Mad Amos Malone

by Alan Dean Foster

  “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. T
hey 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 par
tly 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—”