Straight Outta Tombstone

by David Boop

  Scunsthorpe was not alone that evening in choosing to observe the unprecedented demonstration of lumbering 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 blue moved aside to reveal a visage of winsome grace, dominated by cornflower-blue eyes, lips brushed 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 stared in the indicated direction. A slight intake of breath followed hard upon her identification. Scunsthorpe noted it and swallowed his disgust.

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

  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 Bornean rainforest, Malone paused in mid-swing to set the head of his massive axe on the ground. He responded with a nod.

  “And if m’lady will pardon an old reprobate such as myself, you are 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.”

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

  “I know one place you haven’t been,” she said coquettishly.

  “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, an’ 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. “I am quite comfortable with dining informally, as you shall see.” Whereupon she turned briefly to him and inhaled, thereby stretching 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 if by breathing any deeper 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 modest 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 160 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 goodbyes. 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.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Try if you must, Scunsthorpe!” Malone yelled back as he quickened his pace, “but fer your own sake, move to his front now!”

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

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

  Worthless’s tail rose, perhaps semaphoring a warning. That, more so than any of the mountain man’s admonitions, drew Scunsthorpe’s attention. He hesitated, his eyes widening, and turned abruptly away from the gravely bloated animal. Whereupon the noble if unclassifiable creature did not so much break wind as shatter it, destroy it, and biblically obliterate the entire atmosphere directly astern.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “And now, if’n y’all please, I think it both safe and pleasant for you t’see to your fine f
amily and wife, and for me t’have the distinct pleasure of donning, for the first time in some while, clothing that has been properly cleaned an’ disinfected.”

  A dazed Hargrave surveyed his 160 acres: felled and, if not stacked, at least neatly aligned all in one direction. Why, he mused wonderingly, the force of the equine eruption had even cleanly topped the fallen trees. He had lumber aplenty for his own use, good timber to sell, and cleared forest land sufficient to satisfy the demands of the unrelentingly greedy Scuns—

  He looked around.

  Where was the unpleasant speculator, anyway?

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

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

  FOUNTAINS OF BLOOD

  DAVID LEE SUMMERS

  Billy McCarty sensed an ambush, but if he had known its true nature, he would have gone to his room, locked the door and slept in the next day. Instead, he spent the night playing faro, smoking cheroots and occasionally taking a sip of whiskey. When the saloon owner chased the last drunks out into the street, Billy ambled over to the livery stable, and hitched the horses to the old buckboard. Once done, he returned to the hotel and knocked on his employer’s door.

  Mr. Fountain answered a moment later, already dressed. Even in the early morning hours, the white-haired man with a handlebar mustache cut a distinguished figure. Without lighting a lamp, he reached over and jostled a form buried under blankets. A boy emerged and sat up, rubbing sleep-crusted eyes.