into a long-standing gag for foolin’ Easterners. No offense, Your Lordship. Someone will shoot a jackrabbit and a small deer or antelope. They’ll take both to a good taxidermist with a sense of humor, and he’ll stick the deer antlers on the rabbit’s head. And there’s your jackalope.”

“I see. It is quite imaginary? You’re positive of that?”

The men eyed one another uncertainly and left it to Hooten to reply. “Of course it is, sir. The mountain man’s just having a little joke at your expense.”

“A good joke, is it? At my expense?” Ruxton’s eyes glittered as he turned back to the bar. “Here now, my good fellow. I am intrigued by your comment. Do come and join us.”

Mutters of disbelief and distress rose from Ruxton’s companions, but none dared object when Malone lurched over to assume the lone empty chair at the table. Such men were not famed for their hygiene. Waxman and the others were relieved to discover that Malone, at least, seemed to have bathed sometime in the not too distant past.

Obviously enjoying himself hugely, Ruxton swept a hand toward his hosts. “These gentlemen insist vehemently that there is no such creature as the one of which you speak. I interpret that to mean they are calling you a liar, sir.”

Waxman choked on his liquor, while Hooten’s eyes widened in horror. Malone simply eyed them intently for a long moment, then sipped at his tenth of whiskey. The resultant sighs of relief were inaudible.

“None of ’em knows enough to call me a liar. I ain’t insulted by the denials o’ the ignorant.”

His response delighted Ruxton. “Sir, you are a man of surprises! For the moment I intend to leave aside the matter of your sanity. As you overheard, I am something of a sportsman.”

“Your claim, not mine.”

Ruxton bristled slightly at that but restrained himself. “True enough. You claim I have not hunted this creature you call a jackalope. These good citizens dispute the assertion that it exists. I would put you and them to the test, sir.” He made sure he met Malone’s gaze evenly. “If you are game.”

“I ain’t, but the jackalope is.”

Ruxton hesitated a moment, then burst out laughing when he was sure. “Upon my word! A rustic with wit. I like you, sir. ’Pon my word I do!” He stubbed out his half-finished cigar and tossed it over his shoulder, ignoring the near riot that followed its descending trajectory as a dozen men scrambled for possession of the butt.

“I would engage you, Mr. Malone, to direct me to the place where I might find such an animal and add it to my collection. I will pay you well, in gold, to serve as my guide in such a venture. Our bargain will be that should we find nothing except fast talk, all expenses will be borne by you.”

Malone considered, seeing the doubt in the others’ faces. Then he gently set down his mug. “Done. It’ll be you and me alone, though. I don’t like travelin’ with a crowd.” He glanced at Ruxton’s valet. “Especially slaves.”

The valet stiffened. Ruxton only smiled. “Manners is a valued member of my household staff, not a slave. However, it shall be as you wish. I will accompany you alone. Where are we going, sir, or is it to remain a mysterious secret?” He was clearly amused.

Malone turned and nodded westward. “Up thataway. Into the Bitterroots.”

“The Bitterroots!” Hooten half rose out of his seat. “Lord Ruxton, I implore you to reconsider this foolishness. The veracity of this—gentleman—is to be doubted. His reputation is eccentric in the extreme. There’s nothing up in those mountains except Nez Perce and Blackfeet. You’ll find only trouble and danger in that range, not nonexistent game!”

“Come now, gentlemen. Are you again openly disputing the good Mr. Malone’s word?”

Waxman’s lower lip trembled, but like the others, he said no more.

“Then it is agreed. When do we depart, Mr. Malone?”

“Morning’d be fine with me. We’ll be gone a few weeks. Take what you need, but it’s best to travel light.”

“As you say, sir. I understand the weather is good this time of year. I am looking forward to our excursion.”

They headed northwest out of town despite the last-minute pleas of Hooten and his friends. The death of so distinguished a visitor to their territory would not be the best of publicity for a growing community, and they feared it; yes, they did. Ruxton’s valet tried to reassure them.

“Lord Ruxton, gentlemen, is used to the life of the camp and the trail. He has been in difficult circumstances many times and has always emerged unscathed. He is a crack shot and an athlete, a man who relishes danger and its challenges. Your concern does him an injustice. No harm will befall him. If you must worry about someone, concern yourselves with this crude Malone person.”

“Mad Amos is no genius, but he ain’t dumb, neither,” said one of the men who’d gathered on the porch of the hotel to bid the hunters farewell. “Ain’t nobody never been able to figure him out noways.”

“I assure you,” Manners continued, “Lord Ruxton is more than a match for any situation this lout can place him in.”

“Oh, I wasn’t worried about how your boss is going to get on with Malone,” said the man who’d spoken. “I was wondering how he was going to cope with the Rockies.”

Once they left town, they commenced a steady climb into mountains as serene and lovely as any in the world. They reminded Ruxton of the Alps without the spas and fine hotels and other amenities of that ancient region. By way of compensation, there was a freshness in the air, a newness not to be found at the watering holes of the wealthy that dotted the Continent. Ruxton’s packhorse trailed behind Malone’s.

“That is an unusual animal you ride, sir.” He nodded at Malone’s mount.

The mountain man spoke without looking at his guest. “Worthless has been called plenty of names, Lord. Most of ’em less complimentary than that.”

The animal Malone called Worthless was black except for patches of white at the tail and fetlocks. A single white ring encircled one eye, giving the horse the aspect of a permanent squint. He was a cross among half a dozen breeds. For reasons Malone chose not to elaborate on, a heavy leather patch was affixed permanently to the animal’s forehead.

Have to attend to that again soon, he mused. He didn’t worry about it out in the backcountry, but it was just the sort of thing to provoke consternation among simple city folk.

The horse snorted, just to let the two riders know he was listening.

“Magnificent country, your West. Do you think we might encounter some Red Indians, as Mr. Hooten seemed to fear?”

“Only if they’re in the mood for company. Nobody sees the Blackfeet unless they want to be seen, and sometimes the Nez Perce don’t even see each other. I don’t anticipate no trouble, if that’s what you mean. I’ve an understandin’ with the folks hereabouts. If we do meet up with any, you keep your mouth shut and let me do the talkin’. I ain’t sure how they’d take you.”

“As you wish, Mr. Malone. How long before”—he bent to hide a smile—“we stand to encounter one of your jackalopes?”

“Hard to say. They’re shy critters, and there seem to be fewer of ’em each year. Seems to be as folks start movin’ into this part of the world, certain critters start movin’ out.”

“Indeed? How inconvenient. Well, I am in no hurry. I am enjoying our excursion immensely. I took the liberty of stocking up on the finest victuals your community could provide. I shall enjoy dining au camp at your expense, Mr. Malone.”

“Ain’t my expense unless we don’t git you a jackalope, Lord.”

“Of course. I am remiss.”

“Don’t know about that, but you’re sure as hell premature.”

Many days went by without them encountering evidence of any other humans of any color. Malone seemed content to lead them ever deeper into the mountains. Snow-clad peaks soared ten thousand feet overhead as they picked their way across a rocky slope above a wide, white-flecked river. Ruxton marveled at Malone’s ability to find a path where none was visible. The man was a fine tracker, like many of the primitives Ruxton had engaged in other lands.

He was watching his guide carefully now. Perhaps robbery had been his motive all along in agreeing to this trek. Ruxton had considered the possibility back in the saloon, but instead of deterring him, it only added spice to an expedition such as this. He lived for such excitement. If thuggery was indeed in the mountain man’s plans, he was in for a surprise. Ruxton had dealt with drunken cossacks and silent-footed dacoits. Despite Malone’s size, Ruxton knew that in the event of a fight, it would be an Englishman who returned to tell the tale.

He was careful to sleep on the opposite side of their campfire, Colt pistol at his side, the intricately carved pepperbox snug in its special holster inside his boot. Malone would not surprise him in the middle of the night.

So he was more than mildly shocked when he found himself being shaken awake the following morning. His hand lunged for the Colt, then paused when he saw that Malone was looking not at him but past him.

“Whisper,” Malone instructed him, “and then speak softer than that.”

“What is it?” Ruxton was up quickly, pulling on his jacket. “Savages?”

Malone shook his head.

“What, then?” Chilled fingers buttoned the coat. Even in late spring, dawn was cold in these mountains.

“What you come fer, Lord.”

Ruxton’s hands stopped. “Pardon, Mr. Malone?”

“Jackalopes, you damn idjit! You want that trophy or not?”

Ruxton gaped at him, then hurriedly resumed his dressing.

Malone led him away from camp. They crossed two small ridges before surmounting one slightly higher. The roar of the river masked their climb.

Clutching his .30-30, Ruxton peered over the crest of the ridge. There was no need for Malone to remind him to keep his voice down, because he had no words for what he was seeing.

Not one, not two, but a whole herd of the utterly impossible creatures were feeding and frolicking in a small grassy meadow. They were bigger than he would have imagined, bigger than the largest jackrabbits he’d shot in New Mexico. They nibbled contentedly at the grass or preened themselves or lay on their sides soaking up the early morning sun. Several pairs of young males were play fighting. They would eye each other intently, then drop their heads and leap like rutting rams. Heads made contact six feet above the ground. Antlers locked and clacked loudly before the combatants separated, tumbled back to earth, and gathered themselves for another charge.

“I don’t believe it,” he mumbled under his breath.

Malone was impatient. “I don’t care whether you believe it or not, Lord, but I never did cotton to havin’ my word doubted. I reckon we won’t be hearin’ no more o’ such nonsense. You think you can shoot one, or you want me to do it fer you?”

“What? Oh, yes.”

Ruxton checked his weapon. He’d come to Montana in search of trophies, had gone along with Malone for the excitement of the wager, and now found himself in the position of obtaining far more than he’d sought. This expedition would yield much more. There would be articles in The Times, scientific honors, perhaps a special room in the British Museum.

Oh, he would take care to acknowledge Malone as his guide to this wonder. That would be proper. But recognition as discoverer would mean nothing to such a simple soul. The honor would be wasted on him. Ruxton therefore would graciously relieve him of the burdens it would entail.

Though nervous, he knew he could not miss. Not at this range. His valet had not exaggerated his master’s skill with a rifle. Ruxton settled on the biggest buck in the herd, a magnificent ten-pointer. It was squatting off to one side, grazing contentedly. Sorry, old fellow, he thought as he squeezed the trigger.

The gun’s report echoed noisily up the canyon. The buck screamed once as it jumped convulsively. By the time it hit the ground, it was dead, shot cleanly through the heart. Like fleas exploding from an old mattress, the rest of the herd vanished in seconds.

But the dead buck jackalope did not vanish like a character from Through the Looking-Glass. It was real. Malone followed behind as the excited Ruxton scrambled over the rocks toward it.

He lifted it triumphantly by the antlers. It was heavy, at least twenty pounds. This was not some clever fake conceived at great expense to deceive him.

“Mr. Malone,” he told the mountain man when he finally arrived, “I am sorry for doubting your word. Oh, I confess to being as skeptical as your fellow citizens. I thought I would be the one to have the good laugh. I apologize profusely.”

“No need to apologize, Lord. Leastwise you had the guts t’ back up your words. And there’s worse things to go a-huntin’ fer than a good laugh. Come on, now, and let’s be gettin’ away from here.”

“Why the rush? I thought I might have a shot at another one.”

“I promised you one trophy. You bagged it, and a big one at that.” He was scanning the canyon walls as he spoke. “Now it’s time you and I were makin’ tracks.”

Ruxton frowned and joined Malone in studying the river and the enclosing canyon. “Why? Surely we’re in no danger here. Or do you fear Indians may have heard my shot?”

“Nope. Ain’t worried about Indians. Ain’t none in this place. They won’t come down this canyon.”

“Well, then, what troubles you? Pumas, perhaps, or a bear?”

“Not them, neither.”

Ruxton sighed, not wishing to spoil this historic moment with an argument. “I warn you, sir, I have little patience for linguistic obfuscation.”

“Tell me somethin’, Lord. What kind o’ critter d’you think would be fast enough and strong enough to catch somethin’ like a jackalope?”

“Why, I don’t know. I should imagine that the usual predators manage to—” But Malone had turned and was already taking long strides back toward camp. Ruxton followed, too elated by his kill to remain angry with his irritating guide.

Having put the incident completely out of his mind, he was furious when Malone woke him in the middle of the night. He could see the mountain man outlined by the glow of the dying campfire.

“Sir, I have no idea what your absurd intention may be in disturbing me thus, but I am accustomed to enjoying a full night’s rest, and I—”

“Shut up.”

“Now listen to me, my good fellow, if you—”

He went silent as the muzzle of an enormous rifle tilted toward him. “I told you to shut up, Lord. If you do, maybe I can keep you alive.”

Ruxton had plenty more to say but forced himself to keep quiet so that Malone could explain. That was when he noticed that his guide was staring anxiously at the sky.

A diadem of stars flattered a half-moon that turned the granite slopes around them the color of secondhand steel. Far below, the unnamed river ran nervously toward the distant Missouri. Ruxton was about to mention the possibility of marauding Indians once again, when a man-sized mass filled his field of vision. Its eyes were like saucers of molten lead. He let out a scream and fell backward even as the gun in Malone’s hands thundered. Something like a Malay dirk cut his shoulder, slicing through his shirt. Then all was still.

He lay panting as Malone rushed to reload the buffalo gun. Putting a hand to his shoulder, Ruxton found not one but three parallel cuts through shirt and skin. They were shallow but bloody and were beginning to sting as his body reacted to the injury.

Wordlessly, he started to stand, only to drop to hands and knees on Malone’s terse command. He crawled over to the thing the mountain man had shot out of the sky.

It was not intact. Malone’s Sharps carried a three-inch-long cartridge in an octagonal barrel. The nocturnal attacker had been blown apart. But enough remained to show Ruxton it was no creature known to modern science.

“What the blazes is it, Malone?”

The mountain man continued to survey the sky, his eyes seeming to flick from star to star as though he knew each intimately. The horses pawed nervously at the ground, rolling their eyes and tugging at their reins. Of the four, only Malone’s mount, Worthless, stood calmly, occasionally shaking his head and turning it sideways to gaze sourly at the two men.

“Wolful,” Malone replied curtly. He set the rifle aside and drew his peculiar LeMat pistol.

The body was certainly that of a very large wolf. What lifted Ruxton’s hackles were not so much the powerful, now-broken wings that sprouted from just above and behind the enlarged shoulders or the grasping talons on all four feet, one of which had slashed his shoulder and just missed his throat. It was the face that was really disturbing. The familiar long wolf muzzle was curved slightly, like some furry beak. The ears were too wide and long for any member of the Canis genus. And the now lifeless eyes that had shone like the lamps of Hell were so swollen in size they nearly met above the bridge of the muzzle. It was a creature worthy of the imagination of a Dante.

He crawled back to the fire and began pulling on his boots. Malone grunted satisfaction.

“Good. Reckon I don’t have to tell you everythin’. We got to get under some cover.” He nodded upslope from their trail. “Thought I might’ve seen a cave on our way in. Don’t much care for dark places, but it might be big enough to hide us and the horses both.” He rose and holstered the rifle, then began assembling their equipment with one hand. Ruxton noted that he did not at any time let go of the LeMat.

They lost one of the horses despite their caution. Neither man rode, and the unflappable Worthless led, but Ruxton’s pack mare still broke her tether and bolted for the nearest stand of tall trees. As she charged across the slope, she shed cooking pots and utensils and food and tools, the equipment making a terrible racket as it banged and bounced off the rocks. Malone and Ruxton watched her go.

“She’ll be all right,” Ruxton declared hopefully. “We’ll track her down come morning.”

Malone’s expression was grim in the moonlight. “Why do you think I didn’t head for the woods?”

As the mare approached the first trees, the entire forest canopy appeared to rise from the topmost branches. Ruxton’s mouth went dry, and he shivered. But what was more natural than for nocturnal flying creatures to roost in flocks? The fleeing mare had disturbed them.

There were at least thirty of the huge wolfuls. They swooped down on the terrified animal, circling low and snapping with wolf jaws at her withers and neck. She kicked out frantically and sent one of her tormentors spinning. It yelped unnaturally.

There were too many to prevent the inevitable. A pair landed on her back, using their talons to cling to flesh and pack straps. They tore at her face and flanks. Others cut her legs out from under her, striking at the tendons until they had her hamstrung. Unable to run or kick, the mare was buried beneath an avalanche of snarling, tearing bodies. She whinnied wildly to the last.

Malone and Ruxton didn’t linger for the end. Even as the mare went down, a couple of the flock were making exploratory passes at the remaining horses and men. Ruxton felt heavy feathers brush his head as he ducked. He was not ashamed to admit that he screamed. Malone’s LeMat boomed several times. Once there was a deeper, sharper explosion as he fired the .410 shotgun barrel that was mounted beneath the revolver barrel. Ruxton found himself surrounded by blood and feathers. He had a brief glimpse of feral yellow eyes. Then the sky disappeared as they stumbled into the cave.

It tunneled far back into the mountain. As Malone had hoped, there was more than enough room for all of them, including the surviving horses. They secured them to boulders near the back wall of the cave.

Bored with the carcass of the rapidly dismembered mare, the flock began to gather outside the entrance, padding back and forth and flapping their wings excitedly. The cave was actually larger than Malone would have liked. There was flying room inside. A lower ceiling would have been much more comforting.

Ruxton was breathing hard, his eyes nearly as wild as those of his mount. While it had stopped bleeding, his injured shoulder was throbbing mercilessly. But he could still hold a rifle.

“I regret the loss of my large-bore,” he told Malone as he checked the .30-30. “It was packed with my other supplies on the mare.”

The mountain man grunted. There followed an uncomfortable silence.

“Look here, Malone,” Ruxton said finally, “I’m sorry I doubted you, old chap. I’ve been a bit of an ass all along, and I apologize.” He stuck out his hand.

Malone eyed it, then enveloped it in his own huge paw and squeezed briefly. “I like a man who can own up to his own mistakes. I just hope you’ll live to regret it.” He turned back to the cave entrance. “There’ll still be some meat left on your mare. When they’ve cracked all the marrow out o’ the bones, they’ll work themselves up for another go at us. We have to stop ’em before they get inside or we’re done.”

Ruxton nodded, resting his rifle atop a boulder that had fallen from the ceiling. “I’ve never even heard rumors of such a creature.”

“Any folks whut sees one never gets away to tell of it. The Nez Perce know about ’em. They call ’em Sha-hoo-ne-wha-teh. Spirit wolves of the air. But the Nez Perce are unusual folk. They see things the Blackfeet and even the Cheyenne miss. Course, white folks don’t find their way into this particular part of the Bitterroots.

“Way I figger it, no ordinary predator’s fast enough or strong enough to take down a jackalope, especially when they stand and fight together. So these here wolfuls evolved to prey on ’em. Unfortunately, they ain’t real particular about their supper. You and me, we’re a damn sight slower than a sick jackalope. As for the horses, well, they’re regular walkin’ general stores as far as these critters are concerned.”

“Listen, Malone. Most of my shells were packed on that poor mare along with my big guns. If things start to look bad, I’d appreciate it if you’d save a round in that LeMat for me. I don’t mean for my rifle.”

“I know what you mean. We ain’t somebody’s supper yet, Lord. They got to get in here first. Meanwhile, why not have a go at askin’ your namesake for help?”

“My namesake?”

Malone’s eyes rose as he jerked a finger upward.

“Oh.” Ruxton nodded somberly.

The wolfuls continued to gather outside, their massed wingbeats a vast rushing that soon drowned out the livelier, healthier babble of the river below.

“First they’ll sing for courage,” Malone explained. “Then they’ll start circlin’ as they decide which one of ’em will get the honor of goin’ for our throats first. After that the rest’ll come for us. Try and pick your shots. One way or the other, it’ll all be over quick.”

Ruxton nodded, his teeth tightly clenched as he stared at the moonlit oval that marked the entrance of their sanctuary.

When the flock began its howling, it was as if all the graves at Battersea had opened to release the long dead. The sounds were higher in pitch than normal wolf calls, a sort of moan mixed with the kind of screech an enormous vulture might make.

The horses panicked at it, kicking up dust and gravel, pawing at the unyielding stone. Foam spilled from their lips. Only Worthless stood placidly, one eye half-open, swaying on his legs as if asleep. It made Ruxton wonder. Perhaps the animal was partly deaf and blind.

The flock leader was silver across his muzzle. He came in low and then rose abruptly toward the ceiling, awful talons spread wide to grasp and rend, vast yellow eyes staring hypnotically. They froze the startled Ruxton for an instant, but not Malone. The Sharps blew the wolful in half, the huge shell tearing through flesh and bone. Ruxton had no time to appreciate the difficult shot, because the rest of the flock followed close on the heels of their dead leader.

The terrified whinnying of the horses, the howls and roars of the wolfuls, and the rapid firing of both men’s guns were deafening in the enclosed space. Ruxton saw Malone put down the empty LeMat and race to reload, his thick fingers moving as precisely as those of a concert pianist. He’d drawn his big bowie knife and was using it to fend off his attackers as he worked.

Then Ruxton saw him go down, the wolf’s-head hat flying as a diving wolful struck him across the forehead. The claws missed his eyes, but the impact was severe.

“Malone!” Ignoring the pain shooting through his shoulder, Ruxton rushed to the other man’s side. His rifle cracked, and another wolful dropped, snapping mindlessly at its crippled wing.

The mountain man blinked dazedly up at him, bleeding from the gash in his head. It was a shallow wound. He was only stunned.

That was when the flapping and howling and gnashing of teeth ceased. So concerned was he with the guide that Ruxton didn’t notice it at first. Only when he helped the much larger man to his feet did he see that the last of the wolfuls had turned tail and was fleeing the cave.

“They’re leaving. We beat them, old man! Gave them a sound hiding!”

“I think not, Lord.” Malone fought to penetrate the oil that seemed to be floating on his retinas. “The Sharps—gotta get the Sharps.” He stumbled, blinking dizzily.

“Hang on. I’ll get it. But we don’t need it anymore. They’ve gone, you see, and—”

He stopped in midsentence, holding his breath even as he left the dazed Malone to pick up the heavy buffalo rifle. The last howling of the wolfuls had faded into the distance, but it was not silent outside. A dull booming, as of some heavy tread, was clearly audible and growing steadily louder as he listened. He forced himself to keep his hands steady as he loaded the Sharps.

The massive breathing was right outside the cave. Evidently they were not the first creatures to make use of its shelter. The horses were too terrified to whinny. They huddled together against the back wall, trembling.

The moon went out as something immense blocked the entrance. Ruxton raised the Sharps and tried to hold it steady. Though he was a strong man, the weight of the weapon sent shivers along the muscles of his arms.

Whatever stood there had to bend to fit beneath the twenty-foot-high ceiling. Its eyes were red instead of yellow like those of the wolful. An overpowering musk assailed Ruxton’s nostrils as the hairy leviathan paused to sniff loudly.

It growled, and Ruxton felt his knees go weak. Imagine a whale, growling. The growl became a snarl that revealed teeth the size of railroad ties in the blunt, dark muzzle. It was coming for them.

Ruxton pulled the trigger, and the Sharps erupted. He thought he’d prepared himself for the recoil, but he was wrong. It knocked him on his back. The echo of the gun’s report was drowned by an incredible bellow of pain and anger as the monster stumbled backward.

The rifle was pulled from his numb fingers. Malone reloaded as Ruxton staggered erect. The owner of the cave was already recovering from the shock and preparing to charge again. This time it would not hesitate curiously. A second slug from the Sharps wouldn’t stop it. Not this time. As well to try shooting a runaway locomotive.

Something went flying past him like black lightning: Ruxton had a glimpse of white fetlocks and flying mane. Worthless slammed headfirst into the belly of the monster like a Derby winner pounding for the finish line. The Gargantua went backward, falling head over heels down the slope.

“Dumb, stupid son of a spasmed mare!” Malone growled as he gripped Ruxton by the shoulder. “Let’s git out of this damn possum trap!”

They stumbled outside. There was no need to lead the remaining horses. Freed from their tethers, they sprinted madly past the two men. Malone and Ruxton ran downslope toward the forest, which was now devoid of roosting wolfuls.

Ruxton risked a look backward. A less brave man might have fainted dead away right then and there or swallowed his tongue at the sight.

Worthless had become a darting, spinning black dervish on four legs, nipping at the ankles of the immensity that now stood on its hind feet. It swiped at the much smaller but nimbler horse with paws the size of carriages. Each time a blow capable of demolishing a house descended, Worthless would skip just out of its reach.

Only when the two men were safely in among trees too old and thick even for the leviathan to tear down did Worthless abandon his efforts. With a roar, the monster chased the horse a few yards. Then it bellowed a final defiance before dropping to all fours. Like a piece of the mountain come to life, it turned and lumbered back to reclaim its cave.

Running easily, Worthless galloped past both winded men. He turned the fleeing horses, circling them until they slowed, nuzzling Malone’s pack mare until she stood quietly, spittle dribbling from her jaws. Then he snorted once, shook his head, and bent to crop the tops of some wild onions that were growing nearby.

“Mr. Malone, that is quite a remarkable animal you have there.” Ruxton fought for breath as he rested his hands on his knees. “How did you ever train him to do something like that? ’Pon my word, but that was the most gallant action I have seen a horse take on behalf of its master.”

“Train ’im? Gallant? The idjit bastard like to got hisself killed! I had a clean shot. Coulda stopped it.”

“Stopped that behemoth?” Ruxton nodded in the direction of the cave that had initially been their refuge and had nearly ended as their grave. “Not even with that cannon you call a rifle, old chap. Your animal saved us for sure.”

“Well—mebbe. But it was still a damn-fool thing to do.”

Malone repeated the assertion to his mount’s face, shoving his beard against that squinty-eyed visage while holding it by the neck.

“You hear me, you moronic offspring of a mule? Don’t you never try nothin’ like that again!”

Worthless bit him on the nose.

“What was it, anyway?” Now that they were well away from the nameless river and the canyon it had carved, Ruxton found he was able to relax a little. The sun was rising over his unsatisfied curiosity.

Malone had spent much of the morning muttering curses at his mount while occasionally feeling gingerly at the bandage Ruxton had applied to his nose. It was an incongruous slash of white above the black beard. Personally, Ruxton had felt the animal justified in its response.

“Somethin’ big enough to snatch a wolful right out of the sky. Nez Perce, they call it—wal, never mind what the Nez Perce call it. You wouldn’t be able to pronounce it, anyway. Me, I call it a grizzephant. Only the second one I’ve ever seen. If the Good Lord wills it, I’ll never see another. Reckon you could call it Ursus loxodonta.”

“Why, Mr. Malone, sir. Latin? I do believe you are at pains to conceal a real education.”

“Nope. Just don’t use it much ’cause nobody around here cares one way or t’ other. They don’t believe half of what I try to tell ’em anyways, so I just keep my mouth shut.” He leaned over to give his mount a reluctant pat on the neck. “Old Worthless here, I reckon he deserves a genus of his own. I just ain’t come up with the right one yet, though I kinda lean toward Equus idioticus. With the emphasis on the ‘cuss.’”

Ruxton leaned forward for a better look. As he did so, he noticed that the leather patch that normally covered the animal’s forehead was hanging loose, having been dislodged in the fight.

“Mr. Malone, would I be remiss if I were to suggest that your horse has a horn growing from the center of his forehead?”

Malone leaned out for a look, straightened. “Drat. Got to fix that before we git to Randle’s Farm. Folks in these parts don’t rightly understand such things as unicorns.”

Ruxton couldn’t keep from staring. The horn was six inches long and looked sharp. Undoubtedly it had helped keep the grizzephant’s attention last night. He could just make out the marks where Malone had kept it filed down.

“I know an elderly Chinese gentleman who will give you a million pounds sterling and six of the most attentive and beautiful women you ever set eyes upon for that horn, sir.”

“No, thanks, Lord. Be happy you got your jackalope.”

“Yes, my jacka—” Ruxton’s eyes got very wide. “The jackalope! It was tied to the packhorse the wolfuls killed!”

Malone eyed him evenly. “Want to go back and try again?”

Ruxton turned around in his saddle. His shoulder still throbbed, but the injury was almost completely healed thanks to some strange-smelling herb powder Malone had rubbed on it while mumbling some nonsense about Tibet and Samarkand. He straightened resolutely, bringing his gaze back to the trail ahead.

“I will mount the memory in my mind,” he said firmly, “and make do with that.”

For the first time since they’d met, Amos Malone smiled. “I reckon mebbe you ain’t as dumb as you look, then, Lord. Even if you do ride funny. Ain’t that right, sweetie-dumplin’?” He caressed his mount’s neck.

Worthless looked back out of his half-closed squint eye. A kind of thunder rolled across the Bitterroots one more time as the unicorn farted.