Slocum and the Texas Twister

by Jake Logan

  “Where’d your other two get off to?” Slocum asked.

  “If I know them, they’re waiting until we’re done, then will put in an appearance. Folkes there would be with them, doing the exact same thing, if I wasn’t riding herd on him.”

  As if on cue when the last of the dirt had been pushed back over the body, the two soldiers rode into view. They whooped and hollered and waved their arms like madmen.

  “They found the payroll money!” Folkes cried.

  Slocum knew they hadn’t. The brass plate would be the work of the devil to separate from the strongbox. In spite of the tremendous force of the wind, its pulling the bolts out wasn’t likely.

  Even Sergeant Wilson got excited as the pair of soldiers rode up. His expression faded as he saw they carried two mail bags, not the cavalry’s payroll.

  “We found ’em a mile over the horizon. Figgered the mail’s got to go through.”

  Slocum looked from the two soldiers proud of their discovery to the grave, then to the sergeant. Without a word, he went to his paint, stepped up, and waited for the command to return to Fort Stockton.

  It was a long way back and the noncom’s silence was ominous.

  4

  Captain Legrange glared at the mail bags, as if he could turn them into his post’s payroll through pure cussedness. For all Slocum knew, it might work if the officer kept at it long enough.

  “Not much else I can do,” Slocum said. “I’ll report back to Mr. Underwood and—”

  “You’re not going anywhere, Slocum. You’re confined to the post. Sergeant Wilson, see that he stays within the walls.”

  “Sir!” Sergeant Wilson snapped to attention but cast a sidelong look at his new charge. Slocum wasn’t winning any friends at Fort Stockton, and he couldn’t understand why they felt that way. He hadn’t sent the twister ripping across the countryside and hadn’t been responsible for the attempted robbery. If anything, losing only one passenger to the road agents had been a minor victory.

  Slocum frowned. Like most of the West Texas forts, there was only a knee-high adobe wall around the perimeter, intended to keep poultry in and small varmints out. It didn’t work too well for either chore. Mostly it provided a distinct path for the sentries to walk and gave their superiors an idea where there soldiers ought to be at any given moment of their duty.

  “You putting me in a cell?” Slocum didn’t make a move toward his Colt Navy. If he had, the inside of a jail cell would be the least of his worries. A dozen troopers marched past on the parade ground. Any threat to their commander would be met with a hail of violence.

  “I don’t want you running around loose.”

  “Why not? I haven’t done anything but get shot at by road agents.”

  “The payroll was your responsibility. I’m not sure you didn’t hide it, thinking to fetch it later.”

  “I wouldn’t have come out here if that was my intent,” Slocum said. “Underwood ordered me out here with the information so you wouldn’t be kept in the dark.”

  “Well, dammit, I am in the dark. Where’s the gold?”

  Nothing would soothe the captain’s ruffled feathers. Slocum understood the man’s frustration, but he didn’t have to put up with it. He wasn’t a soldier under Army command.

  “Keeping me under your thumb’s not going to recover your payroll. Send out more than that sorry ass bunch that escorted me to where the stage was caught up in the twister. You’ll have a better chance of paying your soldiers that way.” He saw Wilson tense and his hands clench into fists. All Legrange had to do was look the other way and the sergeant would whale the tar out of him.

  Or he’d try.

  Before any of them could move, the rattle of a carriage distracted both soldiers. Slocum saw the fleeting expression on Legrange’s face and turned to find out who the officer was so glad to see. A woman sat next to Underwood, who drove the carriage with some trepidation. The stationmaster obviously was unfamiliar with the rig but did his best to accommodate the woman, who was partially turned and chattering nonstop. Underwood’s head bobbed in agreement, but Slocum doubted the stationmaster heard one word in ten from the intent gaze he gave the team. They were friskier than he was used to handling, no matter that he preferred the company stallion to the staid paint he had given Slocum.

  “Whoa! Whoa!” Underwood half stood to thrust his foot against the foot board for better leverage tugging on the reins to stop the two horses. He dropped back to the seat and wiped his sweaty forehead.

  “Mrs. Sampson,” greeted Legrange. He went to the far side of the carriage and took her hand to help her down. She threw her arms around his neck and pulled close, to the captain’s obvious surprise.

  Surprise, Slocum thought, but not distaste. If anything, he held her a bit too tight, too familiarly. When her bonnet slipped and let out a lock of flame red hair, Slocum wondered if she wasn’t the same woman he had seen earlier going into Legrange’s office, then driving from the post in a small buggy.

  “Slocum!” Underwood climbed to the ground and came over, legs stiff from the drive. “You take soldiers out to find the stagecoach yet?”

  “The captain sent me out with four of his men. They found the mail bags but not the strongbox.” Slocum looked past the stationmaster to where Legrange still held the redhead in his arms. They reluctantly parted when they became aware of his attention. She dabbed at tears. “Who’s that?” Slocum asked.

  “The wife of one of the men missing. He was a passenger.”

  “Does she know?” Slocum frowned. He didn’t know how the new widow could have learned her husband was shot down when the soldiers had just reported the fact to the captain.

  “She knows her husband didn’t make it after the stage was ripped apart by the twister. Only the one what came into town with you survived.”

  “So you brought her straight out to Fort Stockton?”

  Underwood coughed, then looked at Slocum before saying, “Truth is, Miz Sampson insisted on coming out here and made me drive. She was too upset, she said.”

  “I can imagine,” Slocum said. He hadn’t gotten a good look at the woman who had been with Legrange earlier, but he would bet his last dime that the grieving widow and Mrs. Sampson were one and the same. How many women with such flame red hair lived in the area?

  “You tell her, Slocum,” Legrange said, coming over, his arm around the woman’s trim waist.

  “Tell her what?”

  “What you found, dammit.” Legrange ground his teeth together, then said, “Pardon my language, Mrs. Sampson. This is greatly infuriating.”

  “What is it, sir?” She looked at Slocum with wide green eyes. There was no trace she had been crying. Her eyes were bright and clear. “What have you found?” She gripped Legrange’s arm and demanded of him, “What did he find, Captain? Tell me!”

  “Ma’am, the dead man, the one shot down by the road agents, or so he claims, had this in his possession.” Legrange took the wallet from under his belt and held it out.

  The redhead took it in steady hands. Then she looked up at Slocum. Her hands shook now and she gasped out, “This is Fred’s wallet. My husband. Mr. Sampson.”

  “There’s a letter in there addressed to him, ma’am,” piped up Sergeant Wilson. “We didn’t read it. Wouldn’t have been right reading another man’s mail like that, not when we took it off his body ’fore we buried him.”

  This produced an anguished cry from her. She buried her face in the captain’s chest and shook all over. Slocum found himself watching the parts that shook best. That much seemed real.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Sampson,” Underwood said. His sympathy struck Slocum as insincere as the woman’s tears. The stationmaster motioned Slocum over and said in a low voice, “We got mail to deliver, and since you don’t have a stage to drive, you’re the new rural mailman.”

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nbsp; “What’s the pay?”

  Underwood’s eyes widened, then he smiled. “I figgered you right, Slocum. Money’s what drives you.”

  “A man’s got to eat,” Slocum said.

  “Same pay.”

  The way Underwood said it told Slocum he should have asked for more money. The U.S. Post Office probably paid its couriers more than Butterfield did its drivers. The stationmaster would likely pocket the difference between what the Federals paid for the mail and what Slocum received.

  “Give me the horse.”

  “That old paint’s not worth a plugged nickel,” Underwood said, pursing his lips. Then he thrust out his hand. “Deal!”

  Slocum shook to seal the deal. Riding from ranch to ranch delivering mail was easier than having his teeth chipped from hitting every pothole with the stagecoach.

  “Mr. Underwood, could you see Mrs. Sampson back to town?” Captain Legrange tried to put some distance between him and the woman but she edged closer and stropped alongside him like a cat finding a new leg.

  “Certainly, Captain. And if you’ll give Slocum here the mail bags, he can get to delivering it. The mail’s got to go through.”

  “He—” Legrange bit off his objection. There hadn’t been a reason to keep Slocum on the post, and now he found himself forced either to speak out on his earlier decision or let his almost-prisoner go.

  “Send out more patrols, Captain,” Slocum said. This infuriated Legrange, but Slocum didn’t much care.

  Private Folkes lugged the mail bags over and dropped them at Slocum’s feet. He slung them over his shoulder and went to his paint. His horse. The gelding wasn’t much, but he hadn’t been able to afford a horse of his own before taking the job as stage driver. All he needed was a steady gait to deliver the mail, which shouldn’t take more than a few days.

  He slung the bags over the paint’s rump, mounted, and left without so much as a glance back as he trotted after Underwood and the grieving widow in the carriage. Once outside Fort Stockton’s low fence, he matched the carriage’s speed and called down to Underwood.

  “I need a map showing where the ranches are.”

  “A good idea. Asking for directions once you’re outside Gregory might not help you much. That damned tornado ripped up a lot of homes, and the hailstones damaged even more. The countryside’s in turmoil.”

  Slocum saw how Mrs. Sampson boldly eyed him. Her emerald eyes matched his in intensity. She was a comely woman, not what he would call beautiful but certainly handsome and regular of feature. A sly grin curled her full lips, then broke into a radiant smile when she saw him studying her.

  “Sorry about losing your husband the way you did, ma’am,” Slocum said.

  “He was murdered?” For the first time, her good humor faded and was replaced by something else for just an instant. What that new emotion was, Slocum couldn’t tell. It was too fleeting and certainly at odds with how she flirted with him.

  “The road agents shot him down. They’d built a rock wall across the road. When I stopped to clear it, they opened fire. We drove them off, but Mr. Sampson caught a round in the chest. He died almost the same instant the slug hit him, so he didn’t suffer, if that’s any solace for you.”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Slocum, it is. Thank you.” She bent over and whispered to Underwood. The stationmaster frowned, glared at Slocum, then whispered back to the woman.

  Slocum couldn’t hear what was being discussed but knew he had to be the center of it from the way the redhead kept looking past Underwood at him. His curiosity about her and Legrange took second place to wondering if he shouldn’t just ride away and deliver the mail without returning to Gregory for the map Underwood promised him.

  Something kept him riding alongside the carriage all the way into the half-destroyed town. As he approached, again he marveled at the way the twister had danced along one side of the main street, destroying every building aboveground while hardly touching the stores and other businesses on the other side of the street. Capricious, he had heard someone describe a tornado.

  “I’ll get the map, Slocum,” Underwood said. He tied the reins around the brake, got down, and disappeared into the depot.

  “Mr. Slocum, I—” She quieted when Underwood came hurrying back, as if he might miss something.

  The stationmaster thrust the map into Slocum’s hands and said, “Best get on the trail right away. Farms and ranches are marked with small squares. Nothing ought to keep the mail from bein’ delivered.”

  “Ma’am,” Slocum said, touching the brim of his hat. To Underwood he said, “I’ll get some supplies and be on the trail right away.”

  He turned his paint’s face and started a slow ride toward the far end of town, where the general store still stood. There might not be much left on the store shelves, but he didn’t need much to stay alive. More ammunition for his six-gun would go a ways toward letting him hunt for small game out on the prairie, but flour or oatmeal would be appreciated to go with a scrap of meat he had shot.

  The store owner apologized for not having any supplies left but was happy when Slocum pulled out a few letters for the man from back East. Somehow, he found a pound of jerky and some canned tomatoes to help Slocum along the trail with his other deliveries.

  Slocum was settling the provender behind the mail bags when he heard the soft swish of a woman’s skirts behind him. He didn’t bother turning to see who it was.

  “You want me to check for any mail, Mrs. Sampson?” He finished cinching down his supplies before facing her.

  “You are a clever man, Mr. Slocum.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You knew who had come up behind you. Are you always so alert?”

  “Keeps me alive and kicking.”

  “I imagine so,” she said, giving him a look that would melt iron.

  She was bad news, but Slocum felt like a moth fluttering around a flame. She wore her sex like a badge, and Slocum wasn’t sure if he didn’t want to be arrested. It had been a long, dry spell for him.

  “You need something from me?” Slocum asked.

  “You are perceptive.”

  “I can mark on a map where your husband’s buried, if you want to move him to the town cemetery. Or you might ask Captain Legrange.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  He saw that this startled her, but she covered her reaction quickly.

  “Two of his soldiers were with me to bury the body. He can order one of them to accompany you to the grave site.”

  “Oh, I see.” She came closer and laid a warm hand on his arm. “That’s not what worries me the most, John. May I call you John?”

  “Reckon you can, Mrs. Sampson.”

  “Beatrice. I’d like it very much if you’d call me Beatrice.”

  “What do you want from me, Beatrice?”

  “This isn’t the place to discuss such a matter,” she said. She looked around, her head swiveling from side to side, causing her bright red hair to float away from her pale face in a practiced move meant to draw his attention. It worked. “There. The barn where I park my carriage.”

  “It’s on the wrong side of the street,” Slocum said. Her mouth opened, then closed as words escaped her. “I mean that the tornado skipped over it while destroying everything else around it.”

  “Why, yes, that’s so.” She took his arm and steered him in the direction of the barn. “You are a complicated man, John. Very deep.”

  “I like things simple. Not sure what you mean by me being complicated.”

  “Just tether your horse over there by the water trough. It looks as if it can use some water.”

  Slocum did as she suggested, then saw she had disappeared into the barn. He looked around, almost expecting to see Captain Legrange waiting for him with drawn pistol. As far as he could tell, he a
nd Beatrice were alone with the horses. He went into the barn’s dim interior. Slivers of light slanted through cracks in the walls. One beam caught the woman’s hair and turned it into a coppery halo while hiding her face in shadow.

  “Come on in, John. What I have to ask is very . . . troubling.”

  “About you and Captain Legrange?” He saw how she stiffened, then relaxed.

  “I didn’t know if you’d seen me with the captain earlier. You apparently had. I was at Fort Stockton on business. Serious business concerning my brother.”

  “Not your husband?”

  “Fred was returning from a business trip to Kansas City. I fear his death is wrapped up in my concerns about Joshua.”

  “Your brother?”

  “He . . . this is difficult for me.” She moved forward through the bands of warm sunlight, the movement causing her to flicker in and out of shadow like some lovely red-tressed ghost. She stopped before she pressed her ample bosoms against him. She reached up and put her hand on his chest in a calculated move. “He’s not quite right in the head. I’m afraid he has gone quite mad.”

  “How’s Joshua and your husband’s death connected?”

  “That wasn’t a robbery attempt. It sounds like something Joshua would do to k-kill Fred. Joshua has become overly protective and thinks I am threatened and wants to keep me safe and—”

  Slocum was never sure if he kissed Beatrice or she kissed him. For a moment they hung together, frozen, lips crushing lips. He tried to back away, knowing he was playing with fire. She wouldn’t let him. Her arms became steel bands holding him in place and then he stopped trying to fight the inevitable. Her lips tasted like wine and her hair had been freshly washed, smelling of soap with a hint of jasmine.

  She broke off the kiss, but he did not retreat because she sank down slowly to her knees. Her hands stroked and caressed and finally grabbed a double handful of his tight ass, pulling him forward. Emerald eyes looked up at him, and a mischievous smile crept over her red lips. Then she began unbuttoning his fly.