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. They 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.