“Who…who are you, sir? What has happened here?” Raising her head, the woman regarded her elegant if unsettled surroundings. “I remember last being sold and being put on a ship. I remember a place, a port….”
Worn as he was, Malone still managed to muster a thoughtful response. “That would not, by any chance, be San Francisco?”
“Yes!” A small trill of excitement underlined her words. “San Francisco, yes. I remember being delivered and then…nothing.” Her gaze returned to him, searching his features. “You have a dangerous face but kind eyes, sir. What will you do with me?”
Letting out a groan that shook the foundations of the building one final time, he rolled off her. There was silence in the room for a long minute. Her expression expectant, she eyed the mountain of man beside her but forbore from interrupting his recovery. Then he exhaled heavily, sat up, clasped hands around knees the size of small boulders, and looked down at her.
“If it’s all the same to you, ma’m, I’ll take you back to San Francisco. There are good folk there o’ your own kind, folks who will find a decent place fer someone like yourself. One where you won’t have to worry about bein’ possessed. Because that’s what you were, ma’m.” The great sweep of his beard framed a surprisingly reassuring smile.
She looked away, neither demure nor embarrassed by her nakedness. “You call me ‘ma’am.’ My name is Meifeng.”
Malone nodded approvingly. Outside the closed window, a horse could be heard whinnying insistently. He started to rise. A hand, strong but graceful, reached out to restrain him.
“Before you leave to prepare for our journey, sir, I would show you my thanks for saving me, though I have but small and inadequate means of doing so.”
“I really ought…,” he began. But she was insistent, and begged him, and her dark eyes were now filled with the kind of earnest soulfulness it had always been his misfortune to be unable to refuse. Besides, despite all he had endured, he was always a fool for knowledge.
After all, Meifeng does mean “beautiful wind.”
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 Harg
rave 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.”
Scuns
thorpe 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.”
Mad Amos Malone Page 30
