“Fifth?” Halfweed fumbled for a flaming brand from the fire as he cocked his pistol. He tossed the burning stick toward the unexplored recesses at the back of the cave.
Something monumental rose up in the light. Primeval fire glinted from black eyes and off teeth the length of a man’s hand. The bear raised forepaws equipped with claws like bent railroad spikes. It was ten feet tall—no, fifteen—with silver hairs shimmering among the brown. The Great Bear of the Arapaho, the bear overwhelming: the ur-bear.
“Jesus!” An openmouthed Fifth John stumbled backward, fumbling with his belt. In the confines of the cave, the bear’s roar was Vesuvius and typhoon and the Port Royal earthquake all rolled into one. It shook the ground underfoot and shattered rock from the walls.
“Oh, Gawd, John, help me!” Adding to the frantic pandemonium as the bear lumbered forward, Halfweed fired his Colt repeatedly, six times in all. All this did was make the brute mad, a tactical decision not dissimilar to Napoleon’s decision to invade Russia.
Between the earthshaking roars of the bear, Halfweed’s Colt going off, and its owner’s terrifying screams as the monster dismembered him one limb at a time, it was a choice cut of purgatory.
“John, John, it’s eating me, it’s killin’ me, oh Gawd, help me!”
Fifth John had not survived an upbringing among four tormenting elder brothers each as mean and ornery as himself without becoming pretty good at sizing up his chances in a fight. It was deuced clear to him that poor Halfweed was already as good as finished and that even with rifle in hand he didn’t stand much of a chance against a grizzly from Hell, and what would be the point, anyways?
Too bad, Halfweed, he thought sorrowfully as he swung into his saddle. Unlike Great Knox, who’d been tolerated, he’d genuinely liked the greasy, addled dimwit. The bellowing from the cave followed him down the mountainside as he struggled to lead five horses behind him. They were all understandably skittish and edgy. All except for the big black-and-white, who brought up the rear docile as an old hound.
He thought of the money he was going to make selling the five and how Providence had decreed he was going to have to spend it all by himself, and it did help to drown out the memory of Halfweed’s final piteous shrieks.
When he was confident he was safely beyond the attentions of the monster bear should it have felt any unsociable inclination toward his person, he stopped and tied his animals. Then he passed methodically among them, speaking to each in a reassuring voice, rubbing its muzzle and neck until it calmed down. Only when that was done did he think to give a care to himself.
“I saw that!” He whirled, simultaneously drawing his gun. “You wuz grinnin’ at me, you gawddamned big-butted squint-eyed sumbitch!”
Easy, Fifth, he told himself. Horses don’t grin. They dang well can’t grin. You’re jest tired an’ upset. And no wonder, what with the past couple days’ goin’s-on.
Mighty peculiar goin’s-on at that.
Funny thing how that avalanche come up on that howlin’ horse. He’d about forgotten that, but it came back to him now, sharp an’ clear. That big old animal a-howlin’ like a wolf, and then the snow crashin’ down on them and buryin’ poor Great Knox and somehow just missin’ all the horses. Then that bear. Biggest gawddamn bear ever was. But he’d checked that cave himself and woulda swore it was cleaner than the inside of a crinoline skirt.
Down the mountain then, all the animals a-frothin’ and a-rollin’ their eyes until he could quiet ’em. All except this one, this oversized, overfed, great ugly four-legged bad-eyed bastard of a horse with a lump growin’ out of its head. He blinked in confusion. Damn thing was more’n a foot long now, and pointed at the end, an’ all twisty-curly round like a stick of store-bought peppermint candy.
Impossible or no, he’d have bet a quarter eagle then and there that it had winked at him.
“What are you, anyways?” He approached with caution. It raised its head from where it had been cropping the grass that poked green threads through the snow, and gazed back at him blankly, innocently. Just another dumb animal.
Fifth John wasn’t afraid, but he kept the muzzle of his pistol aimed straight at the creature’s forehead, just below the ivory-colored spiral spear.
“You cursed? Thet what it is? You a bad-luck beastie? I heard tell o’ such down in New Orleans. Island people come up and put curses on chickens an’ such. Or maybe you’re jest bad luck. I kill you, I still got t’ other four to sell. You worth the trouble? I wonder.” He was within arm’s length now. As before, the animal just stood patiently and gazed back at him out of bland equine eyes.
Reaching out, he stroked the spear that grew from the creature’s forehead. It was smooth and warm to the touch. Fifth John lowered his pistol. “You’re different, that’s fer sure. Reckon you might be worth a passel to the right buyer. Maybe you are worth the trouble. But from here on I’m gonna be watchin’ you as well as my step, hear?”
Carefully but with increasing confidence, he began to circle the animal, patting it on its flanks, inspecting its withers. It was sure enough an odd-lookin’ concoction: a blind Quaker could’ve told that. But all muscle underneath that peculiar back. No, he wouldn’t kill it. Too much money to be made, and he’d already put up with enough trouble to make it worth keepin’ him.
He smiled and nodded at nothing in particular. “Guess you’re all right, big’un. Somebody pay plenty to have you hitched in their team.” A hot, wet sensation made him glance down at his boots.
The horse was pissing on his right leg.
“The hell with it, you damn four-legged play-actor! I knewed you wuz grinnin’ at me!” Irate beyond common sense, he raised the pistol.
The big animal swung its head around to regard him thoughtfully. As John leveled his gun at his impassive target, he noticed that something else was different about it. Something new.
Lit from beneath, from inside, the white circle around the bad eye was glowing intensely. And that eye weren’t squinting now, weren’t more’n half-shut. It was full open, open all the way wide. And staring straight… at… him.
Mesmerized, Fifth John looked deep into that eye and let out a meager, completely involuntary moan. His whole body started to shake. That wasn’t surprising because in an instant his mind had become as unhinged as his body. At the end of his arm, his gun was waving up and down like a semaphore flag in the grip of a high gale. The precarious moan rose up in his throat as if trying to escape.
The animal was growling at him. That was crazy. Horses didn’t growl. The growl became a snarl. Crazier still. Horses didn’t snarl. Tremendous unsuspected muscles rippled and tensed in its back legs, its hindquarters, its neck, as it prepared to spring. That was madness. Horses didn’t spr—
“I’ll be hornswoggled and hog-tied.” Caiben turned and yelled back toward the cabin. “Amos, Jim! Git out here and have a look at this!” Clutching the water bucket and heedless of the cold, he splashed through the stream back toward the cabin.
Amos Malone and Jim Bridger emerged, Malone with skillet in hand. It was his turn to do the cooking. Bridger specialized in rabbit, while Caiben wasn’t good with anything more than beans. They didn’t much understand what Malone was talking about when he served them medallions of elk béarnaise au poivre or trout almondine with new potatoes and asparagus hollandaise or even how he came by the fixin’s. Smart men that they were, they didn’t push the question too hard.