Mad Amos Malone

  “What are cashews?” Hotchkiss asked.

  “They don’t come from around here, but they’re good to eat,” Malone told him. “Those big round ones are macadamias, from Australia.” He peered up into the tree. “I reckon there’s some up in there I don’t rightly know myself.”

  The stranger walked right up to his taller opponent to search his face. “You’re a very clever man, friend. Very clever indeed. But you’re no farmer’s friend. And whatever you be, I swear you can’t match this.”

  He stepped back and took a seed the size of a peanut from his sack. It pulsed with a faint inner light of its own, as though a tiny heart were beating inside the hard outer covering. Instead of scattering it carelessly as he had the others, he planted this one very carefully. Malone thought the stranger whispered some words over it as he ground it into the soil with the heel of his boot. Then he stepped back.

  From a red refulgent patch of earth another tree emerged, its branches sagging under the mass of multihued fruit they carried. The trunk of the tree seemed permeated with that pale red glow, which did not diminish when the tree ceased growing. There were apples and oranges, lemons and limes and soursops, jackfruits and star fruits and litchis and rambutans—fruits that never should have grown in that dirt, in that country. It was a cornucopia of fruit sprung from a single unsuspecting square of soil.

  Even Malone was impressed and said so.

  “Go on,” the stranger said proudly, “taste some of it. Taste any of it.”

  The mountain man carefully scrutinized one of the groaning branches. He picked a couple of rambutans and began to peel them, the sugary white centers emerging from behind the spiny red outer husks. The stranger looked on intently as Malone put one fruit to his lips. Then he hesitated.

  “You must be gettin’ a mite hungry yourself after so much hard work.” He held out the other rambutan.

  The stranger waved him off. “No, thank you, but I enjoyed a fine supper and am quite content.”

  “Oh, go on,” Malone urged him. “I dislike eatin’ by meself.”

  Hotchkiss frowned at the stranger. “Is something wrong with the fruit?”

  “No, of course not.” The blond man hesitated, then took the proffered fruit. Eyes locked, the two men ate simultaneously.

  “Can I have some, too?” Emma Hotchkiss asked coyly. “I’m not full at all. In fact, I’m just ever so positively empty inside.”

  Malone smiled at her. “Maybe later, ma’am. We need to make sure it’s truly ripe.”

  “Oh, I think it is.” She smiled up at him. “But if you’re not sure, then I’ll wait until you are.”

  “Pretty good,” Malone said, tossing aside the nut that lay at the center of the fruit. He wiped his lips with the back of a huge, hairy hand. “You know your crops, Sam the farmer’s friend, but I ain’t so sure you know your soil. This hereabouts is soured fer sure, and not all the fruits and vegetables and grains that you or I could grow on it in a night will cure that.”

  The stranger did not hear. His face had acquired a faintly green glow itself. A hand went to his stomach as he turned to Hotchkiss.

  “Are you all right, sir?” the young farmer inquired, alarmed.

  “I am. Just a mite too much of my own bounty, I fear. Might your fine little community be home to a competent physician?”

  Hotchkiss nodded. “Dr. Heinmann. Travels between towns hereabouts. He’s at the hotel for another day, I think, but should be leaving tomorrow.”

  “Then I’d best hurry.” Suddenly the stranger was running back toward the farmhouse, exhibiting more energy than at any time that night.

  “What happened to him?” Hotchkiss asked. Malone followed the stranger with his eyes as the man reached the house, mounted his steed, and urged it into a mad gallop toward town. Retching sounds drifted wistfully back over the fields toward them.

  “I reckon he got too full of himself. He has a lot of knowledge but ain’t quite sure how to control it. Your land hereabouts is soured. With his kind of help it’d grow you one fine crop this year and probably fail the next, mebbe forever. By which time the likes of Sam the farmer’s friend would have harvested whatever he desired from this part of the world and moved on.” He glanced in Emma Hotchkiss’s direction, but rather than mark his point, she only gazed back at him invitingly, ignoring such inconveniences as admonitory implications.

  Hotchkiss was crestfallen. “You’re saying that the trouble’s still in the ground and that it can’t be fixed? That all our efforts here are doomed to failure?”

  “Oh, no, I didn’t say nothin’ like that, Will. The problem can be rectified by the application of an appropriate nitrogen-fixin’ substance, not by seein’ how many outrageous fruits and vegetables one man can grow in a night by trickery and deception.”

  “Nitro fix…?” Hotchkiss frowned up at him. “What kind of talk is that?”

  “Science, my young friend. The same science that makes the telegraph work and steam engines turn wheels. There’s all kinds o’ science stalking about the world, even among vegetables.”

  “Where do we get this kind of substance?”

  “Wal, now, it might take some time to gather what you need from certain islands I know, like the Galapagos, or certain holes in the ground, like in New Mexico, but seein’ as how you folks have already had such a bad time of it and are so far down the road o’ discouragement, I thought it best to attend to the problem as quickly as possible. So while we’ve been out here playin’ farmer, your difficulties have already been attended to.”

  “Already? You mean the ground is fixed?”

  “Yep,” said Malone. “Won’t grow you no already-wined grapes or many-nut trees, but you’ll do right well hereabouts with regular walnuts and grapes, wheat if you need it, and a bunch of other stuff I don’t reckon you know much about yet. Like artichokes.” He stroked his beard. “I reckon I’d try the oranges a mite farther south, though.”

  “But the soil—how did you put it right?”

  Malone put a fatherly hand on the young farmer’s shoulder. “Now, don’t you worry yourself none about the hows here, son. Sometimes it’s jest better to accept things than to question everything.”

  They walked back to the house, which seemed already to have taken on a cheerier, happier air. As they did so, Malone glanced toward the corral. Worthless and the mare had returned. It was difficult to tell which was worse winded, but it was plain to see that the stallion had been attending to business. No doubt he’d sprayed most of young Hotchkiss’s property in addition to his mare.

  How could Malone tell his host that a little unicorn seed invigorated everything it touched?

  * * *

  —

  Emma Hotchkiss could certainly cook, he had to admit. She had changed and wore a smile and a dress that revealed at least two rings of that three-ring circus whose presence he’d remarked on earlier. Several of the acts repeatedly bumped up against Malone as she leaned over the table to serve the men. As always, her husband did not notice. He was too delighted, too thrilled by the knowledge that his farm had been saved, to note that his field was in danger.

  After she slipped off to bed, leaving in her wake a trail of perfume and promise, the two men shared conversation and tobacco in front of the crackling fire.

  “I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Malone. My neighbors won’t believe it.”

  “They will when your crops come up, son. I promise you that.”

  Hotchkiss regarded him curiously. “For a man who’s fulfilled every promise he made and vanquished the opposition to boot, you don’t sound very content.”

  “I’m troubled, my young friend. Course, I’m always troubled, but I reckon that’s my destiny. I’m not talkin’ about those kinds of troubles, though. Jest the local ones.

  “Fer example, if’n I were you, I wouldn’t be entirely convinced that
this was such a fine place to put down roots.”

  “But I thought you set the earth here to rights.”

  “Oh, she’s unsoured, that’s certain, but whatever cursed this ground in the first place I ain’t sure is entirely cured. It might cause problems somewhere down the line. I’m not sayin’ it will fer you, understand, but it might fer your children and your children’s children. When you’ve put a few good years in, you might consider sellin’ this property at a good profit and movin’ farther down into the valley, mebbe somewheres along the San Joaquin. Better water there, anyways.”

  Hotchkiss was silent. “Well, sir, I cannot but take your advice, having seen what you’ve done here this night. I will certainly keep your words in mind.”

  “Thet’s not the only thing. There’s more cursed hereabouts than jest your land.”

  “More than the land? I’m afraid I don’t follow you, Mr. Malone.”

  The mountain man nodded in the direction of the bedroom, the firelight deepening the shadows that were his face. “It’s your Emma.”

  Hotchkiss gaped at him, then jerked around to follow his gaze. “Emma, cursed? Good God, Mr. Malone. By what? She seems well and healthy.”

  “She is that. But she’s also tormented by the worst curse than can afflict any woman, Will. That of boredom.”

  Hotchkiss frowned. “Boredom? But how could she be bored, Mr. Malone? There’s so much to keep a woman busy on a farm: caring for the garden, washing, feeding the chickens and hogs, cooking, mending….”

  Malone coughed delicately into a closed fist the size and consistency of a small anvil. “I don’t think you quite follow my reasoning, son. There’s activity, and then there’s boredom, and the two ain’t necessarily mutually exclusive.” He leaned forward, his eyes intent on those of the younger man, as if he were trying to communicate much more than mere words.

  “She needs a change, Will. She ain’t the stay-on-the-farm-all-year type. You’re a hardworkin’ young feller, and I kin see that you’re gonna do yourself proud with your farmin’, make yourself some good money. Spend some of it on her. Don’t just tell her you love her. Show her. Take her up to Frisco for a while. Tell her how beautiful she is. Give her little gifts and presents, and not jest for her birthday and holidays. The best time to give a woman something is when she ain’t expectin’ anything.” He rose from the chair.

  “Where are you going?” Hotchkiss asked numbly.

  “Out to the stable. You’ll be wantin’ the house to yourself.”

  “But I promised you…”

  “Never you mind what you promised me, son. Most beds are too soft for me, anyhow. I’ll sleep fine in the stable.” He glanced toward the front door. “Need to keep an eye on Worthless anyways. Come springtime he don’t always know how to slow himself down.” He grinned. “Thinks he’s still a colt.”

  “Wait!” Hotchkiss said suddenly. “What kind of presents should I give Emma? What kinds of gifts?”

  “Don’t need to be big things. Lots of times little’uns mean more to a woman.” He donned his wolf’s head, and Hotchkiss thought he saw tiny lights flare briefly in the headgear’s eyesockets again, though more likely it was the glow from the fire. “You might start with this.”

  He reached into a pocket and extracted an object that he handed to the young farmer. It was a small wooden sculpture, exquisitely detailed, of a man and a woman holding each other close, staring into each other’s eyes. Some of the detail looked too fine to have been fashioned by human hands.

  With a start, Hotchkiss recognized the piece of whittling Malone had been working on outside the hotel in San Jose when he and his fellow farmers had confronted him.

  “I can’t take this, sir.”

  Malone stood in the doorway, bending low to clear the jamb. “Sure you can, son. I jest gave it to you. Go on. She’ll like it.” Before Hotchkiss could protest further, Malone closed the door behind him.

  The young farmer stood there, unnerved by the gift. Then he shrugged and carefully put out the fire, retiring to the bedroom. In the dim light he failed to notice that the man and woman depicted in the sculpture were in the exact likeness of himself and his precious Emma.

  The following morning Emma Hotchkiss made Malone the best breakfast he’d enjoyed in some months: grits, toast, biscuits and gravy, bacon and eggs, and homemade jam and sausage. She hovered close to her husband, the two of them exchanging little kisses and touches, and both wore expressions of great contentment and affection. The circus, Malone noted with satisfaction, had folded its tents, pulled up stakes, and left town.

  Hotchkiss escorted him back into the settlement, the two men chatting like old friends in the morning sunlight. Worthless all but trotted the entire distance. Malone gave him a couple of knowing kicks, which with great dignity he studiously ignored.

  They walked into the general store, to find a meeting already in progress. Faces turned in their direction as they entered, only to look quickly away.

  Seated in the center of the group was the blond stranger. He was smiling. Evidently the good Dr. Heinmann’s ministrations had mollified his internal confusions.

  “What is this?” Will no longer sounded young and insecure. “What’s going on here?”

  “Well, Will,” George Franklin said as he slowly turned in his chair, “we were just finalizing our agreement with Sam here.”

  “But you can’t do that.” Hotchkiss started forward, only to be restrained by his much larger companion. “I mean,” he said more quietly, “Mr. Malone here fixed my problems by himself last night. Now he’s ready to do the same for the rest of you.”

  “We’re sorry, Will.” Kinkaid was apologetic. “But we did have a prior agreement with Sam here. Whatever your Mr. Malone did last night was between you and him. The rest of us have made another arrangement.”

  The blond stranger held up a paper. “This here is a signed contract, all legal and irrevocable. Fifty dollars for fixing these fine folks’ land. Which I will do.”

  “Pretty underhanded, running back here to have that drawn up when you knew Mr. Malone was tied up with his work out at my place,” the young farmer exclaimed heatedly.

  “Easy there, Will.” Malone gazed silently at the nervous faces of the farmers. “This how you folks want it?” No one had the guts to speak. The mountain man nodded knowingly. “All right, then. But I’m warnin’ you to keep an eye on this feller. Some things he knows how to do; other things I ain’t so sure. T’ other night his own handiwork made him sick. If you ain’t careful, it might make you sick, too. Might make your land even sicker than it already is. I just want you to know that anything happens after I leave, any problems you have, ’tain’t my fault. It’s his.”

  Kincaid and Franklin exchanged a look. “We are prepared to deal with any adverse consequences, Mr. Malone, though we are confident there will be none. We are mature men, and we know what we are doing.”

  “Saving yourselves fifty dollars. That’s what you’re doing,” Will Hotchkiss muttered angrily.

  “It’s all right, son,” Malone told him back out on the street. “Jest remember what I told you about considerin’ that move.”

  “What did you mean when you said in there that he might make the land sicker?”

  Malone lifted his gaze to the sunburned hills and fields that surrounded the town like a grassy sea. “I don’t rightly know myself, Will. That Sam’s a right clever feller, but I think mebbe too clever by half. A little knowledge is a good thing, but a lot…well, you better know what you’re doin’ when you start playin’ around with the earth.” He clapped the young farmer on the shoulder, a friendly good-bye.

  “You take care o’ yourself, young feller, and your good woman, too. Come later this summer, I think you’re gonna come into a foal that might act a mite peculiar, but it’ll be a good work animal for you if you can learn to tolerate its eccentricit
ies.”

  “I will bear that in mind, Mr. Malone, sir. And thank you.” Searching a pocket, he found the double eagle he’d been carrying with him since yesterday. “It’s only a part of what you’re properly owed, but…”

  “Thank you, Will.” Malone accepted the twenty dollars. “Fair payment for services rendered.” He mounted the four-legged massif that was his steed. “Give artichokes a try.”

  “I will, sir,” Hotchkiss shouted after him as Malone rode south out of town, even as he wondered anew what the devil an artichoke was.

  Inside the general store, the stranger was holding court, promising the small-minded, shortsighted men around him bounteous crops and enormous profits. He knew a lot, he did, but less than he thought.

  “You heard what the mountain man said,” Kinkaid told him.

  The stranger smiled: relaxed, supremely self-assured. “Sure, I heard, and it don’t worry me none. Shouldn’t worry none of you, neither. I know what I’m doin’. When I finish my work, your farms will be more prosperous than you’ve ever imagined. Course, there might be a slight recharge fee each planting season, but nothin’ none of you won’t be able to afford. A trifle compared to what you’ll be making.

  “As for any problems that come up, why, I’ll gladly take the blame for them. You think, if I didn’t have confidence in my skills, that I’d stick around? I know my responsibilities, gentlemen, and am prepared to discharge them to the fullest. So if anything untoward should occur hereabouts, let it be deemed my fault. My fault, gentlemen, or my name ain’t Sam Andreas. Sam the farmer’s friend.”

  Having Words

  It stands to reason that a traveler like Amos Malone would tend to find his way back to regions of especial interest, particularly those that feature the unusual and the exceptional. The Yellowstone region would certainly qualify. Furthermore, as a man of letters, Malone is someone who is fond of language. Despite his impressive size, he is actually quite a mild-mannered chap. This does not keep terrified folk from fleeing from his presence. But once you get to know him and settle down for a drink and a casual conversation and can ignore a certain lack of personal hygiene, you might find yourself privy to marvels big and small. All rendered through language, of course. Malone has nothing to prove by putting a massive fist through a wall. If confronted, he’d much rather unleash a cornucopia of interesting verbs and adjectives.