“I don’t mind bein’ run off by bandits, or the weather, or grizzlies or Indians, but I’m damned if I’ll give up and just walk away from my spread without having a reason why.”
Malone considered silently. Then he rose. Involuntarily, the little knot of farmers retreated a step. The mountain man had to bend to avoid bumping his head on the porch roof that shaded the sidewalk. “Like I said, I ain’t no farmer. But I don’t like to see good folks driven off their places when mebbe there’s a simple straight way their troubles kin be fixed. So I will have a look-see at your country, gentlemens. Don’t promise that I kin do nothin’ for you, but a look-see I’ll have.”
“As to the matter of payment,” Franklin began.
“Let me see if I kin help you folks out first,” Malone told him. “If I can fix your problems, then it’ll cost you, oh, a hundred dollars U.S. In gold.” Franklin inhaled sharply but said nothing. “Until then, bed and vittles will do me jest fine. A bucket or two of oats for Worthless wouldn’t be turned down, neither.”
Across the street the enormous multicolored nag looked back at the group and whinnied.
Franklin and Kinkaid exchanged a glance, then Franklin turned back to the mountain man and nodded. “Agreed.”
Buoyed by their success but simultaneously wary of the man they’d engaged, the farmers headed for their own mounts or, in the case of Franklin and Kinkaid, a fine new buckboard.
“Think he’s the man?” Kinkaid asked his neighbor.
“I don’t know, Jesse.” Franklin glanced back up the street to where the mountain man was mounting his ridiculous animal. “Might be he’s telling us the truth when he says he doesn’t know a thing about farming.”
Kinkaid lowered his gaze. “Well, it weren’t a farmer we come to find, was it?”
“I’m not very confident about the other, either,” Franklin murmured. “I don’t see anything remarkable about him except his size.”
Deaf Jackson swung his right leg over his saddle. “What’d you expect to find, George? Somebody with horns growin’ out of their head, breathin’ fire and riding a cloud?”
“No, I expect not.” Franklin heaved himself up into the buckboard while Kinkaid took the reins.
Young Hotchkiss mounted alongside Slim Martin. “Funny thing, back there.”
“What’s that?” Martin asked him as they turned up the street that led out of San Jose.
“That odd-looking horse of his turning back to us and whinnying when we were talking about him.”
“What’s funny about that?”
“Malone wasn’t talking that loud, and there were wagons and horses going all the time we was there. How’d that animal hear him clear across that street?”
Malone had been studying the terrain ever since they’d ridden south out of San Jose. Rolling hills that gave way to flat, grassy plains. You could smell the richness of the earth. Blessed as it was with adequate water and California sunshine, there was no reason why the soil they were traversing shouldn’t produce crops as fine and healthy as any in the world.
But it was not. Something was wrong with this land, something major unpleasant, Malone decided.
The men kept their distance from him, wary and uncertain. All except young Hotchkiss, who was too green to know better. He rode alongside, keeping the stranger company and asking too many questions for his own good. But the mountain man didn’t appear to mind, and the others were delighted to include among their number one fool whose chattering ignorance served to free them of the accusation of inhospitality.
“That’s quite a hat you’ve got, sir. Did you kill the animal yourself?” The young farmer indicated the wolf’s head that protected Malone’s scalp.
The mountain man kept his attention on the land ahead, studying the soil, the increasingly twisted trees, and the scraggly brush. Surely it was damaged country they were entering. Sick country.
“I didn’t kill it,” he replied offhandedly. “It ain’t dead.”
Young Hotchkiss hesitated as though he hadn’t heard correctly. “Begging your pardon, sir.”
“It ain’t dead.” Reaching up, he adjusted the wolf’s head over his forehead.
Hotchkiss regarded the canine skull. “I wouldn’t be found calling you a liar to save my life, Mr. Malone, but if it ain’t dead, then where’s the rest of it?”
“In a cave a thousand feet above the Snake River. Old wolf’s denned up for the winter. Since he don’t need his head while he’s hibernatin’, he didn’t see the harm in lettin’ me borry it till spring. I told him I’d look out for his family in return.” Malone leaned close and whispered conspiratorially. “Don’t talk too loud or you’re likely to wake him up. I don’t know what his head’s likely to do without the rest of him, but it might not be real amiable.”
The wide-eyed young farmer nodded and spurred his mount to rejoin his companions up ahead. As soon as he’d gone, Worthless cocked his head back to peer up out of his good eye at the man on his back.
“What’re you squintin’ at, you useless offspring of a spavined mule? The boy was gettin’ to be somethin’ of an irritation.”
The Percheron-cum-Appaloosa-cum-Arabian-cum-unicorn snorted with great deliberation, compelling his rider to wipe his left boot while visiting additional imprecations upon his mount, which plodded on, thoroughly unimpressed.
The town wasn’t much: schoolhouse, church, smithy, barbershop, two general stores, a small hotel. It was the spittin’ image of a thousand similar farming communities all across the country.
A woman with two kids was coming out of the general store. When she saw the riders approach, she ran back inside. Several men emerged to greet the tired arrivals.
“Well, we’re back!” Deaf Jackson declared loudly as he dismounted.
“Yep. This is Malone,” Kinkaid said. “The man we heard about.”
The two men standing on the store porch looked uncomfortable. Franklin eased himself down from the buckboard and mounted the steps to confront them.
“Josiah, Andrew, what’s going on here? This isn’t the greeting we expected. What is our friend Mr. Malone going to think?”
The storekeeper picked at his apron. “You’re late, George.”
Franklin frowned. “What’s that got to do with anything? It took considerable time to find our man.”
“Well, George,” said the storekeeper’s companion, “it’s just that you all were gone so long, and then this other gentleman rode into town….”
Franklin’s eyebrows rose. “Other gentleman?”
“Me.”
All eyes went to the general store’s entrance. The man who stood there was as thin as Slim Martin but taller. He had pale blue eyes and undisciplined blond hair and rather more lines in his face than he ought to have had. He wore a brightly checked, long-sleeved flannel shirt over a new pair of Mr. Levi’s best pants and was masticating a chaw of the store’s best tobacco.
“And who might you be, sir?” Jesse Kinkaid inquired.
“Sam. Folks just call me Sam. You can call me Sam, too.” His gaze rose to the silent, contemplative mountain man. “So can you, friend. That’s me, just plain Sam. The farmer’s best friend.”
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?”