John’s eyes became as wide as Halfweed’s. “Run! It’s the Devil’s own signature! Run for your lives!” Still half-asleep but waking up fast, Great Knox struggled with his bedroll. It had become all twisted around him in his sleep and was reluctant to release his legs. The horses whinnied and shied, rolling their eyes. All except for the big black, which continued to sit and howl.
Fifth John’s chest heaved until he thought it would burst as he raced down the mountainside in the darkness. He could feel the snow catching up to him, teasing him, toying with his backside. He slid, fell, and came up scraped and bleeding but still running, leaping over fallen logs, sliding down talus crumbly as stale johnnycake. When he could run no more, he scrambled desperately behind the biggest tree he could find and closed his eyes tight.
It was like being swallowed by an express train. The tree shook, quivered, even bent a mite, but stayed put. As quickly as it had gathered strength, the avalanche began to spend itself, spreading out like white butter across the land. Only when it was done did Fifth John allow himself to leave the shelter of the tree and begin the long, difficult slog back uphill.
Of their camp there was no trace. Kettle, pan, bedrolls, clothing… everything gone, swept downslope and entombed beneath tons of snow. Only the horses remained. Apparently the angle of the cliff beneath which they’d been tethered had caused the bulk of the avalanche to just miss them. It infuriated Fifth John to realize that had he kept his wits about him instead of panicking, he could have survived alongside the horses and completely avoided the dangerous downhill flight.
Halfweed joined him a few moments later as John was dragging his insufficient but nonetheless welcome spare clothing from the saddlebags they had providentially left near the horses. The skinny half-breed was terrified but otherwise unhurt. He looked around, blinking in the moonlight.
“Where’s Knox?”
John continued to dig at the saddlebags. His good buffalo coat was gone, and he’d have to put on every stitch of clothing he had left in the world if he expected to keep from freezing. “Dunno. He ain’t with you?”
“No, man.” Shivering, Halfweed crossed his arms over his sallow chest. “I thought he’d be here.”
“Well, he ain’t, so I guess it’s done for him.” Fifth John grunted. “More for us. Split the money from the horses two ways.”
“Yeah. Hey, yeah, that’s right.” Halfweed relaxed a little, his smile returning. It didn’t stay long. “Hey, Fifth, you notice somethin’?”
“No, what?” the other man replied testily.
Halfweed was looking around again, jerkily scanning the woods. “It’s quiet. Howlin’s stopped.”
Fifth John eyed the night sky and the treetops, then returned to his digging. “Yeah? What of it? Avalanche scared ’em off.”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“Check the animals.”
Halfweed nodded, glad to have something to do to take his mind off the misfortune that had just struck their camp and taken the life of their beloved friend. Friend, anyway. Well, maybe casual companion.
The horses, at least, had survived unharmed. The way east out of the mountains was clear, and their four-footed booty was intact. He was about to rejoin John when something made him squint into the moonlight. The stallion stood munching a green branch it had pulled from a nearby tree. Once again it stood placidly and allowed him to approach. Halfweed reached for the broad forehead, ignoring the bad right eye, which swiveled up to watch him.
“Uh, hey, Fifth?”
“What now?” Fifth John did not look up as he wrestled a ragged shirt over the upper half of his long johns.
“That bump I told you ’bout? On the front of the big one’s head? Pork me for a nervous nun if it ain’t got larger.”
John shoved his head through the reluctant shirt, wondering what his companion was babbling about. “What’s that?”
“Come look for yourself.” The half-breed stepped back.
Fifth John slogged over and frowned. The broad-backed stallion regarded him expressionlessly. Fingering his goatee, John ran his fingers the length of the bony protrusion, then gripped it hard and pulled. The animal’s head didn’t move, nor did it otherwise react.
“Cabra del diablo.” Halfweed tried to cross himself, nearly stuck his finger up his nose, tried again. He was more or less successful the third time, but by then he entertained serious doubts that the Virgin Mother was still paying attention.
“Naw, it ain’t the Devil’s goat,” John groused, “though I grant you it’s passin’ strange. You’re right about t’ other, though. It is bigger. ’Bout six inches long now, I reckon. Grows fast, whatever it is.” He shrugged, secure in his ignorance. “Don’t matter none so long’s the rest of the animal is sound. We’ll cut it off before we sell.” He turned away, grumbling to himself. “Now, where the blazes did I put those old coveralls?”
By morning his good mood had returned. Too bad for Great Knox but better for him, and Halfweed. ’Tis not an ill wind that gives the other man pneumonia, he mused. There was still no sign of any pursuit, and by evening even Halfweed had mellowed. The half-breed didn’t have sense enough to stay upset or unhappy for very long. Truth be told, he didn’t have sense enough to find his ass with both hands.
As the sun scurried for cover behind the mountains, it started to snow again, just hard enough to be indifferent. Fifth John was thinking of fashioning a lean-to when he spotted the opening in the hillside.
Halfweed took one look at the shadowy fissure and shook his head violently. “I ain’t goin’ in there, man.”
“What’s the matter, toad cojones? You frightened?” John dismounted. The rifle that had providentially been secured to the back of his horse in one hand, he hunted up the precious box of matches and fashioned a torch of reasonably dry pine needles and twigs. Burning taper in hand, he was able to enter the spacious cave standing up.
Halfweed held on to his reins and waited nervously, his face turned skyward, on the lookout for the tentative moon. A deep moan from within the cave made him sit bolt upright in his saddle.
He’d half turned to flee when John reemerged, smiling maliciously. “Scared you, didn’t I? Damn fool crazy half-breed.” He gestured curtly at him with his rifle. “There ain’t nothin’ in there. Ain’t been for some time. It’s dry an’ warm, plenty of room for both of us to stand and walk around, even.”
Halfweed slid out of his saddle, as much relieved as angry. “Dumb sumbitch. You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yeah, I know. But it was fun. Shoulda seen the look on your face. For a moment you was even dumber-lookin’ than usual.” John started to remove the saddlebags from his mount. “Let’s get a fire goin’. Rate we’re travelin’, I figger by tomorrow this time we’ll be well on our way to startin’ out of these damn mountains. Then it’s over the trail back to town and the high life.”
“Right.” Halfweed perked up at the thought.
They built the fire near the entrance so it wouldn’t smoke up the cave. In such snug quarters even the tired old jerky tasted good.
“Got to take a piss.” John rose and headed toward the outside. Halfweed didn’t bother to look up, concentrating on his jerky.
Something close by went snuf.
“Hey, man, no more jokes, okay?” The half-breed flailed absently behind him. Much to his irritation, the sound was repeated. Smiling to himself, he deliberately extracted his revolver from the gun belt lying nearby.
“Okay. I ain’t afraid o’ no duende. Since you won’t answer, I guess you some kinda animal now and I got to defend myself, verdad?”
“Defend yourself ag’inst what, you loco freak?” Fifth John stood framed in the entrance to the cave, fastening his pants.