“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. He was unable to keep the amazing story to himself, so 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, barley, and feed grain. Scunsthorpe could do no more than shake his head at the sight. While he could not fathom the giant’s ultimate intent, he had no intention of leaving anything to chance.
Scunsthorpe was not alone that evening in choosing to observe the unprecedented demonstration of lumberjacking talent. On buckboards and wagons, other townsfolk had come out to watch and marvel at the exhibition, for entertainment of any kind was scarce and much appreciated in that part of the country. Approaching a fine buggy he knew well, the lanky speculator smiled and tipped his hat to its single occupant.
“Afternoon, Miss Pettiview.”
“Mr. Scunsthorpe.” A parasol of turquoise hue moved aside to reveal a visage of winsome grace dominated by cornflower-blue eyes, lips painted carmine, a diminutive and slightly upturned nose, and much speculation. “I am not surprised to find you here. Everyone knows of your interest in and intent to take the Hargrave property for your own.”
He pursed his lips. “Does that news displease you?”
“It is nothing to me. My business lies elsewhere.”
Scunsthorpe’s gaze dropped. “Everyone is aware of where your business lies, Miss Pettiview. It is in knowledge of that estimable topography that I would engage your talents on a matter of some concern.”
Teeth white as the chalk their owner employed in her occasional engagement as a schoolteacher flashed in the light of the setting sun. “How then may I be of service to you, Mr. Scunsthorpe?”
The speculator pointed toward the slowly shrinking line of forest off to the west. “Farmer Hargrave has found himself some assistance in his senseless attempt to satisfy the terms of the mortgage that I hold.”
Raising a blue-gloved hand to shield her eyes, Pettiview gazed in the indicated direction. A slight intake of breath followed hard upon her detection of the two distant figures who were laboring among the woods. Scunsthorpe noted the inhalation and swallowed his disgust.
“If by ‘assistance,’” she murmured, “you are referring to a most striking Herculean figure who is presently taking down a white pine as if it were a stalk of asparagus, then I follow your meaning quite clearly.”
Once again Scunsthorpe tipped his hat to her. “It is of course impossible that any two men should reduce one hundred and sixty acres of forest in a single day and night of effort, but in my profession I have learned to take no chances. To that end it would be useful if the hulking great stranger who calls himself Amos Malone were for a while to have his attention diverted from the practice of forestry to… other pursuits.”
Reaching into an inner pocket of his fine suit, he removed a couple of heavy coins that glinted gold in the fading light. These promptly vanished into Miss Pettiview’s elegantly beaded purse as deftly as if manipulated by a riverboat card shark. Extending a hand, she allowed Scunsthorpe to help her down from the buggy seat, smiling reassuringly at him as his other hand availed itself of the opportunity to clutch fleetingly at the backside of her powder-blue dress.
Parasol in hand, she made her way past murmuring townsfolk and down into the partially cut-over section of forest until she could resume her observations much nearer the two men than either Hargrave or his wife would have liked. But the farmer said nothing, and continued to hack away at the base of a red maple.
“You are quite the specimen, Mr. Amos Malone.” Her forwardness would have surprised none who knew her.
Bare-chested and perspiring like a Brazilian rainforest, Malone paused in mid-swing to set the head of his massive axe on the ground. Wiping sweat from his forehead, he responded with a nod.
“And if m’lady will pardon an old reprobate such as myself, you be as trim a vessel as these watery eyes have set upon since a distant week spent in San Francisco.”
“Oohhh… ‘m’lady,’ he says! ’Tis quite the gentleman you are, Amos Malone. And you have been to San Francisco, too? I would love someday to make the acquaintance of that fabled metropolis.”
“San Francisco, yes.” Malone swung the axe. Wood chips flew, from which celluloid assault Pettiview had to defend herself with her parasol. “And… elsewhere.”
“I know one place you haven’t been,” she said coquettishly. The tip of one painted fingernail teased the slight space between her front teeth.
“An’ where might that be, m’lady?”
“‘Melissa’ will do for you, if you will do for me.”
He paused once again. “I don’t follow you, m’la—Melissa.”
“Such strenuous exertions on the part of such excessive musculature must engender a healthy appetite. I would be pleased to satisfy such, if you would but extend me the courtesy.”
“I am tendin’ a mite to the famished,” he murmured. “What would a good meal cost me?” He looked past her. “I would ask it of the wife Hargrave, but she already has five mouths t’ feed.”
“Whereas I have naught to occupy me save to stand ready to prepare your supper.” Pettiview pivoted, the parasol twirling over her shoulder as she looked back, eyelids fluttering. “Come with me then, Mr. Malone, and I will see to it that you find rest, food, and succor for as much of this evening as should be necessary to satisfy your needs.”
“A most temptin’ offer, and one I fear it would be impolite t’ refuse.” So saying, he leaned the colossal axe against a nearby solitary ash. “I should recover the rest of my clothes, if they be dry enough.”
“No need to bother, sir.” She led him out of the woods and toward the waiting buggy, whose horse eyed the approach of Malone’s mass nervously. “I am quite comfortable with dining informally, as you shall see.” Whereupon she turned briefly to him and breathed deeply, thereby expanding the top of her dress to such an extent that anyone within range of some half dozen forthright buttons might not unreasonably be expected to have to dodge them, as by inhaling any further she might effortlessly turn them into weapons imbued with lethal velocity.
When Hargrave saw his possible savior leaving in the company of the notorious Pettiview, he all but surrendered to despair. Only the mountain man’s encouraging shout of “I’ll be back in time, Hargrave!” offered the most forlorn hope. But that was now forlorn indeed. Not that they’d had much of a chance of felling the entire quarter section of forest before morning anyway, but it had been something to work for, something to work toward. Now, the despondent Hargrave felt he had nothing.