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.”