Mad Amos Malone

Stuck

Has anyone ever asked you, “If you could be reincarnated, what creature would you come back as?” Oddly enough, I always knew the answer. Or least, I have ever since my family visited the Sierra Nevada’s national parks when I was seven years old. From that time on I knew what I would wish to come back as. It’s a choice that hasn’t changed in the intervening sixty-four years.

Of course, even among such imposing life-forms there are bound to be those inclined less to conviviality than irritability. I would hope that, should such a reincarnation occur, I could be more accommodating than the example set forth in this story. Especially if I were to be granted the opportunity to meet Amos Malone. And equally so, his human counterpart in this final tale.

Without question the grove of cinnamon-red, giant trees was one of the most beautiful, inspiring, soul-rejuvenating, spirit-calming, downright sacred places Amos Malone had ever visited. At least, it was until he heard the cry for help.

Riding astride Worthless, who was less than happy with the limited flavors of the local undergrowth and ventured his opinion by occasionally spitting out something the horse deemed not worthy of dissolution by his digestive juices, Malone had made his way up into the fabulous mountain country that had been described to him down in the valley. If anything, the farmers with whom he had spoken had understated the majesty of the untouched sequoia forest. The gargantuan ginger-toned columns that towered around him on either side reminded him less of other trees and more of the massive stone columns of the great temple at Luxor.

The cool lingering droplets of a just-concluded Sierra storm still perspired from branches high overhead and mushed beneath Worthless’s huge feet. Swathed in his buckskin and furs, Malone was quite comfortable. Familiar with the vagaries of mountain weather, he suspected that by midmorning he would need to doff his outer raiment lest he begin to sweat himself. This dermatological exposure would inevitably set free a personal bouquet which he, from experience, was reluctant to inflict even on a passel of passing marmots, far less upon another human being. Fortunately, there appeared to be none of the latter about, and so his questionable personal hygiene would remain a matter for he himself.

There was, however, the possible intrusion on his solitude of someone unknown calling out for help.

Despite the notoriety the giant trees had begun to acquire, lack of ready accessibility to their mountain vastness had kept the grove through which he was currently wandering free of all but the most determined adventurer. That was a situation that would likely change with time, he knew, but for the moment the peace and tranquility of his surroundings remained inviolate. Except for the intermittent cry for assistance.

Pulling back lightly on the reins, he brought Worthless to a halt, leaned forward, and listened intently. There was no panic in the shouts he was hearing, no intimation of fear. Whoever was calling for aid was not being attacked by a catamount nor clinging perilously to the knife edge of a cliff. It was a measured, periodic yelp, forceful and determined but absent of panic.

Yet a cry for help was a cry for help, Malone knew. Straightening in the saddle and tugging again on the reins, Malone inclined Worthless in its direction. Responding with a characteristic squint eye, the muscular mélange of Percheron, quarterhorse, Shire, Arabian, Indian pony, and something not of the current reality as most folks know it, turned and headed in the indicated direction, picking up the pace as he did so. All the while, Malone listened, adjusting his mount’s path according to the perceived location of each periodic outcry.

It wasn’t long before they entered a small glade within a cathedral-like grove of the gigantic trees. It was there that the calls for help seemed to resound the loudest. A quick survey of the surroundings revealed no supplicant. It was dead silent, if one discounted Worthless’s intermittent passing of horse gas. It was not soon after their arrival, however, that the voice Malone had been hearing once again called out strong and clear.

“Up here!”

Leaning slightly back in his saddle, Malone looked up. And up, and up, having to squint almost as hard as Worthless. It took a moment for him to spot the man standing where a branch emerged from the mighty trunk some two hundred and fifty feet above the ground. While Malone’s vision was sharp, the distance and intervening verdure made it difficult to distinguish details. What he could see of the caller revealed a man of about Malone’s own age, but smaller and slenderer. Even at that distance it could be seen that he boasted a beard of impressive proportions. One that in length, at least, surpassed Malone’s own equally lush facial undergrowth.

“Let me guess,” Malone shouted upward. “You have conquered this ’ere imposin’ ascent only t’ find you are unable to make your way down again, either by your original route or any other.”

Peering down, the man high up the tree called back emphatically. “Not at all, sir. I am more familiar than most with all manner of trees in these mountains, and would have no difficulty making my way down the imposing bole of this one, save for one entirely unexpected peculiarity.”

Malone pursed his lips. “Perhaps I kin be of assistance. I am by way o’ experience somewhat acquainted with unexpected peculiarities, Mr. …?”

“John,” came down the voice from above. “Call me John. Everyone does. John of the mountains, sometimes.”

“Then I will partake o’ the general verdict, John, and call you thet. If you will instruct me as to the particular peculiarity that prevents you descendin’ from your elevated perch, I will endeavor t’ lend a hand. Most particular, I have to ask… why can’t you come down?”

“This most obstinate and infuriating tree won’t let me.”

“I see.” It was then that Malone’s vision noted the pair of smaller branches that were wrapped respectively around the man’s chest and thighs, pinning him to a trunk that was still impressive in girth even at altitude. He pondered a moment. Worthless glanced back at him, snorted, and bent to masticate pinecones. The consequent crunching, which produced a sound like boots punching through a crust of new-frozen snow, echoed through the forest. “Why not?”

“Och, how should I know?” came the somewhat exasperated voice from on high. The Scottish burr was unmistakable.

“Well now.” Malone scratched at the back of his neck where something small and multilegged was presently attempting to set up residence without paying rent. “Have you tried askin’ the tree?”

A moment’s silence preceded the slowly considered reply. “There are some who say that I am mad, sir, for doing things like climbing trees to experience the full fury of a thunderstorm in the mountains. That was the specific situation that brought me to my present inexplicable condition and finds me trapped here. But know that I am not mad when I say that as soon as I tried to descend, branches of this giant caught me tight round the body and have held me captive here for some hours now.” The speaker paused, then added, “I fear that in addition to increasing thirst and hunger, I am in some desperate need of a change of undergarments.”

Malone nodded to himself. “There be some also t’ say that I am mad, John of the mountains, so it appears we are brothers in insanity. I reiterate: have you tried asking the tree?”

“Many are the birds whose calls I can imitate, and the cry of the bobcat and the warnings of the deer as well,” came the response, “but while I have addressed terms of admiration and endearment to a wide assortment of growths, I have never yet managed to evoke a reply. Nor, I venture, has any human being.”

“A good deal of it, John,” Malone called back, “has t’ do with the accent. Pine is soft and spoken wholly with the lips, birch speech more of a whispering, while cypress talk must first be begun with a growl and a murmur.” Whereupon the mountain man formed his lips, tongue, palate, and epiglottis into such a wholesale confusion of body parts that any physician able to observe the result would have fainted dead away at the sheer impossibility of the biology. When everything physiological was in place, Malone formally addressed the sequoia.

“’Ere now, you great overgrown slab o’ termite grub: what’s behind this discourteous business o’ holdin’ prisoner that poor thirsty, hungry, soiled feller you’ve got caught in your upstairs?”

There issued from the depths of the ancient growth a rumbling so deep, so subsonic, that it would have made the private cursing of the African elephant seem positively falsetto. John up the tree did not hear it… but he felt it. The blue jays hunting beetles in the needle piles did not hear it. Neither did the fish, nor the fox, nor the ants underfoot hear it. Only Malone possessed the learning and the sensitivity to understand the voice that came forth, seemingly formed of the very earth itself.

“HIS PRESENCE… OFFENDS ME.”

Malone pushed the wolf’s-head cap back off his forehead and wiped away sweat. “Wal now, I didn’t know a tree could take offense.”

“YOU ARE, LIKE THE REST OF YOUR KIND, IGNORANT OF THE WORLD AROUND YOU.”

“Hold on there, big twig. I may be many things, but ignorant ain’t one o’ them. If I’m so ignorant, how come I’m talkin’ t’ you right now?”

There was a pause, then, “I CONCEDE THAT YOU MAY BE MARGINALLY LESS UNKNOWING THAN THE REST OF YOUR KIND.”

Malone decided to be satisfied with that. Arguing with an obstinate sequoia would get him nowhere, nor would it provide the captive John with his much-desired change of underwear.

“If you don’t mind my askin’, what precisely about your visitor’s presence offends you so much that you refuse t’ let him down?”

“HE CAME UP WITHOUT ASKING. THAT IS HOW I HAVE SEEN HUMANS TREAT MY KIND. THEY DO WHATEVER THEY DESIRE, WITHOUT ASKING.”

Ever since their arrival in the glade, a pair of brother wolves had been stalking the new arrivals. They were very close now, crouched just behind a thick clump of bushes. Tongues lolling, they charged, aiming for Worthless’s copious hindquarters. Snarling, they leaped with mouths agape and fangs dripping. Malone spared them a brief glance before returning his attention to the sequoia.

Without looking back, Worthless kicked out with his hind right leg. It caught the first wolf under his jaw. The impact caused the unfortunate predator to describe four complete backward somersaults before finally landing in a dense copse of gooseberry from which subsequently only a confused whimpering could be heard. Lunging for a leg, the second wolf found itself pinned beneath an oversized hoof. With Worthless’s weight atop it, it scrabbled frantically at the ground with its paws, fighting for breath, as the horse calmly resumed his methodical devastation of nearby grass, primrose, and bracken fern.

“This John, he strikes me as a good sort o’ feller,” Malone continued. “One who holds nothin’ but the greatest respect fer all Nature, and especially fer trees. I’m sure he’d be happy to apologize fer any imposition.”

“TOO LATE!” the sequoia roared. Upper branches shook while lower branches that were themselves greater in diameter than the surrounding pines and firs trembled ever so slightly. “I HAVE MADE MY DECISION! LET HIS REMAINS BE A LESSON TO ANY WHO SHOULD COME AND TRY TO DO LIKEWISE. I WILL HOLD HIM CLOSE UNTIL WIND AND RAIN AND TIME HAVE REDUCED HIM TO WORM FOOD!”

“Now, now,” murmured Malone soothingly, “turnin’ admirin’ visitors into worm food ain’t very hospitable. There’ll likely be more a-comin’ t’ gape at you and yours, and no matter how many you try to worm-food-ize, ’tis likely you’ll fail to do ’em all.” He gestured with a huge, gnarled hand. “Fer one thing, you’re somewhat handicapped by a noticeable lack o’ digits. You just got lucky when John here decided t’ favor you with a visit.”

“I WILL FIND A WAY!” The entire enormous bulk of the sequoia quivered slightly. “I WILL HOLD THEM ALL, ONE BY ONE, UNTIL THEY LEARN THE WISDOM OF KEEPING THEIR DISTANCE!” Silence was followed by a comment that sounded somewhat uncertain. “YOUR ANIMAL IS DEFILING MY ROOTS.”

Leaning over, Malone glanced down at the ground beneath Worthless, then straightened. “That by its simple liquid self ought t’ prove to you that if a visitor don’t make contact with you directly, there ain’t much you can do. Oh, I suppose you could drop a branch or two on ’em, but self-mutilation has its limits. Why not try bein’ a mite friendlier instead?” Rising slightly in the saddle, he took in the rest of the magnificent grove with a single sweeping gesture. “Your relations hereabouts don’t seem near half as aggrieved as yourself.”

“THEY CHOOSE TO REMAIN STUPID, IGNORANT, AND SILENT, INDIFFERENT TO INTRUSION.”

Malone shook his head sadly as he sat back down. “You’d suppose thet after a couple o’ thousand years o’ sittin’ in one place and jest thinkin’, you’d have developed a better sense o’ community.” Slipping his left leg up and over the pommel, he dropped clear of the saddle and down to the ground.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” The great tree was unafraid, but wary.

“Why, since you won’t let poor John go, I reckon I’m goin’ to have t’ come up and git him,” Malone replied as he twiddled his fingers at one of the saddlebags that was slung over Worthless’s back. The buckle obediently came open.

“YOU WILL NEVER REACH HIM. YOU WILL NOT SURVIVE!”

Ignoring the threat, Malone slipped the steel tree spurs onto his boots. Though fire-resistant, almost bug-proof, and sometimes more than two feet thick, the auburn-colored bark of the giant sequoia was comparatively soft and fibrous. The spurs would find excellent purchase. Pulling a coil of rope from the same saddlebag, Malone slung it over his right shoulder.

Walking up to the base of the tree, he had to lean back to locate the most promising way upward. Without preamble, he began to climb. His thick, powerful fingers dug almost as deeply into the tree’s outer layer as did the sharp metal of the spurs. The sequoia of course felt no discomfort. But it was wholly aware of Malone’s presence as he ascended.

The mountain man was far above the ground before he reached the first enormous branch. This extended outward as if a full-size Douglas fir had been jammed sideways into the trunk. Repositioning his grip, Malone started to swing himself up and onto the curved, waiting platform.

It jerked violently, intending to throw him off and send him on a death spiral toward the ground.

As he clung with fingers and spurs to the sheer face of the tree, a worried voice called down from above.

“Hoy, sir! Are you all right?”

Malone glanced down at the ground. It was very far away and its surface appeared unwelcoming. For one of the few times he could recall, Worthless looked… small. Mouth tightening, he resumed his climb.

Searching upward, he finally spied what he had been hoping for: a stub of a smaller, broken branch that projected stolidly from the side of the tree not far from where its unwilling guest was being restrained. Balancing himself against another branch that remained blessedly immobile, Malone unlimbered the lariat he had brought with him. Leaning back, he formed one end into a loop and flung it swiftly upward. It caught around the stub first try. Snugging it tight gave Malone a speedier way upward. This he proceeded to use to his advantage.

He had ascended half the remaining distance to the captive when the stub abruptly retracted into the side of the tree. The rope that had been looped around it promptly fell free.

Bereft of its support, Malone found himself falling. Looking down, he saw one massive branch rising to meet him and prepared himself for the impact.

Emitting a woody, groaning sound, it twisted out of his way, revealing only bare ground below.

Gritting his teeth, Malone yanked the looped end of the rope toward him. In a single twisting motion he passed the other end through the loop and tossed it over the branch that had contorted out of his way. The loop he still held in his hand. The shock traveled hard through his shoulders as the rope caught tight around the lassoed branch.

Clinging to the rope’s free end with both hands, he let his momentum carry him around in a sweeping arc beneath the branch. At the apex of the swing, he let go, timing his release with unnatural precision. The centrifugal force of the swing carried him up, up, until he once again began to descend toward the ground.

Instead, he landed cleanly on the sturdy branch that protruded outward from beneath the feet of the tree’s startled captive. As Malone proceeded to shake free and reel in the unnaturally robust lariat, the still-immobilized prisoner gawked at him in amazement.

“I venture to say, sir, that was the most extraordinary bit of aerial prestidigitation I have ever had the pleasure of beholding! Where in God’s name did you master such a technique?”

Malone shrugged as he coiled the rope, which displayed no sign of the stress it had been asked to absorb. “Here and there, friend. A bit o’ physics, a touch o’ the circus, a smidgen o’ magic.”

“‘Magic’?” The prisoner eyed his rescuer uncertainly.

Malone smiled, revealing teeth that were surprisingly white in stark contrast to the rest of his sun-burned visage. “Mebbe better t’ say a not-so-little birdie taught me. If we ever should have occasion t’ spend a bit o’ time together, I might try to explain.” He turned his attention to the ground, now far below. “But first order o’ business is to git down from where we are, most preferably in one piece. This here tree had a try or two at preventin’ me from comin’ up. I reckon it’ll make something of an effort t’ keep us from gettin’ down.”

“I shall be forever in your debt, Mr. …?”

“Malone. Amos Malone. You kin call me Amos. Or Mad. Where monikers are concerned, I ain’t particular. Kinda like Worthless.”

As the mountain man unsheathed an enormous bowie knife and began to saw at the branches curled around the captive’s body, John looked down toward the ground.

“Your horse? Strange name for a horse.” He squinted as the branch around his chest came away, cut through. “If it is a horse. At this distance I can’t be certain.”

“Like names, distance don’t matter where Worthless is concerned. You’ll find his appearance jest as puzzlin’ close up. Most folks do, though the majority choose not t’ git too close.” Under Malone’s ministrations, the lower branch soon fell away. “There.” He put out a massive hand to steady the former captive, whose muscles were cramped and knotted from hours of being held motionless against the trunk. “Easy. Watch your step. You climbed up. Reckon you kin climb down?”

Rocking his head from side to side to loosen his neck and shoulders, shaking his arms, John smiled. “There isn’t a tree in the Sierra I can’t climb or descend. At least, when they’re not actively engaged in countering my efforts.”

Malone nodded approvingly. “Then let’s be about it, afore this father o’ clothespins cogitates up some further mischief t’ keep us from shinnyin’ back down t’ mother earth.”

Despite Malone’s unease the tree did nothing to hinder their downward progress. This they accomplished at admirable speed, with Malone marveling at John’s talent for finding every possible hand- and foothold in the bark and branches. They were almost to the ground when something with the force of a spring-loaded bear trap slammed shut against Malone’s right hand.

Nearby, he heard John yell. A glance sideways showed the other man still some ten feet above the ground, only inches from the easy footpath that would have been provided by the nearest bulging root mass. Just his face, hands, and feet were visible. The rest of him was trapped within the side of the tree. Two opposing flaps of the deeply fluted bark had slammed shut around his body, pinning him in place.

Even as he deciphered what he was seeing, Malone found himself caught between a pair of similar parallel, vertical ridges. Though he reacted with speed astonishing for such a big man, his hips and back were still caught by the enfolding strips of bark. Soft it might be, but sequoia bark was also tough. Malone’s hands were free, but his knife was caught up within the fibrous restraints. He could kick at the tree, which he did, and he could slam his huge fists against the bark, which he did. He might as well have been kicking and punching the side of a mountain. Which in a sense he was, only in this instance the mountain was made of wood.

Imprisoned within opposing folds of thick bark, the two men were well and truly trapped.

He tried whispering certain words of power he knew. But they were intended only for the hearing of the great kauri of Aotearoa. He tried spit and curses suitable for persuading the inscrutable ginkgo. He tried forgotten languages and refulgent pleas. He recited relevant phrases from the Kalevala and Theophrastus’s Enquiry. Nothing worked.

The tree spoke: slow, subsonic, and triumphant. “BOTH WORM FOOD NOW.”

“Let us go.” Malone was dead serious. “Let us go or it will end badly for you.”

The sequoia could not laugh, but managed to express its amusement nonetheless. “MEATFOOD FOR WORMS, BLOOD AND BONE FOR ME. BUT I WILL LET YOU GO. IN A THOUSAND YEARS. PERHAPS.”

A more normal voice, one that propagated through the air, reached the trapped mountain man. “I am sorry to have gotten you into this, Amos Malone.” Straining forward and looking to his right, Malone could just see the other man’s face peering out from within the bark coffin that imprisoned him. “I have always gotten along well with trees, until now. Until this one.”

“It’s an ornery cuss fer sure,” Malone replied calmly. “Mighty tetchy personality fer a hunk o’ wood. I reckon it needs to be taught some politeness. You said you could call deer and bobcat. Any other critters?”

“Birds,” came the reply from across the tree. “Many birds.”

Malone shook his head sadly. “I reckon a few chickadees won’t be of much assistance in our current situation. More forceful intervention is demanded. Somethin’ considerable more powerful.”

Turning away from the other man and pursing his lips, he whistled sharply.

“CALL WHAT YOU WISH,” the exultant tree challenged him. “A DOZEN MOUNTAIN LIONS COULD NOT CLAW YOU FREE. A HUNDRED BEARS COULD NOT RELEASE YOU. A THOUSAND WAPITI WOULD NOT MOVE ME AN INCH!”

From the mountain man’s mouth came forth such a stream of sounds that the other prisoner could only listen, marvel, and try to identify them. In addition to whistles of varying pitch and tone, there were a series of clicks, a kind of toothy chatter, a multitude of chirps, and a positive profusion of peeps and patterings. To John it all sounded at once familiar and alien, as if he had heard the very same sounds only arranged in a different order, in different harmonies.

It was then that something drew the attention of his sight instead of his hearing. A line was coming toward them—a line just under the ground. The upraised soil formed a positive streak, as if whatever was causing it just beneath the surface was moving with unnatural urgency. A second line soon appeared, then another, and another, all converging at the base of the tree… where they proceeded, in silence, to disappear.

Looking up from his browsing, a querulous Worthless inclined his head toward his imprisoned master. With a knowing snort, he resumed demolishing the nearby ground cover. As he did so, he kicked irritably at the ground with a back foot. Thus inadvertently relieved of the massive steed’s unrelenting weight, the wolf that had remained pinned under the horse’s rear left hoof let out a long, tremulous wheeze and gasped several times for air. Righting itself, it staggered shakily toward the clump of brush that contained its badly bruised and still-whimpering brother.

John continued to struggle against his immovable wooden bonds while wondering what the whistling, chirping, chit-chitting mountain man was up to. And what could be the significance of those converging lines in the earth?

“What’s going on?”

Ceasing what John could only describe as an infernal chittering, Malone looked over at him.

“In the mountains, the catamount is more ferocious, the bear stronger, the wapiti more numerous. But those are the dangerous critters you see.” He cast his gaze downward. “Not everything thet eats, not everything with sharp teeth, likes t’ show itself. Try listenin’.”

John hesitated, then decided to do as the mountain man instructed. He heard nothing beyond the ordinary midday song of the Sierra: scolding jays, the songs of smaller birds, the intermittent sigh of the wind in the branches. He said as much to Malone.

“Try harder,” the mountain man advised him. “Focus. Listen deep.”

Closing his eyes, the other man complied, straining to hear whatever it was to which Malone was alluding. More of the same, it was. Except… just there, just then. Something else. Something below him. A sound in multiples, deep beneath, and this time recognizable.

The sound of chewing.

While he considered himself a man of many words, and good ones at that, John peered across the breadth of the tree at Malone and found that at that moment he had none. Leastwise, none that were suitable, or could be expressed in polite company.

Finding its way into Malone’s mouth, a wandering caterpillar quickly saw itself expectorated halfway into the next county.

“You say y’know about all the trees hereabouts, John of the mountains. Then you know that despite their great size, these giants soarin’ around us have one weakness and one only. Their roots are shallow.” He peered downward, listening intently even as he spoke. “’Tis all about the teeth, John-friend. Not as sharp as catamount teeth, not as powerful as a bear’s, but plenty sharp enough to do their daily work. One pair can’t cut much. A dozen pair would do better work still. A few hundred or so, now, all gnawin’ away together… After a bit o’ hard work, why, I reckon thet kind o’ activity would be sufficient t’ get the attention o’ any growth. Even one as humungous and disagreeable as our captor here.”

As sure as the color of Millie’s bloomers matched the flush of her cheeks, the great tree spoke up once again.

“WHAT IS HAPPENING? MAKE IT… STOP.”

“Let us go.” Malone’s tone was quiet but demanding.

“I WILL NOT…. YOU MUST MAKE IT STOP!” A shudder traveled through the entire length and breadth of the enormous bole. “MAKE IT STOP NOW!”

“Let us go… now.” Malone was resolute. Nearby, Worthless let out a complementary whinny.

There came a rippling around him. Thick folds of bark drew back, back, until he could move freely once again. Swinging his arms and stretching, he climbed down the side of the aboveground mass of the nearest root. A glance showed that John, unprompted, was doing likewise.

Standing once more emancipated and on solid ground, Malone turned his attention not to the root he had just descended but to the earth at its base. As John looked on, the mountain man pursed his lips and emitted a series of chirps and whistles not unlike those that had emanated from him prior to their liberation. At his command, a single body popped out of the earth to stare at him, then another, and another, until at least a dozen of the subterranean denizens had responded to his calling.

John looked on in silent amazement as his towering companion knelt. The multitude of tiny saviors, a fraction of those who had done the necessary work, swarmed over and around him: ground squirrels, gophers, moles, and voles, their diminutive tongues licking and tasting of the mountain man. Two badgers emerged from the ground, wandered over, and nuzzled Malone’s boots. Then, one and all, they scampered and scattered back into their holes in the earth and disappeared.

In his life of observant wandering, John had seen many wonders, but nothing to compare with what had just revealed itself before him.

“Magic. There can be no other rational explanation.”

“Rationality’s somethin’ I find is frequently overused by way o’ explanation.” Malone indicated the temple of silent redwood giants beneath which they stood. “Now, these trees, this here place—that be a true definition o’ magic.” Rising from his crouch, he put a hand on the other man’s shoulder, his leathery open palm completely covering it. “Will you be all right now, John-friend?” He shook a chiding finger at his new acquaintance. “No more climbin’ trees in thunderstorms?”

Behind his impressive beard, the other man grinned. “Not without first asking permission of the tree in question, anyways. I thank you for my freedom, Mr. Malone. I think I shall write about you in my journal.”

The mountain man let out a grunt. “Waste o’ time, methinks. Nobody’d believe such a story. Doesn’t make no sense.” His face broke out in a huge grin.

“Until their existence was witnessed and reported upon,” John murmured reverently, “no one believed that such trees as these endured, either.”

Malone nodded once in solemn agreement. “Kin I give you a ride somewhere, John o’ the mountains?”

Having turned, the other man was already striding off toward the north. “Thank you, but no. My kit is nearby and hung well out of the reach of wandering bears. Also, I confess that the thought of being in any closer proximity to your steed unsettles my stomach even more than does spending time atop a tree in a Sierra thunderstorm. Good traveling to you, Mr. Malone, sir.” Halfway to the nearby ridge, he looked over at the singular sequoia that had imprisoned him, and for a while also, at Malone. “I can, however, assure you that in these mountains there is at least one tree that I will not be ascending again any time soon.”

Swinging himself up and into the saddle on Worthless’s back, Malone gripped the reins loosely in his right hand. At a gentle flick of the leather strands, the enigmatic steed started forward, a clutch of purple lupine hanging incongruously from his mouth. Raising a hand, Malone waved at the rapidly disappearing form of the other man and called out to him.

“I wouldn’t be too hard on the woody old grouch,” he shouted. “Even if his bark was worse than his height.”