Mad Amos Malone

Agrarian Deform

When one is considering potential subject matter for a fantasy tale, fruits and vegetables are usually not at the top of the list. Nor is farming. But without hordes of orcs to battle or evil sorcerers with whom to contend, one roots out story ideas in the Old West where one can.

In this tale, instead of hordes of ravening monsters to battle, we have farmers. Lots of farmers. Plain old ordinary farmer folk. Some of them intending to be farmers from the start, others forced into it because the perceived easy ways of making money that betook them to the Golden State in the first place didn’t materialize (not much changes). But in a strange country, where the lay of the land is new and unknown, decisions on what to plant, where to plant, and when to plant can make or break a newcomer to the soil. The drainage in Montana is different from the dirt in Indiana. Potatoes are not tomatoes.

It’s the sort of expertise that seemingly may not require a wizard’s touch, but when challenged, Amos Malone is ever ready to take on all problems… even if it means disputing the merits of broccoli.

And of course there’s the capper to this tale, which started it all in my mind and from which I had to work, for quite a spell, backward scribewise.

“You talk to him, Jesse.”

“Not me. Look at him. It can’t be the right man.”

“Have to be,” said George Franklin. “Can’t be another human being on God’s green earth looks like that. It’s him fer sure.”

They argued vociferously among themselves. Since no one was willing to approach their quarry alone, they had no choice but to do so in a group.

“Shoot,” Deaf Jackson pointed out, “he’s jest sittin’ there whittlin’. Ain’t like he’s gnawin’ on baby bones.”

“Yeah,” said Slim Martin, “but you ever see anybody whittlin’ with a bowie knife before?”

Having finally screwed up sufficient courage to approach the giant, they found they had nothing to say.

Amos Malone pushed back the wolf head that covered his scalp and regarded the sightseers. From somewhere behind that impenetrable black beard, luxuriant enough to offer succor and shelter to any number of small unidentifiable creatures, a surprisingly balsamic voice arose to break the uncomfortable silence.

“You folks never seed a man whittlin’ afore?”

As the wealthiest and largest of the six, it fell to George Franklin to reply. Also, his erstwhile friends and neighbors were doing a fine job of concealing themselves behind him.

“Are you Amos Malone?” He swallowed uneasily. “The one they call Mad Amos?”

The bowie knife sliced. Wood chips flew. Standing there on the covered porch outside the hotel, Franklin was acutely conscious of the proximity of his belly to that huge hunk of razor-sharp metal.

“Wal, ’tis Amos Malone I am, but at the moment I ain’t particularly mad. Next week, now, I wouldn’t vouch fer that.” He paused, squinting up at Franklin. “Kin I do something fer you folks, or are y’all just wanderin’ art lovers?”

Jesse Kinkaid stepped forward. “Mr. Malone, sir, we got ourselves a bit of a goin’ problem. Word around is that you might be the man to help us out.”

“We can pay,” Franklin added hastily, grateful for the supportive voice of a neighbor.

“Ain’t said I’d take the job yet.” Malone sheathed the knife and scratched at the hem of his buckskin jacket with a huge, callused hand. “What makes you think I’m the feller you need?”

The men exchanged glances. Though there were six of them, they were peaceable folk, and they felt badly outnumbered. “Now, don’t be takin’ this as no insult, Mr. Malone,” Kinkaid began cautiously, “but the word in these parts is that you’re some kind of magician.”

“Black magic,” said Deaf Jackson much too loudly before his friends could shush him.

Malone just smiled. At least, it looked like a smile to Kinkaid and Franklin. One couldn’t be sure because only the center portion of the man’s mouth was visible behind his black rat’s nest of a beard. You couldn’t tell what the corners of his mouth were up to.

“I’m no magician, gentlemens. Jest a poor seeker after knowledge. A wanderin’ scholar, you might say.”

“What kind of knowledge might you be seeking, sir?” Young Hotchkiss was too wet behind the ears to know that in California Territory it was impolite at best—and potentially lethal at worst—to inquire too deeply into another man’s business.

Malone took no offense, however, and smiled at the youth. Wiser men among the six heaved silent sighs of relief.

“Oh, this and that, that and this. Same thing as the poor feller Diogenes. He has his lamp, and I’ve got that.” He gestured out into the street, indicating a massive horse of unidentifiable parentage.

Young Hotchkiss would have asked who Diogenes was… sounded like a furriner… but Franklin hastened to cut him off before he said too much.

“The point being, sir, that you are rumored to be in the possession of certain arcane skills.” When Malone did not comment but instead waited patiently, Franklin continued. “We are farmers, sir. Simple farmers.”

“I’d say that’s right on both counts.” Malone held his whittling up to the light, examining it carefully.

Franklin looked helplessly to his neighbors. Again it was Kinkaid who picked up the gauntlet. “Mr. Malone, sir, we got ourselves real troubles. Our land is, well, sir, it seems to be cursed.”

The mountain man looked up at him. “Cursed, sir?”

Kinkaid nodded somberly. “Cursed.”

“I wonder if you mightn’t be a tad more specific, friend.”

Emboldened, Slim Martin spoke up. “It’s our crops, Mr. Malone. They get lots of water, plenty of sun. We work as hard as any folk in the Central Valley but it don’t make no difference. Corn tops out at less than a foot; apples just shrivel on the tree; tomatoes never get ripe. It’s a caution, sir. And it don’t seem to matter none what we plant. Nothin’ comes up proper.”

Malone straightened in the chair, which groaned under his weight. “An’ you think I kin help you?”

It was not necessary for them to reply: their desperation was plain on their sunburned faces.

“Now, I ask you, fair gentlemens: do I look like a farmer to you?”

They eyed him up and down, noting the heavy goatskin boots, the wolf’s-head chapeau, the bowie knife and LeMat pistol secured at his waist, and the twin bandoliers of enormous Sharps buffalo rifle cartridges that crisscrossed his massive chest, and the truth of what he said laid them low.

A couple turned to leave, but not Kinkaid. “Sir,” he pleaded desperately, “if you can help us, we’d be more than just obliged. Most of us”—he gestured at his companions—“came to this country for the gold. Well, the placer gold’s all run out, and big companies have taken over most of the claims up in the high country and on the American River.

“When the big money started moving in, a lot of folks picked up and left, but some of us stayed. My people are Illinois original, and I know fine farming country when I see it. A man ought to be able to make a good living out of this earth hereabouts. Plenty of folks are: those working the valley to the east of us.

“I don’t mind bein’ run off by bandits, or the weather, or grizzlies or Indians, but I’m damned if I’ll give up and just walk away from my spread without having a reason why.”

Malone considered silently. Then he rose. Involuntarily, the little knot of farmers retreated a step. The mountain man had to bend to avoid bumping his head on the porch roof that shaded the sidewalk. “Like I said, I ain’t no farmer. But I don’t like to see good folks driven off their places when mebbe there’s a simple straight way their troubles kin be fixed. So I will have a look-see at your country, gentlemens. Don’t promise that I kin do nothin’ for you, but a look-see I’ll have.”

“As to the matter of payment,” Franklin began.

“Let me see if I kin help you folks out first,” Malone told him. “If I can fix your problems, then it’ll cost you, oh, a hundred dollars U.S. In gold.” Franklin inhaled sharply but said nothing. “Until then, bed and vittles will do me jest fine. A bucket or two of oats for Worthless wouldn’t be turned down, neither.”

Across the street the enormous multicolored nag looked back at the group and whinnied.

Franklin and Kinkaid exchanged a glance, then Franklin turned back to the mountain man and nodded. “Agreed.”

Buoyed by their success but simultaneously wary of the man they’d engaged, the farmers headed for their own mounts or, in the case of Franklin and Kinkaid, a fine new buckboard.

“Think he’s the man?” Kinkaid asked his neighbor.

“I don’t know, Jesse.” Franklin glanced back up the street to where the mountain man was mounting his ridiculous animal. “Might be he’s telling us the truth when he says he doesn’t know a thing about farming.”

Kinkaid lowered his gaze. “Well, it weren’t a farmer we come to find, was it?”

“I’m not very confident about the other, either,” Franklin murmured. “I don’t see anything remarkable about him except his size.”

Deaf Jackson swung his right leg over his saddle. “What’d you expect to find, George? Somebody with horns growin’ out of their head, breathin’ fire and riding a cloud?”

“No, I expect not.” Franklin heaved himself up into the buckboard while Kinkaid took the reins.

Young Hotchkiss mounted alongside Slim Martin. “Funny thing, back there.”

“What’s that?” Martin asked him as they turned up the street that led out of San Jose.

“That odd-looking horse of his turning back to us and whinnying when we were talking about him.”

“What’s funny about that?”

“Malone wasn’t talking that loud, and there were wagons and horses going all the time we was there. How’d that animal hear him clear across that street?”

Malone had been studying the terrain ever since they’d ridden south out of San Jose. Rolling hills that gave way to flat, grassy plains. You could smell the richness of the earth. Blessed as it was with adequate water and California sunshine, there was no reason why the soil they were traversing shouldn’t produce crops as fine and healthy as any in the world.

But it was not. Something was wrong with this land, something major unpleasant, Malone decided.

The men kept their distance from him, wary and uncertain. All except young Hotchkiss, who was too green to know better. He rode alongside, keeping the stranger company and asking too many questions for his own good. But the mountain man didn’t appear to mind, and the others were delighted to include among their number one fool whose chattering ignorance served to free them of the accusation of inhospitality.

“That’s quite a hat you’ve got, sir. Did you kill the animal yourself?” The young farmer indicated the wolf’s head that protected Malone’s scalp.

The mountain man kept his attention on the land ahead, studying the soil, the increasingly twisted trees, and the scraggly brush. Surely it was damaged country they were entering. Sick country.

“I didn’t kill it,” he replied offhandedly. “It ain’t dead.”

Young Hotchkiss hesitated as though he hadn’t heard correctly. “Begging your pardon, sir.”

“It ain’t dead.” Reaching up, he adjusted the wolf’s head over his forehead.

Hotchkiss regarded the canine skull. “I wouldn’t be found calling you a liar to save my life, Mr. Malone, but if it ain’t dead, then where’s the rest of it?”

“In a cave a thousand feet above the Snake River. Old wolf’s denned up for the winter. Since he don’t need his head while he’s hibernatin’, he didn’t see the harm in lettin’ me borry it till spring. I told him I’d look out for his family in return.” Malone leaned close and whispered conspiratorially. “Don’t talk too loud or you’re likely to wake him up. I don’t know what his head’s likely to do without the rest of him, but it might not be real amiable.”

The wide-eyed young farmer nodded and spurred his mount to rejoin his companions up ahead. As soon as he’d gone, Worthless cocked his head back to peer up out of his good eye at the man on his back.

“What’re you squintin’ at, you useless offspring of a spavined mule? The boy was gettin’ to be somethin’ of an irritation.”

The Percheron-cum-Appaloosa-cum-Arabian-cum-unicorn snorted with great deliberation, compelling his rider to wipe his left boot while visiting additional imprecations upon his mount, which plodded on, thoroughly unimpressed.

The town wasn’t much: schoolhouse, church, smithy, barbershop, two general stores, a small hotel. It was the spittin’ image of a thousand similar farming communities all across the country.

A woman with two kids was coming out of the general store. When she saw the riders approach, she ran back inside. Several men emerged to greet the tired arrivals.

“Well, we’re back!” Deaf Jackson declared loudly as he dismounted.

“Yep. This is Malone,” Kinkaid said. “The man we heard about.”

The two men standing on the store porch looked uncomfortable. Franklin eased himself down from the buckboard and mounted the steps to confront them.

“Josiah, Andrew, what’s going on here? This isn’t the greeting we expected. What is our friend Mr. Malone going to think?”

The storekeeper picked at his apron. “You’re late, George.”

Franklin frowned. “What’s that got to do with anything? It took considerable time to find our man.”

“Well, George,” said the storekeeper’s companion, “it’s just that you all were gone so long, and then this other gentleman rode into town….”

Franklin’s eyebrows rose. “Other gentleman?”

“Me.”

All eyes went to the general store’s entrance. The man who stood there was as thin as Slim Martin but taller. He had pale blue eyes and undisciplined blond hair and rather more lines in his face than he ought to have had. He wore a brightly checked, long-sleeved flannel shirt over a new pair of Mr. Levi’s best pants and was masticating a chaw of the store’s best tobacco.

“And who might you be, sir?” Jesse Kinkaid inquired.

“Sam. Folks just call me Sam. You can call me Sam, too.” His gaze rose to the silent, contemplative mountain man. “So can you, friend. That’s me, just plain Sam. The farmer’s best friend.”

Malone touched the nose of his unusual headgear with the tip of one finger.

Franklin, Kinkaid, and the rest gathered around the two men from the store. Intense whispering ensued.

“Andrew, how could you go an’ hire somebody when you knew we were lookin’ for this Malone fella?”

“Well, George, he just wandered in, and we all got to talking, and he said he was sure he could help us. Before we go an’ do something dumb, let’s think this thing through. How much is that Malone gonna cost us?”

“Hundred dollars,” Kinkaid murmured.

The storekeeper looked triumphant. “This Sam fella says he’ll fix all our troubles for fifty.”

“Fifty?” Slim Martin said eagerly.

“Now listen here,” young Hotchkiss began, “we’ve as much as hired this gentleman Malone. He’s rode all the way down from San Jose with us, expecting to be employed on our behalf, and—”

“Shut up, boy,” Franklin snapped. “Pay attention to your betters. Fifty, hmmm?” The two men from the store nodded.

Franklin turned and put on his best smile, simultaneously checking to make certain that no one stood between him and the open doorway.

“Mr. Malone, sir, I don’t quite know what to say. I’m afraid we’ve got ourselves a situation here.”

The mountain man regarded him unblinkingly. “Situation?”

“Yes, sir.” Franklin shaded his eyes against the March sun. “It seems that unbeknownst to the rest of us, our friends here have gone and hired this other gentleman to assist with our difficulties. I’m sure you understand that since he was engaged first, the conditions of his employment take precedence over yours.”

Malone glanced at the tall, thin individual standing on the porch chewing tobacco, then looked back down at the big farmer.

“No problem, friend.”

Franklin’s heart, which had commenced to beating as if in expectation of the Final Judgment, resumed a more natural rhythm. “It’s only business, sir. Perhaps we can make use of your services another time.”

“Perhaps.” Malone glanced down the narrow street. “I’ll just find Worthless a stall for the night, and tomorrow I’ll be on my way.” Again a finger rose to touch the lip of the wolf’s head.

He heard the footsteps approaching. It was pitch dark in the stable. In the stall across the way, Worthless slept soundly, for a change not snoring. Two stalls farther up, a mare shuffled against her straw.

Will Hotchkiss quietly approached the recumbent bulk of the mountain man. No one had seen him enter the barn. He reached out to shake the man’s shoulder.

Less than a second later Will was lying on his back in the straw, a knife blade more than an inch wide so close to his Adam’s apple he could feel the chill from the steel. An immense shape loomed over him, and for an instant he thought the eyes glaring down at him were glowing with an internal light of their own, though whether they belonged to the man atop him or to the wolf-skull headpiece in the corner, he could not say.

“Hotchkiss.” Malone sat back on his haunches, a mountainous shape in the dim light. The massive blade withdrew.

The young farmer sat up slowly, unconsciously caressing his throat. “You’re mighty fast for a man your size, Mr. Malone, sir.”

“And you’re mighty stupid even fer one so young.” The mountain man sheathed his blade. “Don’t you know better than to sneak up on a man in the middle o’ the night? Your head could’ve ended up a play-pretty for my wolf friend’s cubs.”

“Sorry, but I had to come get you without my neighbors knowing what I was about.”

“Did you, now?”

“Mr. Malone, sir, it weren’t right how my neighbors treated you today. It just weren’t right. And I think they’re wrong about that Sam fella. Something about him rubs me the wrong way.

“I’d like for you to come out to my place, sir, and see if you can’t do something for my land. I’ll pay you myself. I’ve got a little money put aside. I’d rather have you working for me than that Sam fella.”

“What, now? In the middle of the night?”

“If you would, sir. That way my neighbors won’t be disturbed by my doing this behind their backs, as it were. It’s them I’ve got to live with after both you and this Sam fella are gone.”

Malone rose, grinning in the darkness. “And if I turn out to be the biggest fraud since Munchausen, I won’t embarrass you in front o’ your peers, is that it?” He waved off Hotchkiss’s incipient protest. “No, never you mind, son. This ain’t a bad way to go about it. I don’t like bein’ embarrassed any more than you do. So if’n I can’t extricate you from your troubles, why, this way there won’t be none others t’ see me fail.”

Hotchkiss waited nervously until the mountain man had saddled his complaining, grumbling mount. The animal’s spirits picked up considerably once outside the stable, however. Hotchkiss had come into town on a wagon pulled by two mares, one of which was near coming into her time.

Nor had the young farmer come by himself. Seated on the wagon, holding the reins and bundled against the evening chill, was a vision of pure country grace.

“Mr. Malone, this is my wife, Emma.”

“Mr. Malone.” She eyed him about the way Worthless was eyeing the nearest mare. Malone pursed his lips.

“Ma’am.”

She kept up a steady stream of chatter all the way out of town, laughing and giggling and batting her eyes at him like an advertisement for a minstrel show, all physical innuendo and sly music. Hotchkiss guided his animals, his attention on the road ahead, oblivious to nocturnal flirting so blatant that it would have put a blush on a bachelor jackrabbit.

Nor did it cease when they reached the neat wood-and-stone farmhouse. Sweet Emma Hotchkiss managed to bump up against Malone once outside and once on the way in, where she made a grand production of removing her cloak and bending toothsomely to stir the sleeping fire. Malone eyed her speculatively. She was a bumptious, simmering three-ring circus barely restrained by tight gingham and lace, and no ringmaster in sight.

Nor was she the only surprise awaiting him.

As Hotchkiss led him into the sitting room, a lanky shape uncoiled from the couch to greet him with a smile. “Malone, ain’t it?” A hand extended toward him. “Ought to be an interesting evening.”

Malone did not take the proffered hand but turned instead to his host. “What is this?”

Hotchkiss looked uncomfortable. “I said that I felt my neighbors had treated you unfairly, Mr. Malone, and I hold to that. But they’re thinking of the money in their pockets instead of their futures, and I’m not. I don’t care who helps us so long as someone does, right quick. Otherwise, everyone in this part of the country is going to go under before the next harvest. So I thought the only fair thing would be for me to hire the both of you for one night to see what each of you can do.”

Malone stroked his beard as he eyed his host. “Reckon I were wrong about you, son. You’re only half-stupid.”

Emma Hotchkiss turned gaily from the fire, which wasn’t smoldering half so much as she, and eyed each of her visitors in turn.

“I think Will was ever so clever for thinking of this. He’s such a clever boy. And if both of you gentlemen can help us, why, then we’ll be twice as well off, won’t we? I’ll be ever so happy to thank the best man with a nice kiss on the cheek.”

Sure she would, Malone thought, watching her warily. The way Venus wanted to kiss Tannhäuser in that German feller’s opera.

Hotchkiss seemed oblivious to it all, his mind on his crops when he ought to have been paying more attention to his field. “How long after you’ve finished your work will it take to show results? A month? Two?”

“Shoot, no, neighbor,” said Sam the farmer’s friend. “I can’t speak for Mr. Malone, but as for myself, I think we can prove something right here tonight.” He smiled up at the mountain man. “What about it, friend?”

“I don’t like contests,” Malone rumbled.

The lanky stranger shrugged. “Don’t matter one way or the other to me. The other good folks hereabouts seem pretty convinced of my skills already. I don’t mind accepting a forfeit.”

Malone was being truthful. He didn’t like contests, and he didn’t like the way he’d been rousted out of a sound sleep on false pretenses. But he also didn’t like the way this blond stranger was eyeing his host’s young wife. Not that she wasn’t encouraging him, along with probably every other human male west of the Sierras, but it wasn’t very tactful of him to respond so readily.

“I don’t like forfeits, either. Might be harmful to my reputation.”

“And do you have a reputation, friend?” Sam asked him tauntingly.

“Here and there. Not always good. How about you?”

“Me? Why I’m Sam, just plain Sam. The farmer’s friend.” He winked at Emma Hotchkiss. Her husband didn’t see it, but Malone did. She responded by licking her upper lip. From what Malone could see, it didn’t look chapped.

“What say we have a look at these fine folks’ uncooperative land, Mr. Malone.”

The mountain man nodded. “I think that’d be a right sound place to begin.”

Hotchkiss provided lanterns to complement the light of the full moon. The four of them walked outside, the young farmer and his wife leading the way toward the nearest field. The stranger toted a large canvas satchel, his eyes eagerly following Emma Hotchkiss as he envisioned the bonus he imagined would be his before the night was over. Malone carried a small pouch he’d extracted from one of his saddlebags and with unvoiced disapproval watched the stranger watching Emma.

The sound of wood striking ground drew their attention. Everyone looked toward the corral as two shapes bolted into the moonlight.

“I tried to tell you, Will, that your mare was coming into heat,” Emma Hotchkiss said accusingly.

“Don’t worry none, son.” Malone followed the galloping, rollicking pair of steeds with his eyes as they disappeared over the nearest hill. “Worthless won’t hurt her. They’ll have themselves their run, and he’ll bring ’er back.”

Hotchkiss looked uncertain. “Can’t you call him in?”

Malone shook his head. “Worthless pretty much does as he pleases. I reckon they’ll have themselves a tour of most o’ your property before he feels winded enough to amble on back.”

“Hard to believe that a man who can’t control his horse can do much with the earth,” the stranger observed insinuatingly.

The mountain man looked down at him. “Tryin’ to control Worthless would be about like tryin’ to control the earth. Myself, I’d rather have a friend for a mount than a slave.”

The neatly turned field stretched eastward, bathed in pale moonlight. Ryegrass whispered warningly beneath their feet. A single silhouetted tree stood leafless, lonely, and bruised amid a mound of broken yellow rock. There was no wind, no clouds: it was a place where a man could smell silence.

A deep creek ran between the two sloping halves of the field. Malone studied it thoughtfully, then bent to examine the soil. Lifting a pinch of dirt to his nose, he inhaled deeply, then tasted of the soil. He straightened.

“Sour,” he declared brusquely as he brushed his hands together to clean them.

The stranger nodded, eyeing the mountain man with new respect. “That was my thought as well. You do know something about the earth, friend.”

Malone eyed him evenly. “This and that.”

The stranger hesitated a moment longer. “Well, then, this looks like as good a place to begin as any.” Reaching into his satchel, he fumbled around until he found a pinch of seed. He flicked it earthward and waited, eyes glittering.

“Father Joseph!” Will Hotchkiss whispered, gazing in disbelief at the ground.

Where the seed had landed, tiny pools of light appeared in the sterile furrow. They spread, trickling together within the soil, a pale green glowing effulgence staining the dark loam.

As the four looked on, tiny stems broke the surface. Vines first, climbing toward the moon like umber snakes. Three feet high they were when they halted. Like soap bubbles emerging from a child’s toy pipe, bright red fruit began to appear beneath the green leaves, swollen and red-ripe as the lips of a succubus. The stranger turned proudly to the farming couple. His words were directed at both of them, but his eyes were intent on Emma Hotchkiss.

“Well, now, that wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

“Tomatoes,” Hotchkiss was muttering. “Finest damn tomatoes I ever seen. In March.” He eyed the stranger warily. “This ain’t farming, sir. It’s witchcraft.”

“Not at all, friend, not at all,” the stranger replied, smooth as cream. “Merely the application of sound agrarian principles.” He glanced at the mountain man. “Wouldn’t you agree, sir?”

“Too soon to say.” Malone grunted and reached into the bag he carried. Choosing another furrow, he scattered seeds of his own.

The earth did not glow where they landed. Instead, it rumbled softly like an old man’s belly. Emma Hotchkiss put her palms to her face as she stared. Even the stranger backed away.

Not vines this time, but entire trees emerged from the ground. Fruit appeared on thickening branches, bright and bursting with tart juice. At Malone’s urging, Will Hotchkiss tentatively plucked one from a lower branch and rotated it with his fingers.

“Oranges.” His gaze shifted between the modest tomato bushes and the full-blown orchard, and he did not have to give voice to how he felt.

Frowning, the stranger selected and spread another handful of seed. This time the vines that arose with unnatural rapidity from the earth were shorter but thicker than those that had preceded them. With a grandiose wave of his hand, he beckoned the young farmer close.

Will Hotchkiss knelt to examine the thumb-sized dark fruit. “Grapes,” he exclaimed. “And already ripe!”

“Sam, that’s fabulously clever,” said Emma Hotchkiss, throwing her arms around the stranger and bussing him not anywhere near his cheek. He responded without hesitation, both of them ignoring her husband, who was wholly intent on the miraculous grapes.

Malone surveyed the scene and shook his head. Then he sighed and carefully dusted a nearby mound with seed. This time it was as if the earth itself coughed rather than rumbled, as if uncertainly trying to digest the unexpected fodder. New vines emerged with astonishing speed: to everyone’s surprise except Malone’s, they looked no different from those the stranger had just called forth.

“Well.” Will Hotchkiss sounded slightly disappointed. “A tie.”

“Things ain’t always as they seem, son. Taste one,” Malone suggested.

The young farmer did so, and as the grape squinched between his teeth, his eyes widened. He stared wonderingly up at the mountain man.

“Already turned to wine… on the vine!”

“Mr. Malone!” his wife exclaimed. “How wonderful!” But her attempt to explore her other guest was doomed to defeat, as Malone was too tall for her to reach, even on tiptoe, and he declined to bend. She settled for favoring him with a look that despite his moral resolve raised his body temperature half a degree.

“I don’t know how you did that.” The stranger’s disposition had passed from mild upset to middlin’ anger. “But fruit isn’t all that this land will produce if coaxed by someone who knows truly the ways of the soil.”

He whirled and flung a handful of seeds in a wide arc. Where they struck, a section of earth the size of Hotchkiss’s corral began to burn with cold green fire. Clods and clumps of earth were tossed aside as trunks two feet thick erupted from the ground. No fruit hung bounteous and ready to pick from the gnarled, newly formed branches. Hotchkiss searched a black extrusion until he found the first of the small oval clusters that were as wooden-dark as the branch itself.

“Walnuts,” he exclaimed, picking one. “Ripe and full-meated.”

“Oh, yes,” his wife murmured huskily.

The stranger eyed Malone challengingly.

“That’s quite a feat,” Malone said. He held up his pouch. “Don’t carry near that much seed with me. So I reckon one’ll have to do.” Digging into the much smaller second sack, he removed a single seed.

The stranger smirked. “That’s all you got left, friend? My bag’s still near full.”

“I don’t much like to travel heavy.” Carefully, Malone pushed the single seed into the soil, using one callused thumb to shove it deep. Then he stepped back and waited.

The tree that blossomed forth was no larger than any one of the dozen walnut trees that now blocked the stream from view. As soon as it reached its full growth, Hotchkiss approached to pick from a lower branch.

“Walnuts,” he declared disappointedly as he cracked the shell with the butt of his knife. With the point of the blade, he pried out the contents, popped them into his mouth, and chewed reflectively. “No worse, but no better.”

“Pick another,” Malone suggested.

Hotchkiss looked at him funny but complied. It seemed that his eyes couldn’t get any bigger than before, but they did. “Pecans.” He stared wonderingly at Malone. “On the same tree?”

“Thought you’d be the kind who’d appreciate good nuts,” Malone told him. “Why stop now?”

The young farmer picked some more. His delighted wife joined him. Together they sampled the tree’s bounty.

“Peanuts… on a tree!”

“Chestnuts,” his wife exclaimed. She displayed the rest of her pickings to the mountain man. “What are these, Mr. Malone?”

He examined the contents of her perfect hands. “The big curved ones are Brazil nuts. Little curved ones are cashews.”

“What are cashews?” Hotchkiss asked.

“They don’t come from around here, but they’re good to eat,” Malone told him. “Those big round ones are macadamias, from Australia.” He peered up into the tree. “I reckon there’s some up in there I don’t rightly know myself.”

The stranger walked right up to his taller opponent to search his face. “You’re a very clever man, friend. Very clever indeed. But you’re no farmer’s friend. And whatever you be, I swear you can’t match this.”

He stepped back and took a seed the size of a peanut from his sack. It pulsed with a faint inner light of its own, as though a tiny heart were beating inside the hard outer covering. Instead of scattering it carelessly as he had the others, he planted this one very carefully. Malone thought the stranger whispered some words over it as he ground it into the soil with the heel of his boot. Then he stepped back.

From a red refulgent patch of earth another tree emerged, its branches sagging under the mass of multihued fruit they carried. The trunk of the tree seemed permeated with that pale red glow, which did not diminish when the tree ceased growing. There were apples and oranges, lemons and limes and soursops, jackfruits and star fruits and litchis and rambutans—fruits that never should have grown in that dirt, in that country. It was a cornucopia of fruit sprung from a single unsuspecting square of soil.

Even Malone was impressed and said so.

“Go on,” the stranger said proudly, “taste some of it. Taste any of it.”

The mountain man carefully scrutinized one of the groaning branches. He picked a couple of rambutans and began to peel them, the sugary white centers emerging from behind the spiny red outer husks. The stranger looked on intently as Malone put one fruit to his lips. Then he hesitated.

“You must be gettin’ a mite hungry yourself after so much hard work.” He held out the other rambutan.

The stranger waved him off. “No, thank you, but I enjoyed a fine supper and am quite content.”

“Oh, go on,” Malone urged him. “I dislike eatin’ by meself.”

Hotchkiss frowned at the stranger. “Is something wrong with the fruit?”

“No, of course not.” The blond man hesitated, then took the proffered fruit. Eyes locked, the two men ate simultaneously.

“Can I have some, too?” Emma Hotchkiss asked coyly. “I’m not full at all. In fact, I’m just ever so positively empty inside.”

Malone smiled at her. “Maybe later, ma’am. We need to make sure it’s truly ripe.”

“Oh, I think it is.” She smiled up at him. “But if you’re not sure, then I’ll wait until you are.”

“Pretty good,” Malone said, tossing aside the nut that lay at the center of the fruit. He wiped his lips with the back of a huge, hairy hand. “You know your crops, Sam the farmer’s friend, but I ain’t so sure you know your soil. This hereabouts is soured fer sure, and not all the fruits and vegetables and grains that you or I could grow on it in a night will cure that.”

The stranger did not hear. His face had acquired a faintly green glow itself. A hand went to his stomach as he turned to Hotchkiss.

“Are you all right, sir?” the young farmer inquired, alarmed.

“I am. Just a mite too much of my own bounty, I fear. Might your fine little community be home to a competent physician?”

Hotchkiss nodded. “Dr. Heinmann. Travels between towns hereabouts. He’s at the hotel for another day, I think, but should be leaving tomorrow.”

“Then I’d best hurry.” Suddenly the stranger was running back toward the farmhouse, exhibiting more energy than at any time that night.

“What happened to him?” Hotchkiss asked. Malone followed the stranger with his eyes as the man reached the house, mounted his steed, and urged it into a mad gallop toward town. Retching sounds drifted wistfully back over the fields toward them.

“I reckon he got too full of himself. He has a lot of knowledge but ain’t quite sure how to control it. Your land hereabouts is soured. With his kind of help it’d grow you one fine crop this year and probably fail the next, mebbe forever. By which time the likes of Sam the farmer’s friend would have harvested whatever he desired from this part of the world and moved on.” He glanced in Emma Hotchkiss’s direction, but rather than mark his point, she only gazed back at him invitingly, ignoring such inconveniences as admonitory implications.

Hotchkiss was crestfallen. “You’re saying that the trouble’s still in the ground and that it can’t be fixed? That all our efforts here are doomed to failure?”

“Oh, no, I didn’t say nothin’ like that, Will. The problem can be rectified by the application of an appropriate nitrogen-fixin’ substance, not by seein’ how many outrageous fruits and vegetables one man can grow in a night by trickery and deception.”

“Nitro fix…?” Hotchkiss frowned up at him. “What kind of talk is that?”

“Science, my young friend. The same science that makes the telegraph work and steam engines turn wheels. There’s all kinds o’ science stalking about the world, even among vegetables.”

“Where do we get this kind of substance?”

“Wal, now, it might take some time to gather what you need from certain islands I know, like the Galapagos, or certain holes in the ground, like in New Mexico, but seein’ as how you folks have already had such a bad time of it and are so far down the road o’ discouragement, I thought it best to attend to the problem as quickly as possible. So while we’ve been out here playin’ farmer, your difficulties have already been attended to.”

“Already? You mean the ground is fixed?”

“Yep,” said Malone. “Won’t grow you no already-wined grapes or many-nut trees, but you’ll do right well hereabouts with regular walnuts and grapes, wheat if you need it, and a bunch of other stuff I don’t reckon you know much about yet. Like artichokes.” He stroked his beard. “I reckon I’d try the oranges a mite farther south, though.”

“But the soil—how did you put it right?”

Malone put a fatherly hand on the young farmer’s shoulder. “Now, don’t you worry yourself none about the hows here, son. Sometimes it’s jest better to accept things than to question everything.”

They walked back to the house, which seemed already to have taken on a cheerier, happier air. As they did so, Malone glanced toward the corral. Worthless and the mare had returned. It was difficult to tell which was worse winded, but it was plain to see that the stallion had been attending to business. No doubt he’d sprayed most of young Hotchkiss’s property in addition to his mare.

How could Malone tell his host that a little unicorn seed invigorated everything it touched?

Emma Hotchkiss could certainly cook, he had to admit. She had changed and wore a smile and a dress that revealed at least two rings of that three-ring circus whose presence he’d remarked on earlier. Several of the acts repeatedly bumped up against Malone as she leaned over the table to serve the men. As always, her husband did not notice. He was too delighted, too thrilled by the knowledge that his farm had been saved, to note that his field was in danger.

After she slipped off to bed, leaving in her wake a trail of perfume and promise, the two men shared conversation and tobacco in front of the crackling fire.

“I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Malone. My neighbors won’t believe it.”

“They will when your crops come up, son. I promise you that.”

Hotchkiss regarded him curiously. “For a man who’s fulfilled every promise he made and vanquished the opposition to boot, you don’t sound very content.”

“I’m troubled, my young friend. Course, I’m always troubled, but I reckon that’s my destiny. I’m not talkin’ about those kinds of troubles, though. Jest the local ones.

“Fer example, if’n I were you, I wouldn’t be entirely convinced that this was such a fine place to put down roots.”

“But I thought you set the earth here to rights.”

“Oh, she’s unsoured, that’s certain, but whatever cursed this ground in the first place I ain’t sure is entirely cured. It might cause problems somewhere down the line. I’m not sayin’ it will fer you, understand, but it might fer your children and your children’s children. When you’ve put a few good years in, you might consider sellin’ this property at a good profit and movin’ farther down into the valley, mebbe somewheres along the San Joaquin. Better water there, anyways.”

Hotchkiss was silent. “Well, sir, I cannot but take your advice, having seen what you’ve done here this night. I will certainly keep your words in mind.”

“Thet’s not the only thing. There’s more cursed hereabouts than jest your land.”

“More than the land? I’m afraid I don’t follow you, Mr. Malone.”

The mountain man nodded in the direction of the bedroom, the firelight deepening the shadows that were his face. “It’s your Emma.”

Hotchkiss gaped at him, then jerked around to follow his gaze. “Emma, cursed? Good God, Mr. Malone. By what? She seems well and healthy.”

“She is that. But she’s also tormented by the worst curse than can afflict any woman, Will. That of boredom.”

Hotchkiss frowned. “Boredom? But how could she be bored, Mr. Malone? There’s so much to keep a woman busy on a farm: caring for the garden, washing, feeding the chickens and hogs, cooking, mending….”

Malone coughed delicately into a closed fist the size and consistency of a small anvil. “I don’t think you quite follow my reasoning, son. There’s activity, and then there’s boredom, and the two ain’t necessarily mutually exclusive.” He leaned forward, his eyes intent on those of the younger man, as if he were trying to communicate much more than mere words.

“She needs a change, Will. She ain’t the stay-on-the-farm-all-year type. You’re a hardworkin’ young feller, and I kin see that you’re gonna do yourself proud with your farmin’, make yourself some good money. Spend some of it on her. Don’t just tell her you love her. Show her. Take her up to Frisco for a while. Tell her how beautiful she is. Give her little gifts and presents, and not jest for her birthday and holidays. The best time to give a woman something is when she ain’t expectin’ anything.” He rose from the chair.

“Where are you going?” Hotchkiss asked numbly.

“Out to the stable. You’ll be wantin’ the house to yourself.”

“But I promised you…”

“Never you mind what you promised me, son. Most beds are too soft for me, anyhow. I’ll sleep fine in the stable.” He glanced toward the front door. “Need to keep an eye on Worthless anyways. Come springtime he don’t always know how to slow himself down.” He grinned. “Thinks he’s still a colt.”

“Wait!” Hotchkiss said suddenly. “What kind of presents should I give Emma? What kinds of gifts?”

“Don’t need to be big things. Lots of times little’uns mean more to a woman.” He donned his wolf’s head, and Hotchkiss thought he saw tiny lights flare briefly in the headgear’s eyesockets again, though more likely it was the glow from the fire. “You might start with this.”

He reached into a pocket and extracted an object that he handed to the young farmer. It was a small wooden sculpture, exquisitely detailed, of a man and a woman holding each other close, staring into each other’s eyes. Some of the detail looked too fine to have been fashioned by human hands.

With a start, Hotchkiss recognized the piece of whittling Malone had been working on outside the hotel in San Jose when he and his fellow farmers had confronted him.

“I can’t take this, sir.”

Malone stood in the doorway, bending low to clear the jamb. “Sure you can, son. I jest gave it to you. Go on. She’ll like it.” Before Hotchkiss could protest further, Malone closed the door behind him.

The young farmer stood there, unnerved by the gift. Then he shrugged and carefully put out the fire, retiring to the bedroom. In the dim light he failed to notice that the man and woman depicted in the sculpture were in the exact likeness of himself and his precious Emma.

The following morning Emma Hotchkiss made Malone the best breakfast he’d enjoyed in some months: grits, toast, biscuits and gravy, bacon and eggs, and homemade jam and sausage. She hovered close to her husband, the two of them exchanging little kisses and touches, and both wore expressions of great contentment and affection. The circus, Malone noted with satisfaction, had folded its tents, pulled up stakes, and left town.

Hotchkiss escorted him back into the settlement, the two men chatting like old friends in the morning sunlight. Worthless all but trotted the entire distance. Malone gave him a couple of knowing kicks, which with great dignity he studiously ignored.

They walked into the general store, to find a meeting already in progress. Faces turned in their direction as they entered, only to look quickly away.

Seated in the center of the group was the blond stranger. He was smiling. Evidently the good Dr. Heinmann’s ministrations had mollified his internal confusions.

“What is this?” Will no longer sounded young and insecure. “What’s going on here?”

“Well, Will,” George Franklin said as he slowly turned in his chair, “we were just finalizing our agreement with Sam here.”

“But you can’t do that.” Hotchkiss started forward, only to be restrained by his much larger companion. “I mean,” he said more quietly, “Mr. Malone here fixed my problems by himself last night. Now he’s ready to do the same for the rest of you.”

“We’re sorry, Will.” Kinkaid was apologetic. “But we did have a prior agreement with Sam here. Whatever your Mr. Malone did last night was between you and him. The rest of us have made another arrangement.”

The blond stranger held up a paper. “This here is a signed contract, all legal and irrevocable. Fifty dollars for fixing these fine folks’ land. Which I will do.”

“Pretty underhanded, running back here to have that drawn up when you knew Mr. Malone was tied up with his work out at my place,” the young farmer exclaimed heatedly.

“Easy there, Will.” Malone gazed silently at the nervous faces of the farmers. “This how you folks want it?” No one had the guts to speak. The mountain man nodded knowingly. “All right, then. But I’m warnin’ you to keep an eye on this feller. Some things he knows how to do; other things I ain’t so sure. T’ other night his own handiwork made him sick. If you ain’t careful, it might make you sick, too. Might make your land even sicker than it already is. I just want you to know that anything happens after I leave, any problems you have, ’tain’t my fault. It’s his.”

Kincaid and Franklin exchanged a look. “We are prepared to deal with any adverse consequences, Mr. Malone, though we are confident there will be none. We are mature men, and we know what we are doing.”

“Saving yourselves fifty dollars. That’s what you’re doing,” Will Hotchkiss muttered angrily.

“It’s all right, son,” Malone told him back out on the street. “Jest remember what I told you about considerin’ that move.”

“What did you mean when you said in there that he might make the land sicker?”

Malone lifted his gaze to the sunburned hills and fields that surrounded the town like a grassy sea. “I don’t rightly know myself, Will. That Sam’s a right clever feller, but I think mebbe too clever by half. A little knowledge is a good thing, but a lot… well, you better know what you’re doin’ when you start playin’ around with the earth.” He clapped the young farmer on the shoulder, a friendly good-bye.

“You take care o’ yourself, young feller, and your good woman, too. Come later this summer, I think you’re gonna come into a foal that might act a mite peculiar, but it’ll be a good work animal for you if you can learn to tolerate its eccentricities.”

“I will bear that in mind, Mr. Malone, sir. And thank you.” Searching a pocket, he found the double eagle he’d been carrying with him since yesterday. “It’s only a part of what you’re properly owed, but…”

“Thank you, Will.” Malone accepted the twenty dollars. “Fair payment for services rendered.” He mounted the four-legged massif that was his steed. “Give artichokes a try.”

“I will, sir,” Hotchkiss shouted after him as Malone rode south out of town, even as he wondered anew what the devil an artichoke was.

Inside the general store, the stranger was holding court, promising the small-minded, shortsighted men around him bounteous crops and enormous profits. He knew a lot, he did, but less than he thought.

“You heard what the mountain man said,” Kinkaid told him.

The stranger smiled: relaxed, supremely self-assured. “Sure, I heard, and it don’t worry me none. Shouldn’t worry none of you, neither. I know what I’m doin’. When I finish my work, your farms will be more prosperous than you’ve ever imagined. Course, there might be a slight recharge fee each planting season, but nothin’ none of you won’t be able to afford. A trifle compared to what you’ll be making.

“As for any problems that come up, why, I’ll gladly take the blame for them. You think, if I didn’t have confidence in my skills, that I’d stick around? I know my responsibilities, gentlemen, and am prepared to discharge them to the fullest. So if anything untoward should occur hereabouts, let it be deemed my fault. My fault, gentlemen, or my name ain’t Sam Andreas. Sam the farmer’s friend.”