Slumping down on a stump, he would not allow himself to weep. Only then did it occur to him that he, too, was starved for nourishment. With a heavy sigh he left behind his newly bought axe and staggered exhaustedly toward his unassuming homestead. He would make himself enjoy whatever Mrs. Hargrave had managed to muster for supper.
If for no other reason than it was likely the last one he would ever get to enjoy in the house he had raised up with his own hands.
Sunrise brought renewed hope in the form of the giant mountain man. As good as his word, Malone had returned. Having admired his now spotlessly clean undershirt, shirt, and jacket, upon all three of which Mrs. Hargrave had indeed worked miracles, Malone forbore from filthying them again so soon, carefully removing them and setting them aside before he resumed work in the woods. Hargrave joined him, even though it was plain to see that while they had done an impressive job of thinning the quarter section of forest, within the designated boundary line hundreds of smaller trees still remained rooted and standing. The farmer doubted the ploy would be sufficient to satisfy the avaricious Scunsthorpe. The deed said that all the hundred sixty acres had to be cleared. Despite their yeoman efforts, this he and Malone had plainly failed to do.
So it was that at precisely nine forty-five, the wicked Scunsthorpe made his presence known. He was accompanied this time not only by his two hulking underlings of dubious ancestry but also by Hander Cogsworth, sheriff of the town of Newhope. All was patently lost, an exhausted Hargrave realized. Malone might fast-talk even Scunsthorpe, but with the law at his side, the insatiable speculator would not hesitate to take immediate possession.
Malone joined the exhausted farmer in confronting the officious arrivals, glancing at the nearby hillside as he did so. “Where at the moment might be your family, Hargrave?”
The farmer was inconsolable. “Back at the house—for the last time. Saying their good-byes. Making their peace with the sorrowful inevitable.” He gazed mournfully toward the crest of the low rise. “Louisa will be directing the children to gather up their things, and has no doubt commenced the packing of her own humble body of possessions.” He looked up at the mountain man. “Of myself, I have but little beyond wife and children that any longer holds meaning for me. My sole concern now is to see them safely on the train to Milwaukee, and thence to Chicago, where she at least may throw herself on the sympathy of family members. As for myself”—he swallowed hard—“I too shall go to the city, there to look for whatever work I may be so fortunate as to obtain, in order that I may somehow continue to contribute to the upkeep of my family.”
“Are you not bein’ a mite premature, Hargrave?” Malone looked skyward. “I make it t’ be not quite ten o’clock. Y’all are still rightful owner of this land.”
“For another fifteen minutes.” Hargrave let out a snort of dejection. “Years of work, of dreaming, of what might one day be: all gone now because of a lack of time and a bad winter.” A sudden thought made him blink. “What of the schoolteacher Pettiview? Did she not beguile you sufficiently?”
“Beguilin’ be a knack that works both ways, friend Hargrave.” Raising his gaze, Malone peered in the direction of distant Newhope. “Her cookin’ weren’t much to my likin’, but I fear she may have treated herself to overmuch dessert. Last I saw her she were takin’ herself off to the town doctor. To treat a condition recently acquired, I believe she said.” He looked down. “Anyway, I am here. Now let us greet this itch that persists in troublin’ you. A mite further to the eastward, I calculate.”
“To the east? But why?” Hargrave eyed him uncomprehendingly.
Malone turned a fixed gaze in the opposite direction. The farmer followed the mountain man’s stare, but saw only forest and brush, cloud and sky. That, and the mountain man’s idiosyncratic steed. Unbelievably, it was still feeding. Insofar as Hargrave could recall, it had not stopped eating all night, having ingested a veritable mountain of silage. The animal was, if truth be told, looking more than a little bloated. Hargrave did not begrudge it or its owner the fodder; only marveled at an equine appetite the likes of which could scarce be imagined had he not observed its progression for himself.
With sheriff and minions in tow, a triumphant Scunsthorpe presented himself, deed in hand, before mountain man and farmer. Eyeing the moderately thinned forest, the speculator pronounced himself well satisfied.
“The time is at hand, gentlemen.” A snake could not smirk, but Scunsthorpe came close as he looked up at the silent Malone. “The precise time, as you wished it, sir. I can even say, with all honesty, that I am thankful for having met you and for your noteworthy if malodorous presence.” With a wave of one hand he took in the thinned woods. “As you have by your remarkable yet pointless labors saved me a good deal of money by felling such a quantity of valuable timber for me.”
“And I can even say,” Malone replied, “with all honesty, that it were no pleasure whatsoever to havin’ made your acquaintance, though yours is a type I know well, Scunsthorpe.”
The investor shrugged. “Insult me as you wish. I have no time to take offense, for I must perforce take full possession of my new lands.”
Malone nodded, checked the sun, and said, “Five minutes remain, Scunsthorpe. I would advise strongly they be used to move over this way.” Indicating the crest of the nearby hill, he started off in the other direction, toward his placid steed. Uncomprehending and uncaring, a devastated and benumbed Owen Hargrave followed the mountain man’s directions, striding slowly toward the hill and the homestead that were no longer his. So, too, did the sheriff, a heavily mustachioed man who was pleased beyond measure that his intercession would apparently not be required with so formidable a force as the towering stranger.
Uncertain at first, Scunsthorpe’s minions started to follow the disconsolate farmer. Their master, however, betook himself in the other direction, his long legs allowing him to catch up to Malone.
“And get this disgusting excuse of an animal off my property immediately!” Scunsthorpe said loudly as he stomped toward Malone’s placidly munching mount.
Having already reached the stallion, Malone unfastened the stays that secured the heavy horse blanket and flipped it up over his saddle and saddlebags. This small chore accomplished, he whirled and unexpectedly took off in Hargrave’s wake. At a run.
“This way, Scunsthorpe! Follow me while time remains!”
“Pfagh! You try to toy with me, Malone, but Potter Scunsthorpe is not a man to be played with! If you won’t move your swollen fat cow pile of an animal, I’ll move it for you!” Passing the mountain man, he continued toward Worthless, one arm raised preparatory to delivering a sound slap to the horse’s rump.
“Try if you must, Scunsthorpe!” Malone yelled back as he quickened his pace. “But fer your own sake, move round to ’is bow now!”
Scunsthorpe scoffed as he continued his approach. “What’s he going to do, Malone? Kick me? Do you think me so immersed in the law of the land that I am ignorant of the nature of horses?”
“Then y’all will note, and right soon,” shouted Malone as he hastily ducked down behind the top of the rise, “the consequences of his interminable consumption, proceeding without interruption from yesterday morning until this moment, which are presently about to deliver themselves not as a bout of colic, but in the form of…!”