The old man looked after him for a moment, then turned back to the untethered horse that was part Percheron, part Arabian, and parts of something other. Appraising the reins falling vertical and unsecured, he took a step toward them. Swinging its head around, the unclassifiable quadruped closed one eye, squinted out of the other, and gave a snort. That did not give the tough oldster pause. What did was the puff of smoke that emerged from both equine nostrils to feather away into the early evening air.
Abruptly smacked upside the head with second thoughts, the old man turned around right quick and began to walk away. Swiftly, with an occasional nervous glance back over his shoulder. Seeing that the horse was still watching him and perhaps detecting a flicker of red in that single squinting eye, the oldster proceeded to accelerate his pace accordingly.
Malone just did avoid nudging the cat with his right foot as he entered the saloon’s main room. A fleeting glance in the animal’s direction as it darted in off the street and dashed past him showed an ordinary tabby of average size. Its coat was in surprisingly good shape for a street cat, in coloration falling somewhere between gold and tan, with a distinctive black swath running across its upper back from shoulder to shoulder. Hugging the baseboard while striving to be as inconspicuous as possible, it raced away from Malone to disappear among the tables.
These were occupied by the usual assortment of cardplayers, double-dealers, braggarts, liars, cowpokes, military veterans, military deserters, failed gold miners, unremarkable townsfolk, and a sprinkling of seriously underdressed women who had lately been deficient in regular church attendance. The volume of their conversation dropped by about half when Malone lumbered into the room. He disliked the effect his size and appearance had on regular folks, but there was nothing much he could do about it.
Making his way to the far end of the bar, he quietly settled down on the last, empty bar stool. This prompted a rush by the half dozen or so patrons seated nearby to vacate their stools, the occupants thereof having experienced a sudden mutual desire to betake themselves somewhere else. When the rest of the crowd saw that the enormous newcomer wasn’t about to pull off anyone’s leg and start gnawing on it, the usual energetic conversation was resumed by the room’s relieved populace.
“Whiskey,” Malone told the barkeep politely. When that uneasy but admirably professional attendant produced a bottle that looked as if it might have been filled at a horse trough, a frown crossed Malone’s face. “Better.” Pulling a less unsanitary container from a shelf on the backbar, the rotund bartender placed it in front of Malone and removed its predecessor. “Better,” the mountain man reiterated.
This time the barkeep dug under the bar until he found and brought forth a stoppered glass bottle immaculate of shape and label. Malone examined it with a practiced eye, then nodded approvingly. “That’ll do. Leave it and a glass.” The barkeep was relieved to comply.
An hour or so passed in silent contemplation. Apart and away from the now-isolated Malone, money was lost, temporary assignations were forged, two men were thrown out for fighting, two women were cheered on for fighting. Vociferous accusations of cheating at cards were resolved without the use of gunplay, which in contrast to the way it was portrayed in dime novels was noisy, dangerous, and counterproductive for all concerned. A steady stream of regulars and visitors came and went.
One of the latter drew more than the usual casual looks, mostly because the fellow had his dog with him. A handsome black chow, it trotted along behind its owner as they made for the bar. The animal certainly was in better shape than its human, who was tall but of a girth suggestive of a pampered life in the city, and not one spent toiling at manual labor. He had two chins or three depending on whether he was looking up or down, an absurdly long thin mustache more suited to the face of a riverboat gambler, and piercing blue eyes that were small and sharp. His nose was plump and red, as if a ripe plum had been plucked from its tree and glued to his face. When he removed his handsome but oversized wide-brimmed hat, it was to reveal a pate ornamented with a flourish of carefully coiffured blond curls. As near as anyone could tell, they were actually growing out of his head and were not the result of some desultory scalping of an anonymous ten-year-old girl.
Defying caution and present convention, he took a seat once removed from where Malone, a mountainous figure wreathed in buckskins, wolf headdress, and Zen, sat steadily working his way through the bottle in front of him. The chow did not sit. Instead, it took up an alert stance directly beside its owner’s stool. The newcomer ordered, took a sip from his glass, had the barkeep pour him another. Looking over, Malone nodded in the direction of the chow.
“Judgin’ by his attitude, your dog don’t seem t’ like me much.”
Jowls aquiver, the man turned blue eyes to him. “It isn’t you.” With evident deliberation, he lowered his gaze. “It’s your cat. Elehzub doesn’t like cats.”
A surprised Malone looked down at his feet. Sprawled half on, half off the upper portion of his right boot was the tabby over whom he had nearly stumbled while entering the saloon. It lay on the battered leather with its eyes shut, one paw under its jaw, purring contentedly. Occasionally it would move its head, rubbing against Malone’s ankle. Given the profound panoply of odors that clung to that outsized footwear, the feline’s response was not surprising.
The newcomer’s attitude, which until now had ranged from placid to outright indifferent, turned suddenly unpleasant. The blue eyes narrowed. “I don’t like cats, either. In fact, I hate cats.”
Deploying a massive shrug, Malone returned to his contemplation of the backbar. A sizable painting hanging there displayed its creator’s modest competency in oils. It showed a somewhat thickset woman lying on a bed in a typically clichéd yet no less pleasant state of complete deshabille.
“Not my cat.”
Having got hold of the issue, the newcomer seemed unwilling to let go of it. “Then what’s it doing lolling in simpering disgust all over your foot?”
Malone did not turn from the aesthetic that was currently holding his attention. “Why don’t you ask the cat?”
It was plain that the visitor was not used to being so casually dismissed. One hand pushed away the half-filled glass resting on the bar before him.
“You are toying with me, sir. Know that I am Gustavus Eyvind Hudiksvall, and I am not one to be toyed with.” He waved in the general direction of the crowd. “Unlike these simpletons, I am not intimidated by your great unhygienic bulk. Would you like to know why?” When Malone chose not to respond, Hudiksvall continued.
“You see this fine animal standing proudly beside me, that has no hesitation in expressing its dislike for your cat? I am not only its master. I am a master of all the dogs of the Americas. It is my profession. It is my avocation. I know American dogs. I understand American dogs. I perceive them and their inner selves in ways that you and others cannot imagine. I comprehend their needs, their desires, their innermost being! Yea, even their thoughts, for those who believe that dogs do not think know nothing of the animal.”
Lovely, Malone thought as he continued to gaze at the painting. He sighed. Just lovely. Someone he had not known, but would have wished to. “Cats think also. They just don’t jump around stupidly and brag about it.”
The color of Hudiksvall’s cheeks began to approach that of the rugoid bulbosity attached to the center of his face. “You persist in playing me for a fool, sir. Well, I will not be played.” He peered down at the chow that was growling softly. A most disagreeable smile creased his wide, wide face. “Neither will Elehzub. I think… I think I will let him eat your cat.”