Mad Amos Malone

by Alan Dean Foster

  “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.”