“I WILL FIND A WAY!” The entire enormous bulk of the sequoia quivered slightly. “I WILL HOLD THEM ALL, ONE BY ONE, UNTIL THEY LEARN THE WISDOM OF KEEPING THEIR DISTANCE!” Silence was followed by a comment that sounded somewhat uncertain. “YOUR ANIMAL IS DEFILING MY ROOTS.”
Leaning over, Malone glanced down at the ground beneath Worthless, then straightened. “That by its simple liquid self ought t’ prove to you that if a visitor don’t make contact with you directly, there ain’t much you can do. Oh, I suppose you could drop a branch or two on ’em, but self-mutilation has its limits. Why not try bein’ a mite friendlier instead?” Rising slightly in the saddle, he took in the rest of the magnificent grove with a single sweeping gesture. “Your relations hereabouts don’t seem near half as aggrieved as yourself.”
“THEY CHOOSE TO REMAIN STUPID, IGNORANT, AND SILENT, INDIFFERENT TO INTRUSION.”
Malone shook his head sadly as he sat back down. “You’d suppose thet after a couple o’ thousand years o’ sittin’ in one place and jest thinkin’, you’d have developed a better sense o’ community.” Slipping his left leg up and over the pommel, he dropped clear of the saddle and down to the ground.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” The great tree was unafraid, but wary.
“Why, since you won’t let poor John go, I reckon I’m goin’ to have t’ come up and git him,” Malone replied as he twiddled his fingers at one of the saddlebags that was slung over Worthless’s back. The buckle obediently came open.
“YOU WILL NEVER REACH HIM. YOU WILL NOT SURVIVE!”
Ignoring the threat, Malone slipped the steel tree spurs onto his boots. Though fire-resistant, almost bug-proof, and sometimes more than two feet thick, the auburn-colored bark of the giant sequoia was comparatively soft and fibrous. The spurs would find excellent purchase. Pulling a coil of rope from the same saddlebag, Malone slung it over his right shoulder.
Walking up to the base of the tree, he had to lean back to locate the most promising way upward. Without preamble, he began to climb. His thick, powerful fingers dug almost as deeply into the tree’s outer layer as did the sharp metal of the spurs. The sequoia of course felt no discomfort. But it was wholly aware of Malone’s presence as he ascended.
The mountain man was far above the ground before he reached the first enormous branch. This extended outward as if a full-size Douglas fir had been jammed sideways into the trunk. Repositioning his grip, Malone started to swing himself up and onto the curved, waiting platform.
It jerked violently, intending to throw him off and send him on a death spiral toward the ground.
As he clung with fingers and spurs to the sheer face of the tree, a worried voice called down from above.
“Hoy, sir! Are you all right?”
Malone glanced down at the ground. It was very far away and its surface appeared unwelcoming. For one of the few times he could recall, Worthless looked… small. Mouth tightening, he resumed his climb.
Searching upward, he finally spied what he had been hoping for: a stub of a smaller, broken branch that projected stolidly from the side of the tree not far from where its unwilling guest was being restrained. Balancing himself against another branch that remained blessedly immobile, Malone unlimbered the lariat he had brought with him. Leaning back, he formed one end into a loop and flung it swiftly upward. It caught around the stub first try. Snugging it tight gave Malone a speedier way upward. This he proceeded to use to his advantage.
He had ascended half the remaining distance to the captive when the stub abruptly retracted into the side of the tree. The rope that had been looped around it promptly fell free.
Bereft of its support, Malone found himself falling. Looking down, he saw one massive branch rising to meet him and prepared himself for the impact.
Emitting a woody, groaning sound, it twisted out of his way, revealing only bare ground below.
Gritting his teeth, Malone yanked the looped end of the rope toward him. In a single twisting motion he passed the other end through the loop and tossed it over the branch that had contorted out of his way. The loop he still held in his hand. The shock traveled hard through his shoulders as the rope caught tight around the lassoed branch.
Clinging to the rope’s free end with both hands, he let his momentum carry him around in a sweeping arc beneath the branch. At the apex of the swing, he let go, timing his release with unnatural precision. The centrifugal force of the swing carried him up, up, until he once again began to descend toward the ground.
Instead, he landed cleanly on the sturdy branch that protruded outward from beneath the feet of the tree’s startled captive. As Malone proceeded to shake free and reel in the unnaturally robust lariat, the still-immobilized prisoner gawked at him in amazement.
“I venture to say, sir, that was the most extraordinary bit of aerial prestidigitation I have ever had the pleasure of beholding! Where in God’s name did you master such a technique?”
Malone shrugged as he coiled the rope, which displayed no sign of the stress it had been asked to absorb. “Here and there, friend. A bit o’ physics, a touch o’ the circus, a smidgen o’ magic.”
“‘Magic’?” The prisoner eyed his rescuer uncertainly.
Malone smiled, revealing teeth that were surprisingly white in stark contrast to the rest of his sun-burned visage. “Mebbe better t’ say a not-so-little birdie taught me. If we ever should have occasion t’ spend a bit o’ time together, I might try to explain.” He turned his attention to the ground, now far below. “But first order o’ business is to git down from where we are, most preferably in one piece. This here tree had a try or two at preventin’ me from comin’ up. I reckon it’ll make something of an effort t’ keep us from gettin’ down.”
“I shall be forever in your debt, Mr. …?”
“Malone. Amos Malone. You kin call me Amos. Or Mad. Where monikers are concerned, I ain’t particular. Kinda like Worthless.”
As the mountain man unsheathed an enormous bowie knife and began to saw at the branches curled around the captive’s body, John looked down toward the ground.
“Your horse? Strange name for a horse.” He squinted as the branch around his chest came away, cut through. “If it is a horse. At this distance I can’t be certain.”
“Like names, distance don’t matter where Worthless is concerned. You’ll find his appearance jest as puzzlin’ close up. Most folks do, though the majority choose not t’ git too close.” Under Malone’s ministrations, the lower branch soon fell away. “There.” He put out a massive hand to steady the former captive, whose muscles were cramped and knotted from hours of being held motionless against the trunk. “Easy. Watch your step. You climbed up. Reckon you kin climb down?”
Rocking his head from side to side to loosen his neck and shoulders, shaking his arms, John smiled. “There isn’t a tree in the Sierra I can’t climb or descend. At least, when they’re not actively engaged in countering my efforts.”
Malone nodded approvingly. “Then let’s be about it, afore this father o’ clothespins cogitates up some further mischief t’ keep us from shinnyin’ back down t’ mother earth.”
Despite Malone’s unease the tree did nothing to hinder their downward progress. This they accomplished at admirable speed, with Malone marveling at John’s talent for finding every possible hand- and foothold in the bark and branches. They were almost to the ground when something with the force of a spring-loaded bear trap slammed shut against Malone’s right hand.
Nearby, he heard John yell. A glance sideways showed the other man still some ten feet above the ground, only inches from the easy footpath that would have been provided by the nearest bulging root mass. Just his face, hands, and feet were visible. The rest of him was trapped within the side of the tree. Two opposing flaps of the deeply fluted bark had slammed shut around his body, pinning him in place.