Mad Amos Malone

  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 myse
lf, 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 searc
hed 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.”