Eggs sizzling in the cast-iron skillet, Malone glanced up. “Wouldn’t try thet if I were you.”
The progeny of the pit ignored him. Leaning forward, mouth agape, it brought its jaws down hard on Worthless’s hindquarters. Turning its head, the horse looked back and, as usual, squinted.
There was a snapping, crunching sound. But it came not from Worthless’s legs or pelvis, nor from his spine. Rather the sound was of one fang snapping. Letting out a cry of hurt and surprise, the demon drew back sharply. One massive hand felt of its upper jaw. A great tooth had broken in half, and its orthodontic companions were throbbing painfully.
“What manner of monstrous beast is this?”
Malone eyed Worthless, who had gone back to nibbling at the ground. “A tough one.” His gaze shifted to the still-stunned demon. “I reckon y’would have figured that out if you’d taken the time t’ notice thet he’s croppin’ calcite, not grass.” Eggs well on their way to cooking in the skillet, he added bacon. “Settles his stomach, it does.” His gaze narrowed. When Amos Malone’s gaze narrowed, anything in the vicinity that had an ounce of sense turned and fled. It did not speak well for the demon that it remained where it was.
Malone continued. “Now you harken to me, Mr. Mud-Face. This here piece o’ ground has been declared the first national park o’ this young country by none other than President Grant himself. It’s to be open to all.” With one powerful, callused hand, he gestured at the seething, steaming landscape spread out before him. “Myself, I don’t have no problem with you keepin’ your house here. I pride myself on gettin’ along with every sort o’ critter, no matter how disagreeable their personal habits. But this here consumin’ o’ visitors, that’s gonna have t’ stop.”
Used to being feared, the mudunculus was so furious at the mountain man’s words that he forgot the loss of his half a fang.
“Miserable little human! Worthless worm that burrows in dung! You dare to dictate to Nagaroth, Lord of Heat and Fire? I have changed my mind. I will not boil you alive. I will melt the meat from your bones, slowly, leaving your vitals for last, and begin consuming them while you are still alive!” Reaching down into the swirling stew of boiling earth and water at his feet, he dragged up a handful of blazing, glowing dust. “The flesh of your face will be first to burn!” Drawing back its arm, it flung the handful straight at Malone.
Putting up a fair-sized hand of his own, the mountain man caught the flaming dust before it could strike him. Carefully, he deposited a pinch or two in his skillet before dumping the rest aside. Smoke rose briefly from his thick-skinned palm.
“Thankee fer the brimstone. ’Tain’t good Mexican spice, but it’ll do. I like a little zest in my eggs.”
Eyes bulging with barely controlled fury, the demon took a long, deep breath. Then it pursed its ugly lips, and spat. A stream of boiling water shot right for Malone. Though the spray was hot enough to sear the paint off the front of an unlicensed saloon, he leaned only slightly to his left.
The water struck him face on. For a moment, he was completely obscured by the resulting gush of steam. Nagaroth’s grin, which had been absent for a number of minutes, now returned as he waited to see the results of his scalding aqueous assault. When the steam cleared, his face fell in full-featured flabbergastment—fell literally and almost to his chest, in fact, as it oozed downward.
Malone sat, intact and sturdy, behind his skillet. Steam rose from his fringed leather jacket, from his pants, from his boots, and from his face. Turning his head to his right, he sniffed one underarm before looking back at the astonished demon.
“Thanks, there. First time in a month this outfit’s been proper clean, and that I’ve had a decent bath.” Leaning forward, he squinted down at the top of one boot. “Even killed the lice, I do believe.”
It was at that point that the demon Nagaroth went slightly berserk, thrashing the mud in which its feet were immersed, howling at the sky, beating its broad chest, and causing huge bubbles of mud to rise and burst all around it. Geysers erupted and fumaroles belched, while the very earth underfoot quivered fit to echo the great Missouri quake of 1811.
The demon threw fire at Malone. It only made his bacon cook faster. He threw hot stones. The mountain man effortlessly dodged them, save one nicely shaped one he grabbed to employ as a seat. Only then did the thwarted, frustrated fiend do something so horrific, so terrible, that it finally drew Amos Malone’s undivided attention.
Leaning far forward and reaching out, it roughly slapped the skillet to one side.
Worthless looked up immediately. Normally utterly unflappable, the half-horse, half-unicorn’s eyes grew wide. It began backing up, away from the scene of the tragedy. High above, a certain eagle looked down sharply, took notice of something singularly unpleasant, and hightailed it for the biggest tree it could find.
His gaze fixed on his ruined breakfast, Malone slowly rose. Not as high as the demon, but high enough. He eyed the ruins of the nearly crisp bacon and the almost ready eggs for a long moment. Then he turned his attention wholly to the one who had committed the unforgivable sin.
You can shoot a mountain man, more than once. You can cut him with a knife, or filch his goods, or impune his ancestry, or question his manhood. But you do not, not ever, mess with his breakfast.
“That,” Malone declared in a low tone of voice that similarly caused the earth underfoot to tremble slightly, “was a dang near impolite thing to do.”
“Suffer!” Pleased (and perhaps a mite relieved) to have finally unsettled his unexpectedly unimpressed victim, Nagaroth shook a fist in the mountain man’s direction. “Soon you too will be part of the soil, and no more.”
“Now you lookee here, my overheated unhygienic friend. Because I were raised polite, I’m givin’ you one last chance t’ agree to the requirement I’ve laid down. Otherwise, it’s banishment forever from this valley, and to a place where I guarantee you’ll get no rest.”
Nagaroth shook his head slowly. “You are a fit opponent, I avow. Yet you are but mortal, while I am one with the eternal elements. You will die here, as will all who come after you: man, woman, or child.” The demon raised both arms skyward. “I will build terraces of their bones.”
“Have it your way, then.” It was Malone’s turn to shake his head. “I swan, but demons are stubborn folk.” As the mountain man lifted one foot high, Nagaroth prepared to parry what it expected to be a blow of feeble and futile mortal strength.
But Malone did not kick out. Instead, he brought his foot down hard; once, twice, several times in succession. Rattled, the earth shook underfoot, and the resulting concussion knocked bewildered squirrels out of their trees for a mile around.
Six times Malone stamped the ground, then six times again. By the third set of six, Nagaroth was sensing the imminency of his coming triumph. If kicking dirt was the best this insolent human could muster by way of a defense, then their confrontation was nearing an end before it had even begun. Lifting first one leg out of the mud, then the other, he started forward, great hands outstretched. No slow boiling for this one, he decided. He would smother it, fill its impudent mouth with hot mud, until it choked.
A fountain of flame erupted between Malone and the oncoming demon. So hot was it that the very rocks themselves seemed to draw back in fear. A blast of sulfur corrupted the clean mountain air. Worthless looked on a moment, then dropped his head and went back to nibbling calcite.