Slocum and the Texas Twister

by Jake Logan

  “You bust an axle? A wheel?”

  “Just stuck in a mud pit. Slewed off the road and couldn’t right it ’fore we was in trouble.”

  “You could unload and have the team pull it out that way.” The expression on the man’s face at the suggestion turned Slocum wary. Jeffrey looked close to puking out his guts.

  “I . . . I’d rather not. Old George, he’s the town undertaker, and the load we got’s gettin’ mighty stinky.”

  Slocum felt a cold knot tighten in his belly. He hadn’t seen that many dead bodies in Gregory. Now he knew why. Old George and his new assistant had been hard at work keeping the town from turning into a charnel pit.

  “I know you got mail to deliver, but we’d be thankful if you could help.” The man’s plaintive plea convinced Slocum he could afford to take a bit more time from riding to find the recipients of the letters in the mail bags. They had waited this long. A few minutes longer would not matter to them.

  “Come on up,” Slocum offered. He grabbed Jeffrey’s hand and pulled him behind on the horse. The paint protested the extra load but gamely followed the road down and around the hill to the spot where Jeffrey had driven the wagon off the road.

  Slocum saw the problem. The road ran across a streambed that was usually dry. With the passing storms, the dry arroyo had filled and turned the road into a muddy, slippery morass. The wagon hadn’t so much slid off the road as simply bogged down. Jeffrey moved behind him, pulling up his bandanna about the time Slocum caught the stench rising from the wagon bed.

  He pulled up his own bandanna and appreciated the smell of sweat and dirt far more than decay.

  “You got a sucker to hep us? By damn, man, you got a silver tongue in yer head. I’ll give you that free funeral when you need it.”

  “Old George enjoys his work,” Jeffrey said needlessly. Slocum could tell from the undertaker’s enthusiasm for his work.

  “Would a second horse pulling be good enough?” Jeffrey slid to the ground and sank down midway on his boots in the mud.

  Slocum started to answer, but a curious feeling made the hair rise on the back of his neck. He swung around in the saddle and looked at the road he had just traversed. On the ridge above the hill he caught sight of a rider silhouetted by the afternoon sun.

  Jeffrey saw his interest.

  “Think we can get another hand to help out?”

  Before he finished his question, the rider disappeared. Slocum shook himself, realizing he had reached over unconsciously to fill his hand with the ebony handle of his six-gun.

  “Don’t think we can expect him to stop by,” Slocum said.

  He rode to where the swayback mule stood in the mud, looking content that it had nothing more to do for the moment. The paint began crow hopping about. The smell of so much death pushed it to edginess.

  “You two push, and I’ll see to the animals,” Slocum said.

  When that didn’t work, he had to let his horse and the mule pull on their own while he added his shoulder to the rear of the wagon, alongside the undertaker and Jeffrey. Rocking the wagon back and forth broke the suction in the mud, and the animals succeeded in pulling the load of bodies free of the mud. Slocum ran around, grabbed the harness, and kept the mule pulling. His horse veered away and tried to run off. The smell of so much death caused it to snort frantically and its eyes go wide and scared.

  “We’ll get the load on over to the graveyard,” Jeffrey called as he climbed back into the driver’s seat. “Much obliged!”

  “You got a free funeral comin’ yer way, too,” Old George said. “Whenever you need it.”

  Slocum looked back at the empty ridge. That day might come sooner than he’d expected if he wasn’t careful out on the trail.

  6

  Riding with constant vigilance on his back trail began to wear on Slocum. He almost cried out in relief when he came to a ranch house that showed some damage from hailstones but not much else. The barn was in good repair, and the house roof had been recently patched. Nobody was in sight, though, and that worried him.

  He glanced back to be sure the phantom on his trail wasn’t sneaking close, saw no one, then stood the stirrups and bellowed, “Hello! Anyone here?”

  A dog barked. That was his only reply. He sank back into the saddle and rode forward, wary of an ambush. Folks were usually friendly in West Texas, but the storm had turned them against strangers. When he came to the front porch, he waited to see if the lace curtains inside stirred. Not even a breath of wind rustled them. The house was bottled up tight as a drum. He called again.

  Again the only reply was the distant dog, and this time it barked hard and loud. Slocum considered leaving the bundle of letters for a Mr. Timothy Yarrow, then decided he needed to hand over the mail personally. A small sign down by the road said this was the Yarrow spread, but anyone could pick up the letters if he only dropped them on the porch. Or they could blow away if there wasn’t anyone to take them inside.

  He rode around the house, waiting for a rifle barrel to poke out and get him in its sights. By the time he returned to the front, he doubted anyone alive remained inside. But the roof had been fixed within the past few days. The nails poking up from the shingles were still shiny. It would take only a week or two exposure to the West Texas elements to turn them dull.

  The distant barking drew him. He rode slowly past the barn, noting that the stalls were empty. One stall needed to be mucked. The piles of horse flop were still fresh, but the horse was nowhere to be seen.

  He came to the edge of a cornfield that had been hammered flat by the hail and rain. Able to see across the expanse, Slocum reached for his six-gun. Four men poked at something on the ground. From the sounds, it was the dog. Slocum knew he ought to turn and ride off. Perhaps leaving the mail was the smartest thing. He could tell Underwood he had delivered the packet of letters and be truthful about it.

  He put his heels to the horse’s flanks and made his way across the destroyed field. When he came within a couple dozen yards, one of the men noticed him. In his hand he held a rope. The lariat circled the dog’s neck. Another of the men had similarly roped the dog so they could keep it from attacking by yanking hard on the opposite side. From the frantic, exhausted barks, the dog was close to dying.

  “Who’re you?” The curt question came from another of them who had been throwing rocks at the dog.

  Slocum took in the scene in a quick glance. His Colt slid into his grip easily. He fanned off three shots before any of the men could go for their six-shooters. One shot winged the man who had first spotted him. With a yelp, the man grabbed for his shoulder—and dropped his rope. This was all it took for the dog to launch itself at the other man with the noose around its neck.

  Three quick snaps of anger-driven jaws ended that man’s life in a bloody explosion from a sundered throat.

  Slocum fanned off two more shots. Neither hit pay dirt but the men, seeing their wounded partner and the dead one, let out a yelp and ran. Slocum took careful aim with his remaining round and squeezed off the shot. It flew straight and true, catching one running man in the spine. He threw up his hands and crashed forward, never so much as letting out a squawk. He had died instantly.

  Taking the time to reload, Slocum advanced slowly and took a look at the dog, crouched, ears back and snarling. Fresh blood from its kill dripped from its jowls.

  “You’re on your own,” Slocum said, starting to ride away. He stopped when the dog stood upright, ears turning, and let out a bark that was both plaintive and urgent.

  Slocum heard the moan that had brought the dog out of its fighting stance. He considered that he might have to shoot the dog if he found its master alive and needing help—and the dog tried to keep him at bay.

  Riding in a large circle around the area, he approached a clump of weeds hiding a farmer’s feebly twitching body.

 
“You need help?” Slocum called out. The farmer half rose and reached out to him. He didn’t hear any words. Just more moans of pain. “I won’t help you if the dog comes for me.”

  The farmer sank back and muttered until the dog came to him and licked at his face. The man threw his arms around the dog’s neck as Slocum dismounted and cautiously approached. He still held his six-gun but wasn’t sure if he would actually shoot the dog to help the man. Too many folks didn’t deserve it, and except for mad dogs, he had never come across a canine that had double-crossed him.

  He slid his pistol into the holster when he saw that the dog eyed him warily. It drew back its lips in a silent snarl but made no other sign it would attack. Getting his arm under the farmer’s shoulders, Slocum lifted him. The man coughed up some blood.

  “Damned outlaws. They swooped down and tried to . . . tried to—”

  “No need to tell me. They ran off, the ones that could still keep their feet under them. The ones that can’t are feed for the buzzards.”

  “Good.” The man spat another bloody gob, coughed up some more, then got better color. “Who’re you?”

  “Name’s Slocum, and I came by to deliver the mail. Your name Yarrow?”

  “Yeah,” the man said suspiciously.

  “Then I have some letters for you.” With a heave he got the farmer to his feet. It took a few seconds for the strength to come back to the man’s legs. Even then he leaned more on Slocum than walking under his own power.

  “You up to riding?”

  “Got to,” Yarrow said. “Got to get back to the house.”

  “We’ll take it slow.”

  They rode past the fallen outlaws. Yarrow spat blood in one man’s direction but missed the corpse. The simple act of defiance gave the farmer more strength and he made it back to the farmhouse looking stronger than before. He still needed Slocum’s help getting down. The whole while the dog trotted some distance away, as if making certain Slocum didn’t try anything funny.

  “You’ve got a good dog to protect you the way it did.”

  “He’s a good one,” Yarrow said. “Named him Windmill. When he was a pup, he’d lay on his back, all four legs working at the air like he was chasin’ rabbits, only goin’ nowhere.”

  Slocum got the man to his porch and into a straight-back chair.

  “If you’ll be all right, I’ll give you the mail and—”

  “I can’t thank you enough for helping me. They swooped down like vultures. I spotted ’em coming from up on the roof but couldn’t do anything ’bout ’em. They was armed. I ran across the field but they caught me. Me and Windmill.”

  Slocum heard more in the man’s words than he was actually saying.

  “You need more help than I’ve given already?”

  “What do you mean?” Yarrow fixed him with a frightened look that told Slocum the story.

  “You’re not the kind of man to run, not unless there was a reason. Your family? Where’d they hide? You need to go to them?”

  “You’re really the mailman?”

  Slocum snorted and shook his head.

  “Not hardly. I was driving the stage to Gregory but got caught up in the twister. It destroyed the stagecoach, but the mail was found. I’m out of a job until the company replaces the stage and team.”

  “You surely don’t have the look of any mail rider I ever did see.”

  “If Mr. Underwood wasn’t paying me, I’d find something else to do.” Slocum looked around. “You escaped the worst of the tornado.”

  “The hail destroyed our crop. Don’t call that getting off easy.”

  “Your house lost a few shingles. Barn’s in good condition. What about your livestock?”

  “The damned outlaws took my horse and ran off the rest. Had a milk cow and some chickens.”

  “And a family?”

  “I told my wife to take the girls and hole up where they couldn’t be found,” Yarrow said, coming to a decision about Slocum.

  “You tried to lead the owlhoots away.”

  “Almost worked. House is still standing, even if my livestock’s all gone.” His eyes darted to the side of the farmhouse.

  “Storm cellar?” Slocum asked. “Did they hide there?”

  “Nan’s too smart for that. Hell, Claudia and Audrey are, too, and they’re only nine and seven. No, they lit out for the woods, I reckon. Hard to track in the thicket. Not as bad as in the Hill Country down South, but they could hide just fine in there.”

  “You up to finding them?”

  “I’d be obliged if you could track ’em down and bring ’em back to me.” Yarrow spat more blood, making Slocum wonder how badly torn up the man was inside. The outlaws had beaten and kicked him from the look of his overalls and the tears in the heavy denim.

  “What should I say so they won’t shoot me?”

  Yarrow laughed, then choked. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve before looking up.

  “You’re a savvy fellow, aren’t you, Mr. Slocum?”

  “My mama didn’t raise any fools.”

  “Nan’s a good shot, and she’s likely got the rifle. You call out when you find her that we was married in Springfield, Illinois. That’s not a thing an outlaw would know.”

  Slocum considered this a thin thread to hang his life on since the woman knew the wooded area around the farm better than he ever could. She would be holed up where she had a good shot at anyone coming after her and her children. If her husband showed his face, all was well. Anyone else was likely to get a slug in his guts.

  “Think Windmill’d come along with me?”

  Yarrow considered it a moment, then nodded.

  “He’s taken a fancy to you. Might come from saving him.”

  “Come on, Windmill,” Slocum said. The dog yelped and then trotted ahead of him in the direction taken by Mrs. Yarrow and her two girls.

  Slocum kept a sharp eye out for trouble ahead. The woods and the undergrowth were as he suspected. She might be in a tree or lying on the ground. Either afforded her some protection and the chance to get off more than one round. Barely had he entered the dim thicket than he heard a childish giggle. He stopped dead in his tracks.

  “Windmill, go find ’em,” he told the dog. Windmill yelped, then raced deeper into the woods in the direction where Slocum had heard the barely suppressed laughter. The children were playing a game and hadn’t seen him approaching. He doubted the woman was as lax.

  “Hello, Mrs. Yarrow, my name’s John Slocum. Your husband’s needing you back at the farmhouse. He said to let you know you were married in Springfield and that would tell you I don’t mean you and the girls any harm.”

  He heard a rustle in the bushes but turned away from them. The woman had tied a thread around some limbs and tugged on it to distract the unwary. She would have had a good shot at his back if he had fallen for the trick. As it was, he faced her as she sighted along the rifle barrel. There wasn’t so much as a quiver as she pulled it snug to her shoulder.

  “He needs you.”

  “Who are you?”

  Slocum explained about delivering the mail, went through much the same explanation he already had with her husband, and then was rewarded by her lowering the rifle from her shoulder.

  “I don’t trust you.”

  “Would it make you feel any better if I handed over my six-shooter?”

  “You’d do that?”

  Slocum nodded.

  “Never mind. We’ll go see Simon.”

  Slocum hesitated, then said, “That what you call your husband? The name on the letters was Timothy.”

  Now she lowered the rifle all the way and slumped. For a moment, Slocum thought she was going to faint, but she caught herself, heaved a deep sigh, and then stepped from the blind where she had hidden.


  “You want your children to stay out here until you’re sure it’s safe, I won’t object,” he said.

  The two girls came up with Windmill. The dog dashed around them, then came to Slocum and sat, staring up at him. Then the dog barked, got to its feet, and hurried to the girls.

  “That dog’s got fleas,” Mrs. Yarrow said. “He’s also a better judge of character than Timothy ever was.”

  “Good to know that he has fleas,” Slocum said, smiling. This brought a broad grin to her face.

  Together they returned to the house. When she saw her husband, she shoved the rifle into Slocum’s hands and ran to him, knelt, and began wiping away the blood.

  “I don’t think he’s punctured a lung,” Slocum said, “but he’s likely got a busted rib. That’ll heal if you tend it.”

  “He saved me. Me and Windmill,” Yarrow said. “The outlaws stove me in good, then were abusing the dog.”

  “That explains the blood all over him,” she said. Her eyes went wide when Yarrow and Slocum exchanged a long glance. The woman put her hand to her mouth. “I owe the dog more ’n I thought,” she said in a small voice.

  Slocum knew her husband would get around to telling her the entire story eventually. At the moment, it was more important to get him patched up, just as he had fixed his roof. Any damage that went unfixed always got worse.

  “I’ll help you get him inside.” Slocum got his arm around Yarrow’s shoulders and helped the man to stand. He swung him around and started for the open door when the first round ripped past and sent splinters flying in all directions. The next took Slocum off his feet, to land flat on his back. Pain filled his chest and the world swam about in crazy circles.

  All he knew was the pain and new bullets sailing through the air.

  7

  Slocum twitched. His legs kicked and the shiver ran the entire length of his body. He heard distant gunfire, then slowly realized it wasn’t that distant. Slugs tore through the air above him as he lay flat on his back.

  “Get him inside, Timothy!”

  The voice rang in his ears. It took Slocum long seconds to recognize it as the woman he had found out in the woods. A loud moan of pain sounded as hands grabbed his ankles and began dragging him along. He tried to fight but was weaker than a kitten. The moans grew louder and the hands left his feet, only to be replaced by other, stronger ones. He sailed along the rough wood floor until he looked up into Mrs. Yarrow’s strained face.