“You’re goin’ t’ all this trouble fer that?”
“No trouble, Mr. Malone. I invent some mischievous spirits to frighten away the Weavers, and then I buy their land at auction.”
“If you jest asked him, he might be glad t’ sell out direct.”
“But in this fashion I obtain a much better price.”
Malone considered. “Mr. Cleator, you are an evil man.”
Cleator shrugged. “I am ambitious. They are not the same.”
“I find it hard to separate the two much o’ the time. Joke’s on you, though.”
The rancher frowned. “What joke, sir?”
“You didn’t have t’ invent no spirits to haunt this place. The spirits are here already. Have been fer a thousand years or more.” He turned sharply on Little Bear. “Ain’t thet right?” And he added something in Shoshone.
As wide as the chanter’s eyes got, this time they had no difficulty focusing. Little Bear began to gaze nervously around him. Ordinary rocks and bushes suddenly caused him to retreat, to stumble.
“What did you say to him?” Cleator asked curiously.
“Nothin’ he don’t know. The whiskey you give him kept his eyes from workin’, if not his mouth. He’s seein’ now, takin’ a good look around, and he don’t much like what he sees. Always been bad blood between Shoshone and Comanche. He’s feelin’ dead Comanche around him now, and he don’t care for it. I wouldn’t, neither, were I you, Mr. Cleator.”
A couple of the hired gunmen were starting to glance around uneasily. Malone had started them thinking. North Texas is a bad place for a man to be thinking with the moon glaring down at him accusingly.
“Really? And why not? Am I supposed to fear a few dead Indians?”
“I’m jest sayin’ that if I were you, I wouldn’t try to put no bridge over these narrows.”
Cleator was grinning now, enjoying himself. “Mr. Malone, you are a caution, sir. I defy the Weavers, I defy the Comanche, and I defy their dead or anything else that attempts to slow progress on this land. Do not try to frighten me with my own intentions.”
“Sometimes it’s healthy to be a mite afeared o’ progress, Mr. Cleator. It can jump up when you ain’t lookin’ an’ bite you severe.” He looked up suddenly at the opposite bank, his heavy brows drawing together like a small black version of the bridge Cleator proposed to build.
The gunmen jumped when Little Bear let out a cry and bolted. One of them raised his weapon, but Cleator stopped him from shooting.
“Let him go. We’ll track him down later. He’ll be in town, drunk.”
“I wouldn’t figure too near on that,” Malone informed him. “I think our friend’s seen the light. I reckon by tomorrow he’ll be headed northwest if he can find himself a horse. You see, he saw what was waitin’ fer him here and did the sensible thing by lightin’ out.”
One of Cleator’s men stepped forward. “We’re losin’ the night, boss.” A very large knife gleamed in his right hand. “Let me stick him, and we’ll dump him in the river and get on with this.”
“Very well. Now that he knows, by his own wish, he is a threat, and as previously stated, I can have no compunction about terminating a threat. Therefore, you may…”
He broke off, gazing across the river at the spot Malone was watching. One by one the men wielding the Colts joined him in staring.
“Hell’s bunghole,” one of them stuttered, “what is that?”
It was larger than a bull buffalo, with teeth the size of an opium dream and burning yellow eyes. Even at that distance they could hear it growl as it raced toward them.
“Mr. Cleator, I wouldn’t linger in this vicinity if I were you.”
The rancher was shaken but otherwise unmoved. “I am not afraid of night beasts, Mr. Malone. That is no spirit. I don’t know what it is, but if it is alive, it can be slain.” He wrenched a rifle from the man next to him. “This will be my land, and I will build my bridge here. I will deal with any intruders.” He glanced back and smiled. “You set this up, didn’t you? You and the Weavers. Some kind of trick. It will not work. I am no gullible plainsman, sir. And you are dogmeat.” He looked sharply at the man with the knife.
“Stick him or shoot him, as you please.”
But the gunman was staring across the river, staring at the unbelievable thing that was coming toward them faster than a train could travel. As he stared, he kept backing up, until he prudently decided to turn and run. He was accompanied.
Cleator roared at his fleeing men. “Come back! You cowards, idiots! Can’t you see it’s a trick! That damn farmer will be laughing at you tomorrow!”
A couple of the men slowed to turn, but what they saw made them tremble with fear and run faster still. The monster reached the far bank of the river. It did not stop but kept coming, soaring through the night air as easily as the fabled roc of legend, as cleanly as a bad dream. They were not particularly brave, those men, and they were not being paid well enough to stay and tussle with Hell.
The scream made Cleator turn. So fast had it traversed the river gorge that it was already almost upon him. It screamed again, a cross between a bleat and a howl. Malone whirled to flee, yelling at Cleator to do the same.
Perhaps he didn’t have enough time or chose to react instinctively. The rancher raised his rifle and tried to aim.
The burning yellow eyes blinded him. He flung his gun aside and tried finally to dodge.
That was when Malone saw the Indian. He was riding the monster’s muzzle.
It was solid and yet spirit, a brave dressed in untraditional cladding. Small but perfect, he thought as it turned toward the stumbling, half-paralyzed rancher and loosed a single shining arrow. It struck James Cleator squarely in the right eye, penetrating all the way to the brain and killing him instantly.
Then the monster was upon him. Cleator was struck once and sent flying, his already dead broken body landing ten yards away in a crumpled heap. Malone slowed. The monster had not come after him but had vanished eastward, howling into the night.
Breathing hard, he waited until he was sure before returning to study the rancher’s corpse. Nearby he found the monster’s tracks. They were unlike any he’d ever seen. He knelt to examine them more closely.
A voice came anxiously from behind: “Mr. Malone! Are you all right, sir?”
The mountain man did not look up as Esau Weaver slowed to a halt beside him. The rancher was carrying a rifle, old and battered. There was nothing worn about his courage, however. He blanched when he espied Cleator’s body.
“I know that man.”
“Your antagonist, though you did not know it. Not spirits. Gold will buy a man much, but not truth and not the spirits of the dead. Too easy by half to defile yesterday as well as tomorrow. I believe he were done in by both.” He put a comforting hand on the rancher’s shoulder. “Nothin’ more to be done here. Cleator was dead of heart before the rest of his body caught up with him. Let’s go get some shuteye. I’ll have a go at explainin’ it all to you and the missus tomorrow, while I’m helpin’ y’all t’ unpack that wagon.”
Weaver nodded wordlessly. Together they returned to the cabin, which would be disturbed no more. Around them the land and all it contained were once again at rest. Yesterday and tomorrow slept peacefully, flanking the present.
“Hell of a restoration job.” The attendant looked on approvingly.
“Thanks.” The owner was standing before the object of the other man’s admiration, examining it minutely.
“Something happened, I can see that.”
“Hit something coming over the bridge last night, just this side of Childress. Might’ve been a coyote. Might’ve been a small deer.”