“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.