Her back arched as she fought to dodge his mouth and the miasma that issued from the inebriated depths beyond. “I am a married woman, sir, and a decent one. I’ll thank you to let go of me!”
Laughter rose from the surrounding tables at this pious declaration. “Shore you is, missy,” her captor jeered. “As to the fust, thet don’t give me no trouble, and as to the second, it naturally explains whut yer doin’ in a fancy hotel like this!”
More laughter—which Malone found he could not ignore though he had done so to the entire contretemps up to then. Generally he was of a mind to attend solely to his own business, but there was something in the woman’s attitude and tone that led him to believe she might be as upstanding as she claimed. Anyhow, it was a slow afternoon in the sleepy town of Sacramento, and he didn’t have anything better to do, so he downed the last of the amber liquid remaining in his shot glass, set the glass down slowly on the oak bar, wiped his lips, and turned. On his face was an expression that made the bartender make haste to sink out of sight.
“Pardon me, friend,” Malone rumbled in a voice that sounded as if it were rising from the bottom of a mine shaft, “but it appears the lady is in some trouble and doesn’t need any additional of your makin’.”
“And jest whut business be it of…” The ex-miner hesitated as he caught sight of his questioner. “…Mad Amos Malone?” he continued, his voice suddenly less than a whisper.
Mad Amos Malone stood a mite taller and spread a tad wider than most men… and not a few bears. He was—or had been—a member of that unique breed known as the mountain man: that peculiar subspecies of Homo sapiens closely related to both the angel and the Neanderthal. Sane folk left such individuals alone.
The young woman wrenched around, and her eyes grew wide as she caught sight of Malone. “Sir, if you are truly the Amos Malone they call mad, then you are he whom I have been seeking.”
Danged if she didn’t have green eyes, Malone mused. He’d always been a sucker for green eyes. “Then that makes it personal.” Malone took a step toward the ex-miner, who was no featherweight himself. “You kin understand my concern now, friend.”
“Yeh. Shore I kin, mister.” The other man kept his eyes focused on the mountain man as he let go of the woman and edged aside.
“Now then, ma’am,” Malone said politely (such limpid green eyes!), “this is hardly the place to engage in genteel conversation. I suggest we step outside.”
“Thank you, Mr. Malone.” Pulling her shawl protectively about her shoulders, she headed for the swinging doors, Malone following in her wake.
As they reached the doors, Malone sensed the nervous whisper of retreating air behind him. Air’s funny that way. It can laugh, it can cry, and it knows when to get out of the way. Air ain’t no fool.
Neither was Amos Malone, who whirled and brought his hand up as he jerked to one side. Several gasps were heard, and a few cards fluttered to the floor of the saloon as he plucked the knife out of the air not three inches from the place his neck had been just seconds earlier.
The ex-miner who had thrown it let out a strangled cry and crashed through the back-alley door, pausing neither to recover his property nor to turn the lock.
Years later, a few who claimed they had been there swore that they saw the mountain man lean forward and whisper a few words to the knife before throwing it in return. One of those insisted that the knife answered back. At the time, though, none of them voiced their observations, not wishing to be thought of by their friends as unbalanced. On one account, however, all agreed. Malone threw that knife so hard an echoing thunder trailed behind it like a dog worrying a wagon. It went straight through the gap the miner had made in the course of executing his precipitate exit, then turned sharply to the right, down the alley. A minute or so passed before a distant scream reached the attentive listeners.
The piano player circumspectly resumed his off-key rendition of “I’ll Wake You When the Mail Boat Comes In,” and the other inhabitants of the Piccadilly Saloon returned to their poker and drinks.
“I hope you did not kill him, Mr. Malone,” the young woman said as they exited into the street.
“No, ma’am. I don’t cotton to killin’ drunks. Most times they don’t know what they’re about. Just gave him a warnin’ prick, so to speak, somewhere between his waist and his holster.”
“I am glad to hear it. I would not want to be the cause of another man’s death.” She looked a little uncertain. “Am I mistaken, or did I clearly see that knife you threw make a sharp turn to the right upon leaving this establishment? Such a thing is contrary to nature… for a knife.”
Malone shrugged, his expression noncommittal. “There’s not much that’s contrary to nature if you just know how to sweet-talk her along a little.”
“Which is precisely why I have sought you out among those ruffians, Mr. Malone. It is said among those in the know that you are familiar with many things the rest of us have no desire to be familiar with. I have desperate need of someone with such knowledge, for I am at my wit’s end what to do.”
She started to sob. Malone knew they were real tears, not merely tears concocted for his benefit. Real tears smell different from falsified ones, and mountain men are known for their acuity of smell.
Malone thought the tears looked faintly green.
“Now, ma’am, it’s true I’ve been exposed to certain things they don’t teach in eastern colleges, but I can’t presume to help you until I know the nature of your trouble. Clearly it’s affected you deeply.”
“Not only me,” she replied, “but my entire family as well. It’s a calumny for which I blame myself.”
“Family? Oh,” said Malone, crestfallen (ah, fare thee well, ocean eyes). He drew himself up and put aside his disappointment. “I’ll help if I can, of course. I was never one to turn away from a lady in distress.”
“You are gallant, sir.”
“No, ma’am, just stupid. What be your problem… and your name?”
“Oh. Excuse me for not saying to start with. Mary Makepeace is my name, sir, and Hart Makepeace my husband.” She dabbed at her face with a tatted handkerchief redolent of lilac. “I have a kitchen witch, Mr. Malone.”
“Call me Amos. Or Mad,” he chuckled, “if you prefer.” Then, seriously, “A kitchen witch? You mean one of those little good-luck figures made out of paper and wood and paint and scraps of old cloth?”
“No, sir… Amos. A real kitchen witch, and the very manifestation of horror she is, too. She won’t leave me alone, and she won’t bring back my poor family, and I… and I…” The flow of tears started again from those vitreous green orbs, and Malone found himself holding and comforting her—a not entirely unpleasant circumstance.
A derisive snort sounded nearby. Malone glanced toward the hitching rail, where a mongrelized, oversized, squint-eyed hooved quadruped was giving him the jaundiced eye. He made a face at the sarcastic creature, but he did take the hint. Reluctantly, he eased the unhappy Mrs. Makepeace an arm’s length away.
“A real witch, eh? In the kitchen? I’ve heard of ’em before, but they’re supposed to be pretty scarce hereabouts. They’re the inspiration for those little doll figures you find in kitchens, but the real ones are twice as ugly and a hundred times more dangerous.”
She stared up at him (with emeralds, he thought… olivine and malachite). “You… you mean that you believe me, sir… Amos?”
“I can tell a liar as far off as a month-dead wapiti, ma’am, and ’tis plain for any fool to see that you’re tellin’ the truth. I’m not sure if I can be of any help, though. For its size, a witchen—for that’s what you’re afflicted with as sure as a djinn dry-cleans his clothes—packs a mighty powerful wallop. But I’ll do what I can. Where’s your place at?”