“Hang on. I’ll get it. But we don’t need it anymore. They’ve gone, you see, and—”
He stopped in midsentence, holding his breath even as he left the dazed Malone to pick up the heavy buffalo rifle. The last howling of the wolfuls had faded into the distance, but it was not silent outside. A dull booming, as of some heavy tread, was clearly audible and growing steadily louder as he listened. He forced himself to keep his hands steady as he loaded the Sharps.
The massive breathing was right outside the cave. Evidently they were not the first creatures to make use of its shelter. The horses were too terrified to whinny. They huddled together against the back wall, trembling.
The moon went out as something immense blocked the entrance. Ruxton raised the Sharps and tried to hold it steady. Though he was a strong man, the weight of the weapon sent shivers along the muscles of his arms.
Whatever stood there had to bend to fit beneath the twenty-foot-high ceiling. Its eyes were red instead of yellow like those of the wolful. An overpowering musk assailed Ruxton’s nostrils as the hairy leviathan paused to sniff loudly.
It growled, and Ruxton felt his knees go weak. Imagine a whale, growling. The growl became a snarl that revealed teeth the size of railroad ties in the blunt, dark muzzle. It was coming for them.
Ruxton pulled the trigger, and the Sharps erupted. He thought he’d prepared himself for the recoil, but he was wrong. It knocked him on his back. The echo of the gun’s report was drowned by an incredible bellow of pain and anger as the monster stumbled backward.
The rifle was pulled from his numb fingers. Malone reloaded as Ruxton staggered erect. The owner of the cave was already recovering from the shock and preparing to charge again. This time it would not hesitate curiously. A second slug from the Sharps wouldn’t stop it. Not this time. As well to try shooting a runaway locomotive.
Something went flying past him like black lightning: Ruxton had a glimpse of white fetlocks and flying mane. Worthless slammed headfirst into the belly of the monster like a Derby winner pounding for the finish line. The Gargantua went backward, falling head over heels down the slope.
“Dumb, stupid son of a spasmed mare!” Malone growled as he gripped Ruxton by the shoulder. “Let’s git out of this damn possum trap!”
They stumbled outside. There was no need to lead the remaining horses. Freed from their tethers, they sprinted madly past the two men. Malone and Ruxton ran downslope toward the forest, which was now devoid of roosting wolfuls.
Ruxton risked a look backward. A less brave man might have fainted dead away right then and there or swallowed his tongue at the sight.
Worthless had become a darting, spinning black dervish on four legs, nipping at the ankles of the immensity that now stood on its hind feet. It swiped at the much smaller but nimbler horse with paws the size of carriages. Each time a blow capable of demolishing a house descended, Worthless would skip just out of its reach.
Only when the two men were safely in among trees too old and thick even for the leviathan to tear down did Worthless abandon his efforts. With a roar, the monster chased the horse a few yards. Then it bellowed a final defiance before dropping to all fours. Like a piece of the mountain come to life, it turned and lumbered back to reclaim its cave.
Running easily, Worthless galloped past both winded men. He turned the fleeing horses, circling them until they slowed, nuzzling Malone’s pack mare until she stood quietly, spittle dribbling from her jaws. Then he snorted once, shook his head, and bent to crop the tops of some wild onions that were growing nearby.
“Mr. Malone, that is quite a remarkable animal you have there.” Ruxton fought for breath as he rested his hands on his knees. “How did you ever train him to do something like that? ’Pon my word, but that was the most gallant action I have seen a horse take on behalf of its master.”
“Train ’im? Gallant? The idjit bastard like to got hisself killed! I had a clean shot. Coulda stopped it.”
“Stopped that behemoth?” Ruxton nodded in the direction of the cave that had initially been their refuge and had nearly ended as their grave. “Not even with that cannon you call a rifle, old chap. Your animal saved us for sure.”
“Well—mebbe. But it was still a damn-fool thing to do.”
Malone repeated the assertion to his mount’s face, shoving his beard against that squinty-eyed visage while holding it by the neck.
“You hear me, you moronic offspring of a mule? Don’t you never try nothin’ like that again!”
Worthless bit him on the nose.
“What was it, anyway?” Now that they were well away from the nameless river and the canyon it had carved, Ruxton found he was able to relax a little. The sun was rising over his unsatisfied curiosity.
Malone had spent much of the morning muttering curses at his mount while occasionally feeling gingerly at the bandage Ruxton had applied to his nose. It was an incongruous slash of white above the black beard. Personally, Ruxton had felt the animal justified in its response.
“Somethin’ big enough to snatch a wolful right out of the sky. Nez Perce, they call it—wal, never mind what the Nez Perce call it. You wouldn’t be able to pronounce it, anyway. Me, I call it a grizzephant. Only the second one I’ve ever seen. If the Good Lord wills it, I’ll never see another. Reckon you could call it Ursus loxodonta.”
“Why, Mr. Malone, sir. Latin? I do believe you are at pains to conceal a real education.”
“Nope. Just don’t use it much ’cause nobody around here cares one way or t’ other. They don’t believe half of what I try to tell ’em anyways, so I just keep my mouth shut.” He leaned over to give his mount a reluctant pat on the neck. “Old Worthless here, I reckon he deserves a genus of his own. I just ain’t come up with the right one yet, though I kinda lean toward Equus idioticus. With the emphasis on the ‘cuss.’”
Ruxton leaned forward for a better look. As he did so, he noticed that the leather patch that normally covered the animal’s forehead was hanging loose, having been dislodged in the fight.
“Mr. Malone, would I be remiss if I were to suggest that your horse has a horn growing from the center of his forehead?”
Malone leaned out for a look, straightened. “Drat. Got to fix that before we git to Randle’s Farm. Folks in these parts don’t rightly understand such things as unicorns.”
Ruxton couldn’t keep from staring. The horn was six inches long and looked sharp. Undoubtedly it had helped keep the grizzephant’s attention last night. He could just make out the marks where Malone had kept it filed down.
“I know an elderly Chinese gentleman who will give you a million pounds sterling and six of the most attentive and beautiful women you ever set eyes upon for that horn, sir.”
“No, thanks, Lord. Be happy you got your jackalope.”
“Yes, my jacka—” Ruxton’s eyes got very wide. “The jackalope! It was tied to the packhorse the wolfuls killed!”
Malone eyed him evenly. “Want to go back and try again?”
Ruxton turned around in his saddle. His shoulder still throbbed, but the injury was almost completely healed thanks to some strange-smelling herb powder Malone had rubbed on it while mumbling some nonsense about Tibet and Samarkand. He straightened resolutely, bringing his gaze back to the trail ahead.
“I will mount the memory in my mind,” he said firmly, “and make do with that.”
For the first time since they’d met, Amos Malone smiled. “I reckon mebbe you ain’t as dumb as you look, then, Lord. Even if you do ride funny. Ain’t that right, sweetie-dumplin’?” He caressed his mount’s neck.