In truth, all the bounty hunter had wanted was the poster, but, in his frustration at the pure stupidity of everyone in general, he had gotten sidetracked and smashed the door, and the table, and the cashier, and the painting, and all the rest. He had had a hard day. He had stubbed his toe on the doorframe of the tavern, and a wasp had stung his left cheek. But that was all past him now. The cool air blew into his face, cooling his temper at the same time. He had the poster he needed, he had two new horses, and he was the best bounty hunter in the Kingdom of Fidledom.

By now you are probably wondering who this man was. He was known across the kingdoms as ‘The Green Bean’, but his real name, given to him by his mother, was Lyman Beighn. Sort of like lima bean, hence his title. Although your first impression of Lyman most likely wasn’t the best, he wasn’t all that bad. Yes, he occasionally smashed a something here or threw something there, but he was good at heart. He had grown up as a small freckled boy in the tiny town of Tinytown, with his three sisters, Prunella, Gertrude, and Marigold, and his loving parents. Stella and Garbanzo Beighn had raised their family well, and Prunella had grown up to become a prune farmer, Gertrude had left to learn yodeling at Percy’s Academy of Yodeling, and Marigold had moved out to start her own life. Marigold wasn’t very ambitious, and she didn’t have any particular talent. She was the second youngest, and particularly close to Lyman. Marigold Beighn hadn’t married or went to school, or done anything in particular. 

In fact, the Beighn family hadn’t heard from Marigold in several weeks…They had certainly tried to get a hold of her, they had sent her presents and invitations and flower arrangements, but Marigold never wrote back or visited. 

But enough about her. Lyman, ‘The Green Bean’ is who this story is about. As a young boy, Lyman had always been interested in fighting, swords and other things of the sort. His father had trained him as he grew older, and now, at the ripe age of twenty-nine, Lyman was an accomplished bounty hunter. 

Clippety clop, clippety clop, went the eight hooves of Lyman’s new horses as he rode down the cobblestone street. He glanced again at the wanted poster he had procured, studying the writing.

‘WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE, PREFERABLY ALIVE:

Pete M. Snard, for the following offenses: Thievery, disrespect of the King, long may he reign, possible murder, trespassing, trodding on a man’s toes, speeding, harvesting the King’s, (long may he reign) turnips, etc. 50,000 gold upon capture and return of this man to 7754 West Tottle Rd, Tinytown, Fidledom, 63971‘

It seemed to Lyman, that their wasn’t a crime the man hadn’t committed. And Tinytown? Why, maybe he could stop by for a visit to his parents, who still lived on the old farm. Lyman tucked away the poster, and suddenly reigned up his horses to a stop, for he had just come upon his destination. A small, country hovel sat by the side of the road, a thin trail of smoke wafting from the crooked chimney. The backyard was plowed and fenced off, displaying neat rows of small fruit trees.

  The house appeared very shabby and run-down, a comical contrast to the neat, spiffy garden. The thatch on the roof was molding and stunk badly, the door was hanging by one hinge, and the window had no pane of glass, only a board nailed in front. Lyman skillfully leaped off the horse’s back and tied both of them to a nearby fence post. He walked up the short path quickly and quietly, before opening the door in a more gentle manner than he was accustomed to.

The sight that greeted his eyes was a familiar one. Two small children sat playing with wooden carved animals before a smoldering, comfortable blaze. As Lyman stepped inside, he was hit by a powerful smell. The smell of plums being prepared. 

“Oh, look! It’s Uncle Lyman!”

The small girl poked her brother in the ribs and gestured wildly at Lyman. The boy shot up from his place like a jack-in-the-box and bounded into the waiting arms of his Uncle. The girl soon followed, and the swinging door to the kitchen opened. A short, plump woman stepped out. She was wearing an apron that had been stained purple by what looked like plum juice. She carried a spoon in her calloused hand. Her face lit up when she spotted her brother.

“Lyman! Why, you never told us you were coming! What brings you? Now, now children, leave off him!” She spoke rapidly and energetically, nodding her head profusely as she spoke. 

Lyman stood up, shaking the children off as he went to meet Prunella.

“So, tell us why you stopped by?” Prunella said as she spread thick, plummy jam on a piece of bread and handed it to her son, Bern. 

“I’m working on a hunt, needed some information. Was wondering if you knew anything. You always are a great help, Prunella.”

The woman laughed and said, “Oh I’d be delighted to help. Who is it this time?” 

Lyman explained and handed the poster of Pete Snard to Prunella. She looked at it and then frowned, jutting out her bottom lip, the way the always did when deep in thought. 

“Yes, I’ve seen this man around…He used to be my best customer, a very nice man, I remember. Was great friends with my husband, when he was alive. But we haven’t seen him for a month now.”

Lyman raised his bushy eyebrows and shook off his hood, revealing his bald, shiny head, and green eyes. He stroked his beard. “Look at the list of crimes there. Does it sound like him?” 

“No, not at all! He would never steal or murder, goodness no! He always brought presents for the babies, I remember well.”

Posy, the little girl, beamed and said in her adorable four-year-old voice, “I wemembah him! He bwought me a wittle dolly!”

Bern was about to chime in when Lyman continued, “That’s odd. Are you sure thats him in the drawing there?” Prunella affirmed that he was most certainly the man on the poster, and absently put her fork in her coffee cup. They were all sitting around the small dinner table, eating and discussing Lyman’s new customer. Lyman asked many questions, wrote down many notes, and after dinner, sat by the fire, drinking coffee and relaxing.

“Really, Prunella, you ought to use the profits from your farm to fix up the house a bit! It’s rather dingy, don’t you think?”

Prunella laughed and shook her head. “We don’t mind it, and I’d rather use the money for other things. There are many poor people that need it more than we do.”

Prunella was a kind, generous, homey little woman, and gave away most of the profit from her successful prune business. Lyman always used to tease his oldest sister for the disorderly state of her house. 

Just then, a resounding knock shattered the peace. The little door swung open, and a strange man entered with two others behind him. They were snarling unpleasantly and wielding pitchforks and hoes…rather, sharpened hoes. The leader of the gang had white hair and a squinty eye. He was rather old and fat, but menacing.

Lyman stood quickly and said, without taking his eyes off the gang, “Prunella, take the children out the back door and go to the neighbors house. I’ll handle these fellas.”

Prunella silently obeyed and the children, whimpering with fright, went with her out of the house.

“May I help you?” Asked Lyman politely. The fat man spit on the floor and grinned wickedly. One of his teeth fell out. The man rolled his eyes and kicked it out of sight, under the armchair. 

“Yessiree. You may help us, right boys!” He laughed loudly and nudged his friends, “hand over all yer money and we’ll be goin.” 

Lyman didn’t waste anymore time. His strong temper took ahold of him and he whipped out his dagger and sprang to action. He leaped to the man and landed a flying kick squarely in his face. The old man was launched backwards into his companions, who caught him, before dropping him to the ground and drawing their weapons. In a flash, dagger met pitchfork, and the second man went sprawling after his leader. The other fellow was a bit more sensible, and held up his hands, chuckling nervously and backing slowly away, muttering, “Easy does it, easy now! There’s a good boy, don’t hurt me, there now.” As if to a mad puppy.

Lyman punched him in the gut, and in no time, the three were tied up and thrown out the door, the door followed immediately after them, hurled through the air in truly Lymanesque style. Lyman also send three jars of plum jam in their direction, and, satisfied with the crashing of glass and cries of pain he heard. Smiling, he licked the delicious jam off his dagger and sheathed it.