After all, Meifeng does mean “beautiful wind.”
A Treefold Problem
In some parts, Amos Malone’s tendency to show up just in time to lend a helping hand to folks in need is almost as famed as his unsettling familiarity with arcane affairs. It’s borderline uncanny how he manages to wander into a situation where his presence ultimately proves useful to ordinary folks in desperate straits. That doesn’t mean he always just jumps right in to offer assistance. But despite harboring the traditional mountain man’s love of privacy, Malone retains a soft spot for those who are put upon by evil. That evil might take the form of a demon, a dragon, a demoiselle, or, to destroy the alliteration, a simple piece of paper. A piece of paper’s capacity for embodying pure evil is frequently underrated.
There was a time in the American West when a simple piece of paper was just that. Then “civilization” moved in, replete with its accountants, lawyers, and politicians. To this day, dealing with them often requires resorting to methods distinctive and unorthodox.
Myself, I’d rather take my chances with the demons. At least brimstone is clean.
The children were wailing, his wife was sobbing, and that pitiless sliver of scum that walked like a man and called himself Potter Scunsthorpe (the individual with whom Owen was arguing fruitlessly) remained as merciless as a bull fixated on chewing three days’ worth of unmasticated cud. To add to the human cacophony at the forest’s edge, a pair of ravens flew past overhead, cackling like a pair of perambulating witches intent solely on taunting Owen Hargrave in his present misery.
Scunsthorpe let the farmer stem-wind for several minutes longer before raising a commanding hand for silence. He had the look of a successful undertaker, did Scunsthorpe, coupled to the unctuous mannerisms of a banker who could squeeze an orange in one hand, a nickel in the other, and get juice out of both. Slender as a reed, his skin the color of wild rice, he was clad in a finely tailored black suit entirely out of keeping with the present woodland surroundings. A black top hat one size too small clung to his white-fringed scalp with grim determination. The single red silk ribbon that protruded from the hatband was the color of blood. From the front of his immaculate white shirt, a gold watch chain dribbled into a bulging pocket. Only his scuffed and dirty boots marked him as a citizen of far Wisconsin and not more civilized New York or Philadelphia. His two troll-like lackeys flanked him, disinterested and anxious to be away.
The subject of the animated and decidedly inequitable discussion between the two men was an inundation of unbroken verdure, a veritable mantle of virgin forest that stretched as far to the west as one could see. White and red pine stabbed at the heavens, interspersed with stout woodland guardians of northern and red oak, red and sugar maple. Here and there a solitary basswood made an appearance, and where sunlight was sufficient, dense thickets of blueberry, wintergreen, and partridgeberry burst forth in energetic tangles.
All this green glory the Hargrave family owned, as part and parcel of their deeded land. It was coveted in turn by Scunsthorpe. The paper he now held out before Owen Hargrave might as well have been signed and stamped by the Devil himself. It was the mortgage to the Hargrave property. As is the way of those who lurk, wormlike, just below the surface of decent society, Scunsthorpe had bought it up on the sly. Now the final, balloon payment was due. Based on their existing equity, a Milwaukee banker would likely have extended credit to the family. Scunsthorpe was no banker. He was brother to the ravens who had just cawed past overhead, and like them, a soulless scavenger.
“The timber is mine by rights of this deed.” It was an evident struggle for Scunsthorpe to speak the words while masking his enjoyment of them. He kissed each vowel with a perverse joy. “That, and the land upon which it stands, and the adjoining farm as well. Together with any buildings, wells, fences, barns, and other physical improvements you may have made thereon.” Unable to restrain himself any longer, he nodded toward the untouched forest. His prominent Adam’s apple bobbed as he spoke. “The law says it is so if you have not cleared this land. I see no evidence of it.”
Hargrave glanced over at his wife, who was trying to ease the crying of their youngest, held in her arms, before once more confronting his tormentor.
“I have explained and explained, sir. It was a difficult winter. I meant fully to hire a crew to at least commence the requisite clearing of the timber, but all our efforts had to be bent to preserving our livestock and thence getting in the spring planting. I had no time left for tree felling.”
Scunsthorpe straightened, which made him loom even higher over the stocky farmer. “My concern is not with the vagaries of the local climate, sir, nor with your petty domestic matters. The law is the law, fixed and immutable.” He swept a scythelike arm to the west. “You have not, as specified, made use of the forest. Therefore it, and all else included in this deed, is now mine by right.”
Unable to contain herself any longer, Hargrave’s wife spoke up, her pleading carrying above the sobs of the children. Only ten-year-old Eli, who gazed at Scunsthorpe with undying hatred, was not bawling uncontrollably.
“But, sir, I beseech you, what are we to do? I would take a job and work myself to pay you something of the cash money you are owed, but with the farm and the children I have little enough time to sleep.”
Scunsthorpe’s mouth drew tight in a line as closed as that of his purse. “Then at least, madam, you will very soon have time to sleep, as the arduous burden of caring for a farm will be lifted from you.”
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 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, a proportionately 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 hear the forest think.”
“With all goodwill, 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 the 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 colored 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.