Straight Outta Tombstone

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Straight Outta Tombstone Page 18

by David Boop


  Considering the present circumstances, 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 along 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 Hargrave 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, an equally 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 ’ear the forest think.”

  “With all good will 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 his 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 Negro 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 on 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 good will—”

  “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 good will 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 was 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 scavenger warned the giant, “I can have you arrested! Not that it would be of any consequence anyway. There are 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, mebbee 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’n the property in question has been properly cleared an’ prepared for 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, after ten.” Struggling not to chortle aloud, he turned to his left and once again gestured at the dense, unbroken forest.

  “If Mister Hargrave can, as mentioned, 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 specif
ied 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.”

  Scunsthorpe looked baffled. “Once again, I fail to follow your reasoning, sir.”

  Malone indicated the wall of untouched forest. “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 an’ 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 excavate a portion of his soft, undersized nose. 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.” He sighed dramatically. “So be it, then. I had hoped to conclude this awkward business today. But on your insistence, I will return tomorrow before the appointed hour.” His expression narrowed, sharp as the cleft in a tomahawked skull. “I shall bring along for company and confirmation the sheriff of Newhope, in case any further fine-tuning of legalities shall be required.”

  “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 still 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.”

  “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 put forth such a notion might well be called mad.”

  “He might indeed, ma’am.” Reaching his animal, Malone began to search through one of the oversized backpacks while simultaneously advising Eli’s oldest sister. “I’d keep me distance from Worthless’s mouth, young missy.”

  Blonde, precious, and wide-eyed, the girl replied even as she peered up at the wide-lipped equine mouth hovering above her. “Why, mister? Will he bite me?”

  “I think not. But Worthless, ’e has a tendency to drool, an’ sometimes it burns.”

  As if to counter this assertion, the huge black head bent low. A 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. Kin I impose on you fer some feed, Mr. Hargrave?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course, Mr. Malone.” Turning, the farmer barked at his oldest 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.

  “An’ barley, boy. If you kin find any barley, Worthless dotes on the stuff. I usually don’t feed it t’him because—well, you might have occasion t’see why. 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 wood. As the farmer looked on with interest Malone snapped it straight, the metal hinge that divided the two lengths locking automatically in place. From the trim and shape it was plain enough to divine its purpose: It was an axe handle. Rummaging deeper in the same saddlebag, the visitor drew forth the matching 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 black walnut.”

  “No sir,” Malone replied as he 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. “And that head; that must be at least a four-pounder. Or is it five?”

  “Twenty.” Malone held the implement out at arm’s length to check the straightness of the handle. Held it out with one hand.

  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 of 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, the massive steel cutting edge sliced halfway through the thick trunk.

  “Mercy!” Putting her free hand to her chest, 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 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 past her, stumbling as he ran, and raised his voice. “We’re going to need the team to move 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 pausing only once to place a heavy blanket across the back of his energetically feeding steed and secure it tightly in place. Hargrave felled one tree to every ten of the big man’s, until finally his aching arms gave out and the blisters on his hands 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 the axe, let alone swing it. Taking a break to down a full quart of the cold creek water periodically fetched by Mrs. Hargrave, Malone concluded the imposing draught 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, a cotton undershirt from which whiteness had long since fled screaming.

  “Here, young feller-me-lad: If ’tis work you want, set yourself to seein’ that those there garments get cleaned up a bit, as they ain’t been washed in quite a spell now.”

  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 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 thoughtful. “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. Came out reasonable clean somewhere near St. Louis.” He smiled down at her and at the mound of clothing in whose approximate vicinity her eldest son was presently submerged. “I reckon that this time, a touch o’ soap wouldn’t be out of 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. Unable to keep the amazing story to himself, 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 and feed grain. Scunsthorpe could do no more than shake his head at the futile sight. While he could not fathom the giant’s ultimate intent, he had no intention of leaving anything to chance.

 

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