The scream made Cleator turn. So fast had it traversed the river gorge that it was already almost upon him. It screamed again, a cross between a bleat and a howl. Malone whirled to flee, yelling at Cleator to do the same.
Perhaps he didn’t have enough time or chose to react instinctively. The rancher raised his rifle and tried to aim.
The burning yellow eyes blinded him. He flung his gun aside and tried finally to dodge.
That was when Malone saw the Indian. He was riding the monster’s muzzle.
It was solid and yet spirit, a brave dressed in untraditional cladding. Small but perfect, he thought as it turned toward the stumbling, half-paralyzed rancher and loosed a single shining arrow. It struck James Cleator squarely in the right eye, penetrating all the way to the brain and killing him instantly.
Then the monster was upon him. Cleator was struck once and sent flying, his already dead broken body landing ten yards away in a crumpled heap. Malone slowed. The monster had not come after him but had vanished eastward, howling into the night.
Breathing hard, he waited until he was sure before returning to study the rancher’s corpse. Nearby he found the monster’s tracks. They were unlike any he’d ever seen. He knelt to examine them more closely.
A voice came anxiously from behind: “Mr. Malone! Are you all right, sir?”
The mountain man did not look up as Esau Weaver slowed to a halt beside him. The rancher was carrying a rifle, old and battered. There was nothing worn about his courage, however. He blanched when he espied Cleator’s body.
“I know that man.”
“Your antagonist, though you did not know it. Not spirits. Gold will buy a man much, but not truth and not the spirits of the dead. Too easy by half to defile yesterday as well as tomorrow. I believe he were done in by both.” He put a comforting hand on the rancher’s shoulder. “Nothin’ more to be done here. Cleator was dead of heart before the rest of his body caught up with him. Let’s go get some shuteye. I’ll have a go at explainin’ it all to you and the missus tomorrow, while I’m helpin’ y’all t’ unpack that wagon.”
Weaver nodded wordlessly. Together they returned to the cabin, which would be disturbed no more. Around them the land and all it contained were once again at rest. Yesterday and tomorrow slept peacefully, flanking the present.
* * *
—
“Hell of a restoration job.” The attendant looked on approvingly.
“Thanks.” The owner was standing before the object of the other man’s admiration, examining it minutely.
“Something happened, I can see that.”
“Hit something coming over the bridge last night, just this side of Childress. Might’ve been a coyote. Might’ve been a small deer.”
“Lot of damage?” The attendant was sympathetic. Out here you never knew what you might run into at night.
“Not as bad as it felt. Plenty of blood, though. That’ll wash off okay. Then there’s this.” He fingered the Packard’s nose. “Bent halfway around. And there’s a little arrow that went right here, see? Must’ve lost it in the collision.” He straightened, shaking his head sadly.
“These cars from the thirties and forties, they built ’em tough, but it seems like something’s always happening to the damn hood ornaments.”
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.”
Mad Amos Malone Page 11
