“Why, then, son, we’ll have ourselves a gen-u-wine set-to and we’ll gamble for souls or answers.”
Malone guessed it was around two in the morning when Worthless’s cold, wet tongue slapped against his face. Grunting, the mountain man swatted at the persistent protuberance as he sat up in the darkness, hunting for his boots.
“Godforsaken miserable son of a spavined mule can’t let a man get a decent sleep.” Worthless snorted and turned toward his waiting saddle and blanket.
“No, you stay here.” Malone hop-danced into one boot, then its mate. “Bright night like this, you’d stick out like Tom Sawyer’s fence. I won’t be too long. Meanwhile, you leave those two mares alone. They ain’t interested in you, nohow.”
As Malone traipsed out of the barn in the direction of the faint sounds, his mount stuck out his tongue at him. Then Worthless turned to begin chewing at the rope that secured the paddock gate.
There was ample moon, though Malone didn’t need it. He could track them by their movements. They were chanting already, but softly, as if practicing. Peculiar and peculiar. Spirits didn’t need rehearsals, and it was hard to imagine any Indian, real or ghostly, crashing through the brush like a runaway mine cart.
But there were spirits here. That he knew. So he continued to tread silently.
Then he could see them. There were about a dozen, advancing slowly on the cabin, crouching as they walked. They wore painted vests and leggings and, just as the Weavers had insisted, had no heads.
Maybe that explained why they were so clumsy, Malone thought. Spirits floated. Comanche floated, almost. These critters, whatever they were, bulled their way through the brush.
Only one of them was chanting louder than a whisper. Malone focused on him. There was something about the way he moved that was real. His feet caressed the earth instead of bludgeoning it, and he wore moccasins. His companion spirits wore boots. A few were equipped with spurs. Odd choice of footgear for a ghost.
The crackling anger of a thousand crickets made Malone look down and to his left. The snake was already tightly coiled. So intent had he been on observing the advancing “spirits” that he’d neglected to note the leathery one close by his feet.
The rattler’s tongue flicked in Malone’s direction. Malone’s tongue jabbed right back. If it had any sense, the rattler would bluster a few seconds more and then slither off in the grass. Snakes, however, were notoriously short on common sense. This one struck, aiming for Malone’s left leg.
The mountain man disliked killing anything without good reason, and the snake’s unwarranted attack was evidence enough it was already deranged. So instead of drawing the bowie knife, Malone spit, faster and more accurately than was natural. His spit caught the snake in the eyes as its target leapt to one side.
Confused and queasy, the rattler lay silent a moment. Then it hurried off into the brush. It would not come back.
Unfortunately, it had been heard. Four headless figures surrounded Malone. All of them carried Colts, distinctly unethereal devices. The man in their midst regarded them thoughtfully.
“Didn’t think you’d chance it forever on your singin’ alone.”
The one nearest Malone reached up and yanked at his chest. Painted fabric slid downward in his fingers, revealing a quite normal face. At the moment the expression on it was pained.
“You’re a big one. Where’d you spring from?”
“The seed of an eagle and the loins of a cat—not that it’s any of your business.” Malone studied his captors thoughtfully as the speaker carefully removed bowie knife and LeMat pistol from the mountain man’s person. Malone made no move to retain them. “What’re you boys doin’ out here in the middle o’ the night in those getups? I didn’t know the circus had made it this far west.”
The speaker’s expression turned sour. He was about to reply, when two other figures arrived. Those holding the Colts quickly made room for the newcomers. One of them was the loud chanter. Malone studied his features intently. Shoshone, all right. Teetering the horizontal side of half-drunk and, by the look of him, not caring much about his condition.
His companion was bigger and older, made up to look like what he wasn’t. He was neither ghost nor spirit, though the scent of the Devil was surely about him. He had about him the air of one with no time to waste, clearly a man poisoned by impatience.
“Who the hell are you?” he inquired belligerently of the mountain man.
“Malone’s the name. Amos Malone. Mad Amos to some.”
“That I can believe. Well, Mr. Malone, I don’t know what you’re doing out here, but I am told that the country on the north side of the river is more hospitable to strangers. I would suggest that you betake yourself there as soon as possible. Perhaps sooner.”
“Your solicitude is touching, but I like it here, Mr. …?”
“Cleator. This is my associate, Mr. Little-Bear-Blind-in-One-Eye.” He clasped the Shoshone possessively on the shoulder. It was enough to shake the other man’s none-too-stable equilibrium.
Malone murmured something in Shoshone to the chanter, who promptly and unexpectedly straightened. He blinked hard, as if fighting with his own eyes, trying to focus on the man who’d spoken to him. Meanwhile, the mountain man gestured at those surrounding him.
“Kind of an obscure locale fer a theatrical performance, ain’t it?”
“This is not theater, sir. This is seriously real.”
“Might I inquire as to its purpose?”
Cleator gazed at him. “Why should I trouble myself to explain to a passing nonentity? Why should I not simply have you shot?”
“Because you don’t want any shooting.” Malone indicated the still-sleeping cabin. “If that’s what you wanted, you’d have killed all three Weavers long ago instead o’ constructin’ this elaborate masque.”
“You are surprisingly perceptive. I am intrigued. You are, of course, quite right. I dislike killing, because dead people cannot sign legal documents. It is much better for them to sign willingly, while they are still alive.”
“This show is all because you have a hankerin’ fer the Weavers’ land?”
“Certainly. It lies between two of my holdings. But that is not the most important reason.” He paused, studying Malone, and then shrugged. “I will show you. Understanding will make you dangerous to me. Then I will have no compunctions about having you shot if you refuse to depart.”
They led him to the edge of the Red. Little Bear followed but stayed as far away from Malone as possible. He was still fighting to focus his eyes.
Cleator pointed upstream, then down, and lastly at the far side of the river. “My land, Mr. Malone.” He kicked dirt with his boots. “Weaver’s land. Notice anything unique about it?”
Malone studied the river, the far bank and the near. “This is a narrows.”
Cleator smiled, pleased. “Very good, sir. Very good, indeed. I may tell you that in fact this is the narrowest part of the Red River for many miles in either direction. Can you suspect why it is of such interest to me?”
“You need a bridge.”
“Running cattle across a bridge saves the need of fording them to reach the railhead north of here. Every extra mile a steer runs costs weight and therefore money. I need this land to build my bridge.”
“Why not simply lease the portion you need? I’m sure Weaver would be amenable to a fair offer. A bridge could be o’ benefit to his stock as well.”
“Of course it would, but I don’t want to benefit his stock, Mr. Malone. Nor do I wish the uncertainty of a lease. I want to own it all.”