Worthless looked back out of his half-closed squint eye. A kind of thunder rolled across the Bitterroots one more time as the unicorn farted.
The Chrome Comanche
There was a time when elaborate hood ornaments on cars were as critical to signifying the status of the vehicle’s owner as the rest of the road machine itself. These usually metal sculptures mounted on the front end of even cheaper models made a statement: about the car, about its owner, about the manufacturer. They varied from simple to elaborate enough to find their way into museums. Some were designed by well-known sculptors or companies such as Lalique.
Such ornamentation is pretty much gone now, thanks to a proliferation of hood ornament thieves and an ever-increasing desire on the part of manufacturers to eke out even small improvements in a car’s aerodynamics. Loath to abandon its famous Spirit of Ecstasy hood decoration, Rolls-Royce has a built-in system that lowers the ornament down into the front of the car if it is tampered with.
A number of these elaborate hood decorations featured American Indians. While I generally don’t like time-travel stories, the idea that sprang from this one was too much fun to pass up. That, and the alliteration.
Esau was checking the wagon’s rear axle when the dog started barking. It was the middle of the day, and it made no sense. The dog ought to be asleep somewhere back of the barn, not out front barking in the sun. In any event, it stopped soon enough. The dog was as exhausted as the rest of them.
At first he didn’t even bother to look up, so absorbed was he in his study of the wagon. It had to be loaded and ready to go by this evening so that they wouldn’t have to spend another night in the cabin. It wasn’t much of a house, but it was a home, a beginning. Rock and sod mostly, braced with rough-cut cedar and mesquite. What milled lumber he’d been able to afford had gone into the barn. It wasn’t finished, and the chicken house wasn’t finished.
The only thing that was finished here on the south bank of the Red River was them, he thought.
He didn’t raise his gaze until the dog came over and begin licking him.
“What the blazes ails you, hound?”
“He’s scared, I think,” said a deep voice. “I hope not of me.”
Esau hesitated, then realized that the wagon offered little protection. Might as well crawl out and confront the speaker, whoever he might be. Were they now to have as little peace during the day as they’d found here at night?
No spirit gazed back at him, though the animal the speaker rode was unusual enough. Esau knew horses, but this particular mount appeared more jumbled than mixed. The rider was nearly as unclassifiable, though from what could be seen behind the flowing black beard, Esau was pretty sure he was white. Esau had to squint to make out individual features. The more he squinted, the more indefinable the details of that face seemed to become. Though it was as full of lines as a sloping field after a storm, it didn’t hint of great age.
The man himself was immense. The pupils of his eyes were of a blackness extreme enough to spill over and stain the whites. He wore fringed boots and buckskin, his attire not so much dirty as eroded. Like the face, Esau thought. Had man put those lines there or nature? Bandoliers of huge cartridges crisscrossed his chest, fuel for the Sharps buffalo rifle slung next to the saddle. The octagonal barrel was only slightly smaller than a telegraph pole.
“You’re a long ways from the mountains, friend.” Esau shielded his eyes as he spoke, while the dog began to sniff around the horse’s hooves. The confused-breed piebald ignored the attention. “No beaver to trap around here. Not in North Texas.”
“You’d be surprised what there is to trap in Texas.” The mountain man considered the little cabin. “But you’re right enough. I’m jest passin’ through, out o’ New Orleans on my way to Colorado.” He nodded in the direction of the chimney. “Saw your smoke.”
A vast growl arose from the vicinity of the giant’s stomach, belly thunder heralding the approach of an expansive hunger. Esau smiled slightly, relaxing.
“You’re welcome here, stranger. Come in and set a spell. Be right to have company for our last meal here.”
Though the giant slipped off his mount, he seemed to lose nothing in stature as he stood on his own two feet. “I thank you fer your hospitality. Your last meal, you say?”
Esau nodded gravely, indicating the wagon. “Just checking out the frame and the springs before loading her up. Never thought I’d have to do that again. We’d planned to live out our days here. This is a good place, mister. River’s always running, and the grass is high. Best cattle country I ever saw.” He shrugged fatalistically.
The mountain man addressed the uncomfortable silence. “Name’s Malone. Amos Malone.”
“Esau Weaver.” The rancher’s hand vanished inside the giant’s gnarled grasp. “Sarah’s inside fixin’ dinner. You’re welcome to stay for supper, too, if it suits you. We’ll be out soon after. Have to be.”
“It ain’t in me to linger long in any one place, but I appreciate your offer, Weaver.”
Esau led the visitor toward the home he was preparing to flee, unable to keep from glancing at his companion. “Didn’t think there were any of you boys left. Thought the beaver had all been trapped out, and the market for ’em faded away anyways.”
“There’s still places in the backcountry where a feller can make a livin’ if he works hard and has half a mind for figures. Only real trouble’s that the country’s gettin’ too citified. Even Colorado’s fillin’ up with folks tired o’ city life.” He chuckled, an extraordinary sound. “So naturally, soon as they arrive, they all light out fer Denver. Folks sure are a puzzlement sometimes.”
“Wish all I had to deal with were country neighbors.” Esau opened the door and called to alert his wife. Malone had to duck double to clear the low doorway.
Behind them the dog concluded its inspection and disdainfully peed on the horse’s rear right leg, whereupon the mountain man’s mount did a most unequine thing. It raised its own leg and liked to drown that poor unsuspecting hound, sending it shaking and yapping around the back of the cabin. The horse, whose name was Worthless, let out a soft snort of satisfaction and went hunting for fodder. Malone had not tied him. Would’ve been useless to try.
Sarah Weaver showed the lack of sleep the family had endured recently. She wore her hair pulled straight back and secured in a small bun, a simple long-sleeved dress, and an apron decorated with fine tatting. She hardly glanced at her husband and his guest. Her son, Jeremiah, was far less inhibited. He stared unabashedly at Malone, firing questions that the mountain man answered readily until the boy’s mother warned him to mind his manners.
“Heck, ma’am, he don’t bother me none,” Malone said with a smile so ready and wide that the tense woman relaxed. “It’s good to be around young’uns. Reminds a man what the future’s for.”
“I then take it that you’re not married, sir.” She dipped stew from the black cast-iron kettle that hung in the fireplace. Once things got settled, Esau had promised her a real stove, but now…
“Name’s Malone, ma’am. As fer lockin’ up, I’ve had the urge once or twice, but as I ain’t the type to settle down, it wouldn’t be fair to the woman.”
“I hope you like this stew.” She set the bowl in front of the visitor. “It’s all we have. What’s left of all I could salvage from my garden before they destroyed it.”
Malone inhaled pointedly. “Ambrosia and nectar, ma’am. Though if you cleaned out your barn an’ boiled the results, it’d still be bound to be better than my own cookin’.”