Алан Дин Фостер: Mad Amos Malone

“Curiosity,” commented Fraser, still sizing up the new arrival, “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 that 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,” Wonder Charlie said 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 bat wings 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 had been captain of a great clipper ship. 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,” Malone 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 running 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, Malone asking question after question 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 side 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, pungent smells wafted from a single larger tent, while others rose from the far side of the railroad camp. One set of odors 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 that 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 track the progress of the hulking 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 spike driver 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.

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,” the worker decided 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’s reins 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 Appaloosa, 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 horse thieves 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.