Mad Amos Malone

A Treefold Problem

In some parts, Amos Malone’s tendency to show up just in time to lend a helping hand to folks in need is almost as famed as his unsettling familiarity with arcane affairs. It’s borderline uncanny how he manages to wander into a situation where his presence ultimately proves useful to ordinary folks in desperate straits. That doesn’t mean he always just jumps right in to offer assistance. But despite harboring the traditional mountain man’s love of privacy, Malone retains a soft spot for those who are put upon by evil. That evil might take the form of a demon, a dragon, a demoiselle, or, to destroy the alliteration, a simple piece of paper. A piece of paper’s capacity for embodying pure evil is frequently underrated.

There was a time in the American West when a simple piece of paper was just that. Then “civilization” moved in, replete with its accountants, lawyers, and politicians. To this day, dealing with them often requires resorting to methods distinctive and unorthodox.

Myself, I’d rather take my chances with the demons. At least brimstone is clean.

The children were wailing, his wife was sobbing, and that pitiless sliver of scum that walked like a man and called himself Potter Scunsthorpe (the individual with whom Owen was arguing fruitlessly) remained as merciless as a bull fixated on chewing three days’ worth of unmasticated cud. To add to the human cacophony at the forest’s edge, a pair of ravens flew past overhead, cackling like a pair of perambulating witches intent solely on taunting Owen Hargrave in his present misery.

Scunsthorpe let the farmer stem-wind for several minutes longer before raising a commanding hand for silence. He had the look of a successful undertaker, did Scunsthorpe, coupled to the unctuous mannerisms of a banker who could squeeze an orange in one hand, a nickel in the other, and get juice out of both. Slender as a reed, his skin the color of wild rice, he was clad in a finely tailored black suit entirely out of keeping with the present woodland surroundings. A black top hat one size too small clung to his white-fringed scalp with grim determination. The single red silk ribbon that protruded from the hatband was the color of blood. From the front of his immaculate white shirt, a gold watch chain dribbled into a bulging pocket. Only his scuffed and dirty boots marked him as a citizen of far Wisconsin and not more civilized New York or Philadelphia. His two troll-like lackeys flanked him, disinterested and anxious to be away.

The subject of the animated and decidedly inequitable discussion between the two men was an inundation of unbroken verdure, a veritable mantle of virgin forest that stretched as far to the west as one could see. White and red pine stabbed at the heavens, interspersed with stout woodland guardians of northern and red oak, red and sugar maple. Here and there a solitary basswood made an appearance, and where sunlight was sufficient, dense thickets of blueberry, wintergreen, and partridgeberry burst forth in energetic tangles.

All this green glory the Hargrave family owned, as part and parcel of their deeded land. It was coveted in turn by Scunsthorpe. The paper he now held out before Owen Hargrave might as well have been signed and stamped by the Devil himself. It was the mortgage to the Hargrave property. As is the way of those who lurk, wormlike, just below the surface of decent society, Scunsthorpe had bought it up on the sly. Now the final, balloon payment was due. Based on their existing equity, a Milwaukee banker would likely have extended credit to the family. Scunsthorpe was no banker. He was brother to the ravens who had just cawed past overhead, and like them, a soulless scavenger.

“The timber is mine by rights of this deed.” It was an evident struggle for Scunsthorpe to speak the words while masking his enjoyment of them. He kissed each vowel with a perverse joy. “That, and the land upon which it stands, and the adjoining farm as well. Together with any buildings, wells, fences, barns, and other physical improvements you may have made thereon.” Unable to restrain himself any longer, he nodded toward the untouched forest. His prominent Adam’s apple bobbed as he spoke. “The law says it is so if you have not cleared this land. I see no evidence of it.”

Hargrave glanced over at his wife, who was trying to ease the crying of their youngest, held in her arms, before once more confronting his tormentor.

“I have explained and explained, sir. It was a difficult winter. I meant fully to hire a crew to at least commence the requisite clearing of the timber, but all our efforts had to be bent to preserving our livestock and thence getting in the spring planting. I had no time left for tree felling.”

Scunsthorpe straightened, which made him loom even higher over the stocky farmer. “My concern is not with the vagaries of the local climate, sir, nor with your petty domestic matters. The law is the law, fixed and immutable.” He swept a scythelike arm to the west. “You have not, as specified, made use of the forest. Therefore it, and all else included in this deed, is now mine by right.”

Unable to contain herself any longer, Hargrave’s wife spoke up, her pleading carrying above the sobs of the children. Only ten-year-old Eli, who gazed at Scunsthorpe with undying hatred, was not bawling uncontrollably.

“But, sir, I beseech you, what are we to do? I would take a job and work myself to pay you something of the cash money you are owed, but with the farm and the children I have little enough time to sleep.”

Scunsthorpe’s mouth drew tight in a line as closed as that of his purse. “Then at least, madam, you will very soon have time to sleep, as the arduous burden of caring for a farm will be lifted from you.”

All of them would have ignored the newcomer save that he could not be ignored. He appeared on the trail that led over the slight rise that hid the farmstead from the discussion, his mount ambling at a leisurely pace along the barely foot-wide pathway. Scunsthorpe certainly would have ignored him had not Hargrave turned to stare, but one cannot continue to denigrate a suddenly indifferent subject. Louisa Hargrave went silent as well, and even the children stifled their sniffling. Ten-year-old Eli simply gaped.

Not a great deal smaller than Forge, the Hargrave’s breeding bull, and considerably hairier, the traveler emitted an odor not altogether different. Attired in abraded buckskins crossed by a double bandolier of huge cartridges, he wore a wolf’s-head cap that gleamed as gray as the cloudy Wisconsin sky. His beard, long hair, and wooly eyebrows were jet black flecked with white, and his equally black eyes peered out from beneath brows that appeared to have been chiseled from granite instead of bone. His mount, a proportionately enormous beast, was likewise black as night save for flashes of ivory at tail, fetlocks, and one circle that surrounded a squinting eye. A patch on its forehead concealed an odd bulge. It pawed once at the ground and snorted derisively as its rider brought it to a stop.

“With all this ’ere yellin’,” the mountain man opined, “a feller can’t hardly hear the forest think.”

“With all goodwill, let it be said that this is a private matter, sir, and it be none of your business. It is advised that you continue on your chosen path, whereupon the silence of the woods will soon once more envelop you.” Irritated at having the pleasure of taking possession thus interrupted, Scunsthorpe was in no mood for digression, especially when it was propounded by a total stranger.

Making no move to secure the reins, the giant slid with surprising litheness off his mount and came forward. His approach woke Scunsthorpe’s minions from their torpor. Both tensed. The one on Scunsthorpe’s left, a thickly constructed gentleman of the colored persuasion who looked as if he had been run over by one of the Wisconsin Central’s trains and then backed over again to finish the job, commenced a slow slide of his right hand toward the holstered pistol at his waist. As he did so, the visitor met his gaze. Not a word passed between the two men, but the descending fingers stopped advancing and their owner found sudden reason to look elsewhere.

The other scalawag was bigger and stronger, with the face of a dyspeptic baby. Turning his head to his right, he elevated a copious glob of spittle toward an inoffensive stand of broomweed. The stranger promptly matched the prodigious expectoration, with somewhat different results. The weed upon which he chose to spit swiftly shriveled and curled in upon itself, in the process venting a slight but perceptible twist of smoke. Eyes widened in the underling’s baby face and his lips parted in surprise.

This did-you-see-it-or-did-you-not moment in time was sufficient to persuade Scunsthorpe, at least for the moment, to caution restraint on the part of both himself and his suddenly wary associates.

“I repeat myself, sir.” Despite his own not inconsiderable height, Scunsthorpe found himself having to tilt back his head in order to meet the newcomer’s gaze. “With all goodwill—”

“One can’t offer what one don’t possess,” the stranger interrupted him. “Leavin’ aside fer the nonce the matter o’ what limited quantity of goodwill you might or might not enjoy, I do now find myself takin’ a sudden interest in the proceedin’s.”

Bold as the suspenders that held up his pants, Eli Hargrave stepped forward. “He’s trying to take our timber, sir! Our timber and our farm!”

“Hush now, Eli!” Cradling the baby in one arm, an alarmed Louisa Hargrave hastily drew her son away from the menfolk. “Get back here and be quiet!”

From within the depths of the stranger’s mighty face mattress, a smile surfaced, as unexpectedly white among the black curls as a beluga in a lake of coal slurry. Its unanticipated brilliance dimmed as its owner regarded the boy’s father.

“Is what the boy says true, Mr. …?”

“Hargrave. Owen Hargrave.”

The stranger extended a hand. At first glance Hargrave thought it similarly clad in buckskin, but closer inspection revealed it to be ungloved, if extraordinarily weathered. The fingers completely enveloped his own.

“Malone. Amos Malone.”

As he guardedly shook the newcomer’s paw, Hargrave reflected that he’d heard locomotives whose voices were higher pitched.

“And I,” the gangly ringmaster of the discussion declaimed, not to be left out of this sudden fraternity, “am Potter Scunsthorpe. Investor, speculator, developer, and now rightful owner of this land.”

Malone turned to him. Between the mountain man’s unblinking stare and his personal aroma, Scunsthorpe was tempted to retreat. But he held his ground.

“By what right d’you claim this family’s land?” the giant asked him.

Though it was nothing more than a piece of paper, Scunsthorpe held the deed out before him as if it were made of steel. “By right of this, as attested to under the laws of the great state of Wisconsin and the United States of America!”

“With your permission?” Without waiting for it, the mountain man took it from a startled Scunsthorpe’s hand as deftly as if plucking a petal from a daisy.

“If you damage that,” the speculator warned the giant, “I can have you arrested! Not that it would be of any consequence anyway. There are perfect copies on file with the county clerk.”

The mountain man chuckled once. “Last time anyone tried t’ arrest me were the Maharaja of Jaipur. Claimed I’d stolen one o’ his fancy aigrettes right off his turban. Tried t’ feed me to his pet tigers, he did.”

Nearly oblivious now to the adults around him, Eli Hargrave stared wide-eyed at the visitor. “Tigers! What happened?”

His beard preceding his smile, Malone peered down at the boy. “Why, we ended up sharin’ a meal instead.”

“You and the maharaja?” Eli murmured wonderingly.

“Nope. Me an’ the tigers.” Holding the document up to the light, Malone studied it carefully. Looking on in silence, Owen Hargrave was plainly puzzled, his wife suddenly afflicted with an unreasoning hope, while Scunsthorpe quietly marveled that the excessively hirsute creature who had appeared among them could actually read.

When the giant finally lowered the deed and turned to the farmer, his tone was solemn. “I’m afeared this ’ere fella has you legally dead to rights, Mr. Hargrave.”

“Ah, you see?” Scunsthorpe relaxed. The wanderer’s intrusion was after all to prove nothing more than a momentary, and in its own way entertaining, interruption. “I have told you nothing less than the truth, Hargrave.”

“Well, mebbe not entirely all of it, as I sees it.” Malone held out the document.

Scunsthorpe frowned. It was an expression he used often and did not have to practice. “I fail to follow your meaning, sir.”

A finger that might have come off one of the nearby oaks lightly tapped the deed. “As I read it here, says you can’t take possession fer at least five years an’ not at all after ten if the property in question has been properly cleared and prepared fer farmin’.”

A country bumpkin, Scunsthorpe thought to himself. Verily a great huge one, but a bumpkin nonetheless. “Quite so, sir, quite so. I must commend the accuracy of your swift perusal. Preparation for farming means clearing, by which one must take to mean felling the obstructing timber. Which of its own accord is most certainly of considerable value. In the case of such clearing, transfer of ownership is indeed denied for a minimum of five years and forbidden, upon full payment of terms by the designated mortgage holder, after ten.” Struggling not to chortle aloud, he turned to his left and once again gestured at the dense, unbroken forest.

“If Mr. Hargrave can, as noted, fell all of the timber under discussion, I will most certainly be compelled to withdraw my present claim to the property. All he must do in satisfaction of the terms of the deed is accomplish this by the time specified thereon.” He made a show of squinting at the document. “I perceive that to be ten o’clock on the first of October.” He smiled humorlessly. “That date falls, I believe, on Tuesday morrow.”

Malone nodded at the paper. “Then we’re all bein’ in agreement, sir.”

Scunsthorpe was by turns now baffled as well as irritated. “Once again, I fail to follow your reasoning, sir.”

Malone indicated the wall of untouched woodland. “If the timber on Mr. Hargrave here’s land is felled by ten o’clock tomorrow, you’ll take your leave o’ him and his family and leave them and this land in peace.”

The colored gentleman broke out in an unrestrained guffaw while his giant baby of an associate looked bemused and, not entirely comprehending the proceedings, commenced to employ a forefinger to mine a portion of his soft, undersized nose in search of unknown ore. Scunsthorpe stared, grunted, and then grinned.

“Verily, Mr. Malone, sir, you are a man who hews to the letter of the law, even if it be for nothing more than one’s amusement.” In lieu of a better stage, he was reduced to sighing dramatically. “So be it, then. I had hoped to conclude this awkward business today. But on your insistence, and as a matter of common courtesy, I will delay, not returning tomorrow until the appointed hour.” His expression narrowed, sharp as the cleft in a tomahawked skull. “I shall bring along for company and purposes of expeditiousness the sheriff of Newhope, in case any further fine-tuning of legalities shall be desired.”

“Lookin’ forward to it,” Malone replied impassively.

Having previously seen to the hitching of their own horses at the Hargrave barn, Scunsthorpe marched off in that direction, trailed by his silent but intimidating associates. As Malone watched them go, a dubious Owen Hargrave ignored the reek that emanated from the giant and sidled up to him.

“While I appreciate your intervention, Mr. Malone, I fear it to be as futile as it was timely. That viper will return tomorrow, as his promises are as assured as his demeanor is detestable. You have bought us time for a last supper, if nothing else.”

“Don’t say that, Hargrave.” Having started toward his mount, Malone found himself accompanied by the farmer and his wife while their three children attended his long, massive legs. “There still be time to perhaps fulfill the terms o’ your deed.”

“Now you jest with us, Mr. Malone,” declared Louisa Hargrave. “Or do I take it you propose to level a quarter section of woodland in a night? Anyone who would put forth such a notion might well be called mad.”

“He might indeed, m’am, while likewise takin’ no offense at the designation.” Reaching his animal, Malone began to hunt through one of the oversized backpacks while simultaneously advising Eli’s oldest sister. “I’d keep my distance from Worthless’s mouth, young missy.”

Blond, precious, and wide-eyed, the girl replied solemnly even as she peered up at the wide-lipped tooth-filled aperture hovering above her. “Why, mister? Will he bite me?”

“I think not. But Worthless, he has a disgraceful tendency t’ drool, and sometimes it burns.”

As if to counter this assertion, the huge black head bent low. A thick tongue emerged to lick the face of the little girl, who hastily backed away, wiping frantically at her cheek while shrieking delightedly. The stallion then turned one jaundiced eye on its master, snorted, and resumed cropping the weeds near its forelegs.

“Hungry, he is. That’s most usual his condition.” The mountain man looked thoughtful, as if contemplating something of more profound potential than a bag of oats. “Kin I impose on you fer some feed, Mr. Hargrave?”

“Yes. Yes, of course, Mr. Malone.” Turning, the farmer barked at his son. “Eli! Get the wagon. Load it with hay and bring it back here.”

“Yes, Pa!” As the boy turned to go, Malone called to him.

“And barley, boy. If you kin find any barley, Worthless dotes on the stuff. I usually don’t feed it t’ him because—well, he’d keep eatin’ it until he were ’bout ready t’ explode. But bring it if you kin find some.”

“I will do so, sir!” And with that the lad was sprinting over the rise in the direction of his home.

From the saddlebag the mountain man removed a hinged length of shaped and polished wood. As the farmer looked on with interest Malone snapped it straight, the metal hinge that connected the two lengths locking securely in place. From the trim and design it was easy enough to divine its purpose: it was an axe handle. Rummaging deeper in the same saddlebag, the visitor drew forth the corresponding blade. It was double-bitted and slid tightly onto the business end of the handle.

Hargrave studied the reconstituted tool. “Never seen anything quite like that, Mr. Malone. That wood—looking at it, I’d say it had to be black walnut.”

“A reasonable guess, but an invalid one, sir.” Malone made certain the twinned blade was secured to the handle. “This be m’pinga, a type of wood from near the coast of East Africa. Some folks calls it ironwood, but there’s all manner of wood called that. This kind is too heavy t’ float, and too tough to break.”

The farmer considered the massive implement. “And that head, that must be at least a four-pounder. Or is it five? And as strange a steel as I’ve ever seen.”

“Twenty.” Malone held the implement out at arm’s length to check the straightness of the handle. Held it out with one hand. “Made the blade meself, from the body of a fallin’ star.”

Hargrave laughed. “Begging your pardon, sir, but there’s no such thing as a twenty-pound axe-head. Double-bitted or otherwise. Isn’t no man could swing one.”

“Probably you be right, sir. I’m just funnin’ you.” So saying, Malone lifted the axe without apparent effort and rested it on his right shoulder. Removing his wolf’s-head cap, he placed it in the same saddlebag from which he had extracted the components of the axe and started off toward the nearby woods. Looking back over his shoulder, he called out.

“Y’kin lend a hand if you wish, Mr. Hargrave, but in any event I aim t’ render what service I kin before the designated time o’ surrender tomorrow.”

Halting before the first tree, a noble red pine, the mountain man unlimbered the axe, brought it back, and swung. Entering the tree parallel to the ground, the massive steel cutting edge sliced halfway through the thick trunk.

“Mercy!” Putting her free hand to her chest as if she had contracted a sudden case of the vapors, Louisa Hargrave gasped aloud. For his part, her husband uttered a word that was as uncharacteristic of him as it was of considerably greater potency than those he normally employed in the presence of wife and family. Whereupon he whirled and raced off in the direction of their simple yet comforting homestead.

“Owen!” his wife called out. “Where are you going, husband?”

He yelled back at her. “To get my axe! And to hurry the boy along!” He looked beyond her, stumbling as he ran, and raised his voice. “We’re going to need the team to shift timber!”

All the rest of that morning and on into the cloudy, slightly muggy afternoon, Amos Malone and Owen Hargrave cut and chopped, chopped and cut. According to the terms of the mortgage as deciphered by the mountain man, it was not necessary for the farmer to clear the timber off his land in order to satisfy the terms of the deed: it was only required that he cut it down to prove that he intended to develop it. Pine after pine, oak after oak, came crashing to the earth as the two men toiled. Malone paused only once, to place a heavy blanket across the back of his vigorously feeding steed and secure it tightly in place. Hargrave admired the mountain man’s concern for his animal, though he did wonder at the need for a blanket in such mild weather. The farmer felled one tree to every ten of the big man’s, until finally his aching arms gave out and the fiery blisters he had raised on his palms prevented him from wielding the axe any longer.

He nearly broke down when young Eli bravely attempted to take up the slack. Though he struggled manfully, the boy could barely raise his father’s axe, let alone swing it.

Taking a break to down a full quart of the cold well water periodically fetched by Mrs. Hargrave, Malone concluded the imposing draft by wiping the back of a massive hand across his mouth. Then, unbuttoning his buckskin jacket, he slithered out of it and handed it to the boy, who all but collapsed under the load. Shirt followed jacket and lastly, after assuring the boy’s mother the deeply stained attire contained nothing likely to imperil her son’s life or future mental development, Malone divested himself of a cotton undershirt from which any hint of the original whiteness had long since fled screaming.

“Here, son: if ’tis work you want, set yourself to seein’ that those there garments get tidied up a bit, as they ain’t been washed in quite a spell.”

Standing nearby, holding the water bucket and striving with all her might to look anywhere save directly at the massive spread of hairy chest, shoulders, and muscular arms now revealed before her, Louisa Hargrave had the presence of mind to remark, “Have they truly ever been washed, Mr. Malone?”

The mountain man turned reflective. “Memory plays tricks on a man.” His expression brightened. “I do recollect on one occasion fallin’ in the course of a serious bad storm into the Upper Mississippi one time last year. Pulled meself out reasonable clean somewhere in the vicinity of St. Louis.” He smiled down at her and at the mound of clothing in whose approximate locality her eldest son was presently submerged. “I reckon that this time, a touch o’ soap wouldn’t be out o’ line.”

“Come, Eli.” She turned back toward the homestead. “I’ll do what I can for your garments, Mr. Malone, but upon initial appraisal I fear I must confess that we may have better luck with prayer.”

As soon as Hargrave was able to resume work alongside his towering visitor, his axe handle promptly cracked. This forced a quick trip into town. He was unable to keep the amazing story to himself, so word quickly spread from the general store to the general populace. Eventually it settled upon the large, sporadically mobile ears of Potter Scunsthorpe, who determined that despite the unlikelihood of there being any truth to the farmer’s tall tale, it would require but little effort to check it out.

Upon arriving at the land that was to be his upon the morrow, he was startled to see the progress that the two men had made. Instead of starting at one end of the property and attempting to clear-cut their way across it, they were taking down the largest trees first. While a wholly sensible stratagem, Scunsthorpe felt that it would in the end avail them nothing. There were simply too many trees for two men to fell by the following day—even if one of them was as strong as a team of oxen. One would have thought that the mountain man would have utilized his heavy horse to help pull down trees that were partially cut through, but that most eccentric steed remained off to one side working its way through an immense pile of hay, barley, and feed grain. Scunsthorpe could do no more than shake his head at the sight. While he could not fathom the giant’s ultimate intent, he had no intention of leaving anything to chance.

Scunsthorpe was not alone that evening in choosing to observe the unprecedented demonstration of lumberjacking talent. On buckboards and wagons, other townsfolk had come out to watch and marvel at the exhibition, for entertainment of any kind was scarce and much appreciated in that part of the country. Approaching a fine buggy he knew well, the lanky speculator smiled and tipped his hat to its single occupant.

“Afternoon, Miss Pettiview.”

“Mr. Scunsthorpe.” A parasol of turquoise hue moved aside to reveal a visage of winsome grace dominated by cornflower-blue eyes, lips painted carmine, a diminutive and slightly upturned nose, and much speculation. “I am not surprised to find you here. Everyone knows of your interest in and intent to take the Hargrave property for your own.”

He pursed his lips. “Does that news displease you?”

“It is nothing to me. My business lies elsewhere.”

Scunsthorpe’s gaze dropped. “Everyone is aware of where your business lies, Miss Pettiview. It is in knowledge of that estimable topography that I would engage your talents on a matter of some concern.”

Teeth white as the chalk their owner employed in her occasional engagement as a schoolteacher flashed in the light of the setting sun. “How then may I be of service to you, Mr. Scunsthorpe?”

The speculator pointed toward the slowly shrinking line of forest off to the west. “Farmer Hargrave has found himself some assistance in his senseless attempt to satisfy the terms of the mortgage that I hold.”

Raising a blue-gloved hand to shield her eyes, Pettiview gazed in the indicated direction. A slight intake of breath followed hard upon her detection of the two distant figures who were laboring among the woods. Scunsthorpe noted the inhalation and swallowed his disgust.

“If by ‘assistance,’” she murmured, “you are referring to a most striking Herculean figure who is presently taking down a white pine as if it were a stalk of asparagus, then I follow your meaning quite clearly.”

Once again Scunsthorpe tipped his hat to her. “It is of course impossible that any two men should reduce one hundred and sixty acres of forest in a single day and night of effort, but in my profession I have learned to take no chances. To that end it would be useful if the hulking great stranger who calls himself Amos Malone were for a while to have his attention diverted from the practice of forestry to… other pursuits.”

Reaching into an inner pocket of his fine suit, he removed a couple of heavy coins that glinted gold in the fading light. These promptly vanished into Miss Pettiview’s elegantly beaded purse as deftly as if manipulated by a riverboat card shark. Extending a hand, she allowed Scunsthorpe to help her down from the buggy seat, smiling reassuringly at him as his other hand availed itself of the opportunity to clutch fleetingly at the backside of her powder-blue dress.

Parasol in hand, she made her way past murmuring townsfolk and down into the partially cut-over section of forest until she could resume her observations much nearer the two men than either Hargrave or his wife would have liked. But the farmer said nothing, and continued to hack away at the base of a red maple.

“You are quite the specimen, Mr. Amos Malone.” Her forwardness would have surprised none who knew her.

Bare-chested and perspiring like a Brazilian rainforest, Malone paused in mid-swing to set the head of his massive axe on the ground. Wiping sweat from his forehead, he responded with a nod.

“And if m’lady will pardon an old reprobate such as myself, you be as trim a vessel as these watery eyes have set upon since a distant week spent in San Francisco.”

“Oohhh… ‘m’lady,’ he says! ’Tis quite the gentleman you are, Amos Malone. And you have been to San Francisco, too? I would love someday to make the acquaintance of that fabled metropolis.”

“San Francisco, yes.” Malone swung the axe. Wood chips flew, from which celluloid assault Pettiview had to defend herself with her parasol. “And… elsewhere.”

“I know one place you haven’t been,” she said coquettishly. The tip of one painted fingernail teased the slight space between her front teeth.

“An’ where might that be, m’lady?”

“‘Melissa’ will do for you, if you will do for me.”

He paused once again. “I don’t follow you, m’la—Melissa.”

“Such strenuous exertions on the part of such excessive musculature must engender a healthy appetite. I would be pleased to satisfy such, if you would but extend me the courtesy.”

“I am tendin’ a mite to the famished,” he murmured. “What would a good meal cost me?” He looked past her. “I would ask it of the wife Hargrave, but she already has five mouths t’ feed.”

“Whereas I have naught to occupy me save to stand ready to prepare your supper.” Pettiview pivoted, the parasol twirling over her shoulder as she looked back, eyelids fluttering. “Come with me then, Mr. Malone, and I will see to it that you find rest, food, and succor for as much of this evening as should be necessary to satisfy your needs.”

“A most temptin’ offer, and one I fear it would be impolite t’ refuse.” So saying, he leaned the colossal axe against a nearby solitary ash. “I should recover the rest of my clothes, if they be dry enough.”

“No need to bother, sir.” She led him out of the woods and toward the waiting buggy, whose horse eyed the approach of Malone’s mass nervously. “I am quite comfortable with dining informally, as you shall see.” Whereupon she turned briefly to him and breathed deeply, thereby expanding the top of her dress to such an extent that anyone within range of some half dozen forthright buttons might not unreasonably be expected to have to dodge them, as by inhaling any further she might effortlessly turn them into weapons imbued with lethal velocity.

When Hargrave saw his possible savior leaving in the company of the notorious Pettiview, he all but surrendered to despair. Only the mountain man’s encouraging shout of “I’ll be back in time, Hargrave!” offered the most forlorn hope. But that was now forlorn indeed. Not that they’d had much of a chance of felling the entire quarter section of forest before morning anyway, but it had been something to work for, something to work toward. Now, the despondent Hargrave felt he had nothing.

Slumping down on a stump, he would not allow himself to weep. Only then did it occur to him that he, too, was starved for nourishment. With a heavy sigh he left behind his newly bought axe and staggered exhaustedly toward his unassuming homestead. He would make himself enjoy whatever Mrs. Hargrave had managed to muster for supper.

If for no other reason than it was likely the last one he would ever get to enjoy in the house he had raised up with his own hands.

Sunrise brought renewed hope in the form of the giant mountain man. As good as his word, Malone had returned. Having admired his now spotlessly clean undershirt, shirt, and jacket, upon all three of which Mrs. Hargrave had indeed worked miracles, Malone forbore from filthying them again so soon, carefully removing them and setting them aside before he resumed work in the woods. Hargrave joined him, even though it was plain to see that while they had done an impressive job of thinning the quarter section of forest, within the designated boundary line hundreds of smaller trees still remained rooted and standing. The farmer doubted the ploy would be sufficient to satisfy the avaricious Scunsthorpe. The deed said that all the hundred sixty acres had to be cleared. Despite their yeoman efforts, this he and Malone had plainly failed to do.

So it was that at precisely nine forty-five, the wicked Scunsthorpe made his presence known. He was accompanied this time not only by his two hulking underlings of dubious ancestry but also by Hander Cogsworth, sheriff of the town of Newhope. All was patently lost, an exhausted Hargrave realized. Malone might fast-talk even Scunsthorpe, but with the law at his side, the insatiable speculator would not hesitate to take immediate possession.

Malone joined the exhausted farmer in confronting the officious arrivals, glancing at the nearby hillside as he did so. “Where at the moment might be your family, Hargrave?”

The farmer was inconsolable. “Back at the house—for the last time. Saying their good-byes. Making their peace with the sorrowful inevitable.” He gazed mournfully toward the crest of the low rise. “Louisa will be directing the children to gather up their things, and has no doubt commenced the packing of her own humble body of possessions.” He looked up at the mountain man. “Of myself, I have but little beyond wife and children that any longer holds meaning for me. My sole concern now is to see them safely on the train to Milwaukee, and thence to Chicago, where she at least may throw herself on the sympathy of family members. As for myself”—he swallowed hard—“I too shall go to the city, there to look for whatever work I may be so fortunate as to obtain, in order that I may somehow continue to contribute to the upkeep of my family.”

“Are you not bein’ a mite premature, Hargrave?” Malone looked skyward. “I make it t’ be not quite ten o’clock. Y’all are still rightful owner of this land.”

“For another fifteen minutes.” Hargrave let out a snort of dejection. “Years of work, of dreaming, of what might one day be: all gone now because of a lack of time and a bad winter.” A sudden thought made him blink. “What of the schoolteacher Pettiview? Did she not beguile you sufficiently?”

“Beguilin’ be a knack that works both ways, friend Hargrave.” Raising his gaze, Malone peered in the direction of distant Newhope. “Her cookin’ weren’t much to my likin’, but I fear she may have treated herself to overmuch dessert. Last I saw her she were takin’ herself off to the town doctor. To treat a condition recently acquired, I believe she said.” He looked down. “Anyway, I am here. Now let us greet this itch that persists in troublin’ you. A mite further to the eastward, I calculate.”

“To the east? But why?” Hargrave eyed him uncomprehendingly.

Malone turned a fixed gaze in the opposite direction. The farmer followed the mountain man’s stare, but saw only forest and brush, cloud and sky. That, and the mountain man’s idiosyncratic steed. Unbelievably, it was still feeding. Insofar as Hargrave could recall, it had not stopped eating all night, having ingested a veritable mountain of silage. The animal was, if truth be told, looking more than a little bloated. Hargrave did not begrudge it or its owner the fodder; only marveled at an equine appetite the likes of which could scarce be imagined had he not observed its progression for himself.

With sheriff and minions in tow, a triumphant Scunsthorpe presented himself, deed in hand, before mountain man and farmer. Eyeing the moderately thinned forest, the speculator pronounced himself well satisfied.

“The time is at hand, gentlemen.” A snake could not smirk, but Scunsthorpe came close as he looked up at the silent Malone. “The precise time, as you wished it, sir. I can even say, with all honesty, that I am thankful for having met you and for your noteworthy if malodorous presence.” With a wave of one hand he took in the thinned woods. “As you have by your remarkable yet pointless labors saved me a good deal of money by felling such a quantity of valuable timber for me.”

“And I can even say,” Malone replied, “with all honesty, that it were no pleasure whatsoever to havin’ made your acquaintance, though yours is a type I know well, Scunsthorpe.”

The investor shrugged. “Insult me as you wish. I have no time to take offense, for I must perforce take full possession of my new lands.”

Malone nodded, checked the sun, and said, “Five minutes remain, Scunsthorpe. I would advise strongly they be used to move over this way.” Indicating the crest of the nearby hill, he started off in the other direction, toward his placid steed. Uncomprehending and uncaring, a devastated and benumbed Owen Hargrave followed the mountain man’s directions, striding slowly toward the hill and the homestead that were no longer his. So, too, did the sheriff, a heavily mustachioed man who was pleased beyond measure that his intercession would apparently not be required with so formidable a force as the towering stranger.

Uncertain at first, Scunsthorpe’s minions started to follow the disconsolate farmer. Their master, however, betook himself in the other direction, his long legs allowing him to catch up to Malone.

“And get this disgusting excuse of an animal off my property immediately!” Scunsthorpe said loudly as he stomped toward Malone’s placidly munching mount.

Having already reached the stallion, Malone unfastened the stays that secured the heavy horse blanket and flipped it up over his saddle and saddlebags. This small chore accomplished, he whirled and unexpectedly took off in Hargrave’s wake. At a run.

“This way, Scunsthorpe! Follow me while time remains!”

“Pfagh! You try to toy with me, Malone, but Potter Scunsthorpe is not a man to be played with! If you won’t move your swollen fat cow pile of an animal, I’ll move it for you!” Passing the mountain man, he continued toward Worthless, one arm raised preparatory to delivering a sound slap to the horse’s rump.

“Try if you must, Scunsthorpe!” Malone yelled back as he quickened his pace. “But fer your own sake, move round to ’is bow now!”

Scunsthorpe scoffed as he continued his approach. “What’s he going to do, Malone? Kick me? Do you think me so immersed in the law of the land that I am ignorant of the nature of horses?”

“Then y’all will note, and right soon,” shouted Malone as he hastily ducked down behind the top of the rise, “the consequences of his interminable consumption, proceeding without interruption from yesterday morning until this moment, which are presently about to deliver themselves not as a bout of colic, but in the form of…!”

Worthless’s tail rose, perhaps semaphoring a warning. That, more so than any of the mountain man’s admonitions, drew Scunsthorpe’s attention. He hesitated, his eyes widening, and turned abruptly away from the gravely bloated animal.

He was too late.

That noble if unclassifiable creature did not so much break wind as shatter it, destroy it, and biblically obliterate the entire atmosphere directly astern.

A fart of tectonic dimensions lifted the stunned Scunsthorpe off the ground. It blew him backward through the forest in company with the hundreds of trees—pine and ash, maple and oak—that the unquantifiable expression of equine flatulence summarily flattened. It blew him over the horizon and clear out of sight.

Great was the chanting among the local Indians at this brief if invisible manifestation of the sacred Thunderbird. Frantic were the cries of bewildered townsfolk as far away as Eau Claire, whose eau remained claire even if the air they breathed did not. Stunned pike dove deeper into Lake Winnebago, crowding the catfish for space near the bottom. It is said that ten thousand dead frogs washed ashore that day on the beaches of Green Bay.

Though they were both protected and upwind, the sheriff, Scunsthorpe’s underlings, and Owen Hargrave were not entirely spared. The colored gentleman commenced crying and could not stop, while his putty-faced counterpart began retching and did not cease so doing for a good thirty minutes, long after the contents of his stomach had been voided. Blessedly for him, the sheriff had simply passed out, while Hargrave had the foresight to quickly cover his face with a bandanna. As for Malone, being used as he was to the occasional explosive hindgut disquisitions of his mount, he simply rose and brushed at something sensed but unseen in front of his face. It dissipated with thankful rapidity.

Having summarily and volcanically relieved himself of a truly astonishing buildup of gas subsequent to his owner’s granting him permission to do so through the simple mechanism of raising the uniquely restrictive blanket, and apparently none the worse for the episode, Worthless astoundingly resumed his feeding on what little remained of Farmer Hargrave’s reserves.

“What…?” It was all Hargrave, being the only one of the group presently capable of coherent speech due to the fact that his lungs had remained relatively untrammeled, could muster.

“Normally, Worthless eats… normally,” Malone explained as he topped the rise to scrutinize the completely flattened quarter section—and more—of forest. “But if I let him, the stupid sack of silly soak will just continue t’ eat, an’ eat, an’ eat. Until his internal mechanisms, which are as abnormal in their way as the rest o’ him, kin no longer appropriately process their contents. They therefore release at one go all the ignoble effluvia they have unaccountably accumulated, in a volume and at a velocity that would stun any zoologist and cause the most sober veterinarian to forswear his chosen profession on the spot. ’Tis a regrettable social imperfection that Worthless and I usually have no difficulty avoidin’, as I have a care to regulate his feeding carefully. In this instance, however, I considered that lettin’ his appetite run free might in its own perverse fashion prove useful, and relatively harmless bein’ as we are in a relatively unpopulated region.

“And now, if y’all please, I think it both safe and pleasant for you, Mr. Hargrave, t’ see to your fine family and wife, and for me t’ have the distinct pleasure o’ donning, for the first time in some while, clothing thet has been properly cleaned and disinfected.”

A dazed Hargrave surveyed his one hundred and sixty acres: felled and, if not stacked, at least neatly aligned all in one direction. Why, he mused wonderingly, the force of the equine eruption had even cleanly topped the fallen trees. He had lumber aplenty for his own use, good timber to sell, and cleared forest land sufficient to satisfy the demands of the unrelentingly greedy Scuns….

He looked around.

Where was the unpleasant stick of a speculator, anyway?

He was found several days later, wandering the western shore of Lake Winnebago, a glazed look upon his eye. Save for a broken right arm, a sprained left knee, and a lack of intact clothing, he was apparently unharmed. Wrinkling their collective noses and keeping their distance, his rescuers proceeded to burn his surviving attire while offering the benumbed survivor food and drink. For the latter he was most volubly grateful, but for the former somewhat uncertain.

It appeared most strange to his rescuers, and while a cause could not immediately be determined, it was clear to one and all in attendance that the man’s olfactory senses had been irrevocably damaged, for he could not smell so much as one of his own farts.