“THAT AIN’T NOTHIN’ but goosegaw,” said Cooter Palfrey, flinging back his cup of fire water and swallowing it with a decided squelch. He motioned to the barmaid for a top-off.

     Old Bale eyed Cooter measured-like. He had seen things in this life, and Coot was young and just getting on as a trapper. The boy had much to learn about the world yon. By their faces, several of the onlookers harbored these selfsame sentiments.

     “It ain’t goosegaw,” said Old Bale. “I seen’t him with mine own eyes: short as a melonhead ‘n’ lithe as a wampus cat, Ol’ Man Peapod. Wore nothin’ but croker sack, even fer boots. Lived up yon Blunt Mountain in a little hermitage. Yer ken still go an see its ruins if yer have the mind ‘n’ persistence to look. Yer ken see where he used ter talk ter the animals ‘n’ tend his garden. Furnished muscadine as large as a feller’s fist, turnips as long as yorn arm. Grow’d himself taters bigger ‘n’ my own head, I reck’n! Jes like the ol’ days, afore humans come ‘round the Ossies. Ol’ Man Peapod, he warn’t one of them holy folk neither, nor any kind of ‘grewbrood. Ain’t no magic in his blood, no sir. Learnt him the tongue of beasts by jes sittin’ with ‘em, ‘n’ they taught him the secrets of the soil. That’s how he come ter work it like that. Even tamed himself a golden bear ‘n’ rode it about as a jument.”

   Cooter sneered at this and quaffed more of the fire water. The onlookers giggled among themselves.

    “You gents heed Mr. Bale now,” said the barmaid, who everyone knew as Miss Florinda—owner and operator of the saloon. “Mr. Bale has seen his fair share of wonders, and I have never known him to be a weaver of tall tales.”

      Old Bale smiled at Cooter, relishing in the endorsement.

    “You shore do talk pretty, Miss Florinda,” said one of the onlookers. She thanked the man and turned and issued Old Bale a wink and topped off his beer. Florinda was as graceful as she was shrewd and as shrewd as she was mighty fine to look at, too. Hers was a kind of genteel comeliness, though one beset by nameless troubles which afforded her a meanness equivalent when the need arose for its summoning. Old Bale supposed one had to be as much to run an enterprise such as this—to bring the patrons in and keep them coming back all while ensuring they played nice-like during their stay. Florinda wore a big Gauthier pistol on the left hip of her skirt, twistwise, for all to see and contemplate. A repeating rifle slept under the countertop when reinforcements were necessary. Likely, there were suchlike arms stowed in other places, both on the person and about the saloon, but Old Bale knew not their fashion or positioning.

     The saloon was a large tent space, the big top kind, wide enough and high enough for a proper jamboree when the season called for it and the season called for it every Saturday night from spring to fall and always proved a wild time for those in attendance. Florinda’s attracted the hardest, wiliest, meanest, queerest, smelliest itinerants west of the Grand Mountains. All races, places, creeds, and breeds. All come to gander, gamble, gabble, gobble, or grumble. Even Florinda herself was some type of character, even if she kept the details of that shadowy backstory a secret to all who met her. Old Bale had never heard her speak of it, and the patrons made a game of weaving their own yarns about how and why a-lady-like-that-come-to-a-place-like-this.

     A tapping arose at the far end of the bar and Florinda whirred away like an actress taking stage cues at some big-lighted variety show, the sort patrons of this here saloon might frequent just as often.

     “Be right with you, gents,” she said. “You just make yourselves comfortable and I’ll pour you some fire water. Get your cups out. Yes, that’s good. Here you are.”

     “I got me one better,” said Dizzy Lagune, a local prospector and regular patron of Florinda’s. Her voice filled the vacuum produced by the barmaid’s departure—a timbre soused with the rapacious fanaticism of a Trembler proselyte set upon those of a less civilized caste. Like Cooter Palfrey, Dizzy was fledging to the trade of pick and pan, but the lessons of Old Bale’s wilderness lore hadn’t been lost on her like it had on the trapper. No, Dizzy was a believer, and Old Bale liked believers.

     “There was a feller come from my neck o’ the woods long ago. My papaw know’d him ‘n’ told us youngers the tale. Tough as a blue ox, this feller was, I reck’n. Fashioned himself a coal miner for a time. Broked ore with his bare fists; just lopped it clean off the tunnel wall like a pile driver on stone.”

     “I t’ink yar head’s been pile-driv t’ere, Dizz,” said one bedraggled Tollander. Huge guffaws burst forth among the onlookers in a gaggle of epileptic shaking both raucous and soundless.

   Dizzy mocked the man’s accent with walled eyes and an underhanded scratching motion as if miming some kind of queer ape, and the insult only increased the throng’s stridency, this time in the opposite direction.

    “Anyway!” Dizzy Lagune said with great emphasis, looking sidelong at the Tollander. “As I was sayin’, there was a saloon back east—The Horse Fly Trap, I reck’n it was called—‘n’ every week there, management put up arm-wrestlin’ competitions for cash money. Fifty plews to the crowned champion, I shit you not. Bellow Armstrong, that’s the feller’s name my papaw told us about, well, he just plumb won all of ‘em ‘n’ took that prize money without anyone questionin’ whether or not he deserved it. Ain’t nobody nowhere could match up to ol’ Bellow. As sure as Perdition’s cold.

    “Well, one night, after word got around of ol’ Bellow’s undefeated streak, this rich plantation feller—yer know, one o’ them gentleman types—come in with a Yeti slave, ‘n’ he bets ol’ Bellow cain’t beat his chattel in no arm-wrestlin’ match, ‘n’ all that talk about bein’ champ warn’t nothin’ but bonified compost. Even put up two-hundred plews in crisp graybacks just to verify his confidence in the matter. Ol’ Bellow, well he ain’t never backed down from nobody, so he agreed to the match right away, to be held at that very moment. A real prize fight, you might say. Well, the two o’ them, they squared up at the table ‘n’ locked arms, ‘n’ the whole room fall’d silent with antisserpation. This was human versus Yeti. Man versus beast. A clash of the races. Civilization against the wild.”

     “So, what happened?” said Old Bale, watching Dizzy over the rim of his tumbler.

    “What happened was somethin’ ain’t nobody expected. See, them two opponents gave it everythin’ they had, but no matter how hard either of ‘em pushed, ain’t nobody moved anybody any which way—nary an inch, nary less! Naw, them two were stuck’d in a stalemate right there at the startin’ position, elbow to elbow, hand in hand.

    “Then ol’ Bellow, well, he let out the gods-damndest yell you ever done heard—loud enough to crack stones, said my papaw. Then, with a great heave, he flung’d that big ol’ skunk ape down, ‘n’ dunnit so hard that he cut a crater in the ground ‘n’ formed Lake Stowe at the same time!”

     The bar detonated in a nimbus of wild laughter and jeering. Whoops and hollers. Someone in the back was clapping, another smacked a thigh. Even Cooter Palfrey gave a wry chuckle this time, shaking his head as if embarrassed by having any reaction at all. Old Bale liked the prospector’s yarn; it certainly upped his own ante, and he watched Dizzy Lagune raise her mug to the throng in a manner that interpreted all excitations as avowals of good opinion.

      “Not bad, young’n,” said Old Bale. “Not bad at all.”

      “That ain’t nothin’,” came a new voice suddenly, stopping Dizzy mid-sip and the onlookers mid-rally.

    Old Bale eyed the newcomer with surprise; the fellow had taken up residence to the old man’s immediate right, upon the plat of counter space nearest the tent flaps. The faint pong of hog lots tarried about this individual like a mien, and the stranger was dressed in befilthed work clothes not unlike a practitioner of the occupation. The stranger’s face was huge and furred with thick beardage clean shaven at the neck, an equally enormous pair of hairy hands cupped about both sides of his tumbler as if he were some blind troll sitting in quiet supplication. A tattered derby, millinered for a sarsen, rested on the man’s left knee—a pronounced widow’s peak arching up and down the veiny pate made visible in the article’s absence.

      “I got one that beats all,” said the stranger.

      “That so?” said Old Bale, eyeing the man. “What makes ye so sure?”

      “’Cause this one ain’t no yarn.”

    Dizzy Lagune scoffed and muttered something under her breath. Giggles and murmurs jibbered hither and thither.

      “Y’all ever heard of Jackalope Juni Lightfoot?” said the stranger.

      “Not that I reck’n,” Old Bale said.

      Heads waggled in further confirmation of this.

    “Well, I’ll tell ye of her, ‘n’ a race she run’d in them early days when our kind first come to the Western Theater. Mind y’all, this was before the crusades ‘n’ all that, when us ‘n’ the ‘grews were still feelin’ each other out.”

    “N’ up,” said Dizzy Lagune. Howls poured forth. The stranger grinned, tipping an invisible hat brim Dizzywise. She acknowledge the gesture with a nod.

     The stranger went on. “Say what ye might, youngblood, but this tale’s about the greatness of our kind, ‘n’ yer ain’t gone find one truer. See, back then, them ‘grews didn’t know what ter make of the Seyorians3. We was all just testin’ each other out. So one day, both our groups organized a friendly race in the spirit of sportsmanship. Now Jackalope, she was the fastest scout in the corps, so naturally she done got put up fer the event. Jackalope was so fast, they said a feller could be lookin’ right at her, blink, ‘n’ she’d be gone—run’d off so quick it was like she jes disappeared. That’s how she got her name. She could run down a jackalope ‘n’ catch it by the horns, ‘n’ ain’t nothin’ faster than a Jackalope ‘cept mayhap the great Warwind hisself.

     “Now, the race was set fer first light on the next first day of the week—on Lake Ossimi’s western beach. Jackalope, she come dressed in her buckskins as usual, but nary slippers nor boots as she believed they’d only slow her down-like.”

      “Liable ter wear her out, though,” said Old Bale. “Them sharp rocks ‘n’ roots ‘n’ sich.”

     “Well, that’s what she gone did,” the stranger continued, as if the matter was, in fact, a matter of fact, and would remain so in perpetuity. “As fer her opponent, the ‘grews put up a big buck by the sign of Indoelu—a black-winged, red-haired specimen with eyes so damned blue-cold they’d chase Perdition away. Indoelu, the Ossimies said, was the fastest flyer among their kind bar none.”

      “I tawt t’is was a foot race,” interrupted the Tollander, looking dubious as ever.

     “It was, at first, but see ol’ Jackalope upped the stakes that fateful morn. Tolt them ‘grews to put her up against their best flyer, ‘n’ if she couldn’t beat that mangy buzzard in a foot race ter the top of Ragged Mountain—him flyin’ while she a-runnin’—why, the Seyorians would plumb up ‘n’ leave the Western Theater fer good. ‘Course, this made her commandin’ officer pretty mad, seein’ how Jackalope ain’t had no authority ter tender suchlike, but them ‘grews took her up on the bet, ‘n’ so ter go back on her word woulda meant death upon all our folk in attendance.”

      The gaggle stirred right then, exchanging anxious glances though speaking not a word in the act. Old Bale followed suit, issuing not so much as a breath. All concentration was awarded to the stranger and his queer tale, which, by his own allegation, was a reality truer than the existence of the gods.

     “...So Jackalope sets down her possibles ‘n’ sets herself up cozy-like alongside that big buck she was set ter race. Then the colonel of Juni’s regiment, I ferget the name, raised up a Locke pistol ‘n’ said, ‘At the sound of the shot, begin. First to reach Ragged Mountain’s peak is declared winner in the sight of all—angel and human.’

    “Brethren, I tell ye, the tension was so thick ‘n’ that hour it coulda been bottled ‘n’ sold at the store. Both sides wanted ter see their champion victorious, but since Jackalope done made that crazy bet, her loss woulda meant certain death fer them Seyorians, seein’ as how we ain’t had the weapons ter stand up ter ‘grew magic yet.

      “For the Seyorians, t’was win or die.

     “Then the shot came—ker-pow! The ‘grew buck took ter the sky, ‘n’ Jackalope broke’d out inna sprint fer the mountain, ‘n’ the force of her kick-off was so great it done stirred up the first ‘n’ only dust bowl right there in the Ossimiland.”

      Snickers and whispers from the throng. The corner of Old Bale’s mouth ticked up and settled.

      “Now that ‘grew flew hard ‘n’ fast, wings a-pumpin’, hair a-whippin’ in the wind, ‘n’ at first it took all the mustard ol’ Jackalope could summon just to keep the rascal in sight. But that’s the thing about ol’ Jackalope, see; the bigger the challenge, the more determined she was, ‘n’ the more determined she was, the faster she up ‘n’ run’d. Soon she was out pacin’ that flyin’ buzzard, scramblin’ up the mountain so fast that when she reached the finish line, her opponent was jes passin’ overhead. At that moment, Jackalope leaped into the sky and up ‘n’ done plucked a feather from that ‘grews wings jes ter let him know the Seyorians were here to stay!”

    “Horse manure!” said Cooter Palfrey, pounding the bartop. “Ain’t no way no human run’d that fast, ‘n’ ain’t no way she jumped that high.”

     “Only it did happen, youngblood,” said the stranger in a tone of the utmost quietude. “The race was declared a tie, I reck’n, ‘n’ it’s said the power of that leap was so great, the top of Ragged Mountain planed flat as a butte, ‘n’ was thus renamed Blunt Mountain forevermore.

      “Oh, ol’ Jackalope did it. The tale is real ‘n’ true, corroborated by many eyewitnesses.”

      “Unless I see the feather with my own eyes I’ll naught believe it,” said the trapper.

     “Ye mean this one, youngblood?” the stranger held up a curious thing that drew all in attendance to a gasp. Between his fingers, the stranger flourished a single, black flight feather, its length greater than any man’s forearm and wider than the stranger’s own palm pinky to thumb. The room observed the pinion with bemused wonderment. It certainly looked Angrew, but was it indeed the feather of the stranger’s tale?

    “Ain’t no way that’s a grew feather!” said Cooter Palfrey, though without any conviction in his words. “‘N’ ‘sides, even if it be, how can we know that’s the feather she done plucked from that buck she raced?”

     “Because ol’ Juni was my great, great, great grandame,” said the stranger, “‘n’ this here heirloom’s been passed down in my family fer two generations now. Yessir, this here’s the feather of note, ‘n’ proof of my tale. But that’s not the only thing I inherited from ol’ Jackalope, I reck’n.”

   “What ye mean?” said Dizzy, her words tinctured with curiosity now. But the stranger merely placed a finger over his lips and drained the rest of his tumbler without further issuance.

    The gaggle sneered at the man’s non-answer and returned to talking amongst themselves, debating whether or not this stranger’s yarn was true, or if the fellow was indeed some kind of grifter as they had suspected. Suddenly, a shout arose and Cooter Palfrey was on his feet and pointing with hysterical jibbers in the stranger's direction.

    Old Bale spun about, afeared by what terrible thing awaited him there, but when his mind cleared and his eyes fixed, he found the stranger was gone, an empty tumbler all that marked the man’s former presence among them.

   “He... He was jes there!” stammered the trapper. “I was lookin’ right at him. I ain’t but done blinked ‘n’... I reck’n I ain’t even turn’t my head! It was like he jes… disappeared.”

    This, of course, stirred up quite a fit of laughter, followed by arguments over whether or not young Coot had imbibed himself too much fire water this night. However, Old Bale watched thoughtfully. He understood the stranger’s meaning now. Indeed, he understood it very well.

      Old Bale grinned and sipped from his tumbler and thought on all the wonders of the world.

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