Алан Дин Фостер - Mad Amos Malone

“I am at a loss as to what to do now, Dr. Waxman,” the agent confessed. “My superiors in Denver accepted the report I sent to them which described the loss of the strongbox on a mountain road during a violent, freak storm, but I suspect they are not without lingering suspicions. My worry is what to do if this should occur a second time. Not only would the cargo be lost, I should be lost as well. I have a wife and children, Doctor. I have no desire to be sent to a prison… or to an asylum. You are the only other educated citizen who has been apprised of this peculiar situation. I believe it is incumbent upon the two of us to do something to rectify the problem. I feel a certain responsibility, as an important member of the community, to do something to ensure the safety of my fellow citizens, and I am sure you feel similarly.”

A thoughtful Waxman ran a finger around the edge of his glass. “I agree. Something must be done.”

“Well, then. You are positive these two men you treated yesterday were confronted by the same phenomenon as the one that afflicted my drivers?”

“There seems to be no doubt of that.” The doctor sipped at his sherry as he peered over thick spectacles at the agent. “With two of their companions carried off by this creature, I should ordinarily have suspected some sort of foul play, were it not for the unique nature of their wounds. Also, they are Christians and swore to the truth of their story quite vociferously to the farmer who found them wandering dazed and bleeding in the mountains, invoking the name of the savior repeatedly.”

The agent folded his hands on the clean tablecloth. “More than citizen safety is at stake in this. There is a growing economy to consider. It is clear that this creature has an affinity—nay, a fondness—for gold. Why, I cannot imagine. What matters is that next time it may strike at a bank in Cheyenne or some smaller community when there are women and children on the streets. But how are we to combat it? We do not even know what we face, save that it surely is not some creature native to this land. I suspect a manifestation of the Devil. Perhaps it would be efficacious for me to have a talk with Pastor Hunnicutt of the—”

The doctor waved the suggestion down. “I think we must seek remedies of a more earthly nature before we proceed to the final and uncertain decision of throwing ourselves on the mercy of the Creator. God helps those who help themselves, whether the Devil is involved or not.

“I have had occasion in my work, sir, to deal with certain individuals whose business it is to travel extensively in this still-wild country: Certain acquaintances sometimes impress themselves most forcefully on these bucolic travelers, who are usually commonsensible if not always hygienic.

“In connection with unusual occurrences and happenings, with unexplained incidents and strange manifestations, one name recurs several times and is uttered with respect by everyone from simple farmers to soldiers to educated citizens such as ourselves. I have been reliably informed that this person, a certain Amos Malone, is presently in the Cheyenne region. I believe we should seek his counsel in this matter.”

The Butterfield agent stared across at the doctor, who, having finished his sherry, was tamping tobacco into a battered old pipe. “Amos Malone? Mad Amos Malone? I have heard tell of him. He is a relic, a throwback to the heyday of the mountain man and the beaver hat. Besides which, he is rumored to be quite insane.”

“So is half of Congress,” the doctor replied imperturbably. “Yet I believe we need him if there is to be any chance of resolving this business.”

The agent let out a long sigh. “I shall defer to your judgment in this matter, sir, but I confess that I am less than sanguine as to its eventual outcome.”

“I am not too hopeful myself,” the physician admitted, “but we have to try.”

“Very well. How are we to get in touch with this individual? These mountain men do not subscribe to civilized means of communication, nor do they usually remain in one place long enough for contact to be made.”

“As to that, I am not concerned.” The doctor lit his pipe. “We will put out the word that we require his presence and that it involves a matter of great urgency and most unusual circumstance. I believe he will come. As to precisely how he will learn of our need, I leave that to the unknown and ungovernable means by which the breed of man to which he belongs has always learned of such things.”

They waited in the doctor’s office. Just before dawn a light snow had salted the town. Now the morning sun, hesitantly glimpsed through muddy dark clouds, threatened to melt the serenely pale flakes and turn the streets into a boot-sucking quagmire.

Sitting in the office next to a nickel-and-iron stove were the Butterfield Line agent and a distraught, angry, and bandaged-up Wonder Charlie. Wonder Charlie wasn’t feeling too well—his splinted right arm in particular was giving him hell—but he insisted on being present, and the doctor thought the presence of an eyewitness would be vital to give verisimilitude to their story.

The clock on the high shelf chimed six-thirty.

“And that’s for your mountain man,” snapped Fraser. He was not in a good mood. His wife, an unforgiving woman, had badgered him relentlessly about risking an attack of colic by tramping outside so early in the morning.

Dr. Waxman gazed unconcernedly at the clock. “Give him a little time. The weather is bad.”

There was a knock at the door. Waxman glanced over at the agent and smiled.

“Punctual enough,” Fraser admitted reluctantly. “Unusual for these backwoodsmen.”

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 crisscrossed 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 Quantrill’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 potbellied 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,” Charlie said 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,” Mad Amos said 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?” Fraser asked 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.”