Slocum and the Texas Twister

by Jake Logan

  He drew rein and stood in the stirrups when he spotted a flickering orange light not a quarter mile ahead. He took a deep whiff and tried to catch the smoke from the campfire. It was too far off. Slocum wetted his finger and held it high. The wind was blowing from his back toward the campsite. That would carry both sound and scent to anyone at the fire.

  Slocum rode at a right angle then cut back to approach the camp from the east, safe from detection because of the gently blowing evening wind. When he was less than a hundred yards away, Slocum dismounted, much to the relief of his horse, then advanced as silently as he could in the dark. Now and then he stepped on a dried twig or brushed against a limb, which caused a soft slithering sound. He hoped the rising wind would cover his sounds. It certainly kept his scent from an alert man.

  Closer to the camp, Slocum paused to take in the fire and the dark shapes around it. He might have come upon some cowboys riding the range in search of strays. Or there might be some other reason for pilgrims to be on the trail. The tornado had uprooted too many people.

  From his position, Slocum saw two men wrapped in blankets well away from the fire. He frowned when he considered how high the fire was, how far the men were, and how early in the evening it was. His pistol slipped easily into his hand as he advanced. It would take only a few seconds to find out if these were innocent travelers or something more.

  “John, it’s a trap!”

  Beatrice’s voice galvanized him. He drove forward hard and fast, flying parallel to the ground and then falling straight down with enough force to knock the wind from his lungs. Gasping for air, he heard the rifle report and hot lead whizzing above him. He wiggled forward, thrusting the gun out to find a target. His grip was a weaker than it ought to have been from his sudden fall, but as he breathed more easily, his strength returned. With it, his eyes cleared.

  The dark forms were nothing more than logs wrapped in blankets to dupe him into thinking they were sleeping men. He wasted no time sighting in on either of them. He lifted his sights to a point beyond the fire. A pile of debris looked to be the best spot for the sniper.

  “Come on out, Joshua,” he called. “I won’t shoot you.”

  He didn’t expect Beatrice’s brother to surrender. The muzzle flash giving away the man’s position was exactly what he had anticipated. His Colt swiveled about and targeted a spot just above the flash. Slocum fired twice, then rolled fast to his right until he fetched up hard against a fallen log. It wouldn’t provide any shelter from the return fire, but he only expected to stay there a few seconds.

  A couple more rounds sang death in his direction. He got off two more shots and heard a loud grunt. He might have winged Joshua but he doubted it. The man was too well protected by the debris. This was another part of the game, bait dangled out to get him to rise and reveal himself. Slocum waited. Then he fired twice more when he heard a scurrying movement.

  He would have gotten to his feet and charged Joshua’s position but he took the time to reload. Attacking with an empty six-shooter was a sure way to end up as dead as Bonnie Framingham and all the others Joshua might have murdered.

  Slocum moved back in the direction where he had gone to ground originally. A slight depression gave scant cover but he used every bit of the terrain to his advantage as he moved forward. No false promises now. Nothing to give himself away. He came up to the edge of the pile of rubble left by the twister and took a deep, calming breath.

  He poked his gun over the top and fired, quickly moving to see if he had hit anything.

  Shadows mocked him. If Joshua had been here, he was long gone.

  “Beatrice!” Slocum called out, hoping that she would answer. He couldn’t see Joshua. He wanted Beatrice to give away her brother’s position.

  Rising wind gave him his only reply. Turning his head from side to side, he checked in all directions for any sound of movement from humans. He thought he heard scraping noises like someone being dragged along directly north of the camp. Just to be on the safe side, Slocum looked back at the campfire and the two dark shapes there. Neither had moved.

  He had to believe they were nothing more than dummies Joshua had used as a lure. This was no time to be foolishly aggressive. He duck walked back to the fire and ripped away the blankets. As he had thought, one was a log and the other a pile of brush. The sides of the blanket had been held down with rocks.

  Being so skittish made him angry with himself because it gave Joshua a head start. But he had to be sure nobody was coming up from behind.

  He left the camp and circled, gauging where Joshua might have run after failing with his ambush. As he walked, the wind began to pick up, making every footstep more difficult than the last. Dust filled the air and blinded him. When he coughed at a mouthful of dirt, he pulled up his bandanna to cover his nose. This made breathing a sight easier.

  Squinting into the wind, he advanced. Barely had he gone twenty yards when the rain began pelting down. It started with a few drops and rapidly escalated into a full-fledged frog strangler. Slocum was forced to pull down the brim of his hat to keep the rain from his eyes.

  A swirling column of water surrounded him and almost took his hat off. The rain obliterated any chance he might have had of finding tracks. Worse, he had gotten turned around. His sense of direction, usually good, failed him now as the storm increased in fury.

  He yelled, “Joshua!” His cry vanished in the wind’s howl. He called out to Beatrice with the same result.

  Tracking in the dark was almost impossible, but now he couldn’t even light a lucifer to study the ground. The rain turned the dirt into mud. As it fell in heavy sheets, the mud turned to soup. Slocum tucked his gun away, making sure his coat was pulled over it to protect the weapon from the driving rain.

  He hunkered down, bent double and facing the ground. He let the heavy rain bounce off his back, but this was only a chance to rest for a moment. Soaked through and through, he was miserable and increasingly uneasy about where Joshua might be. If Beatrice’s brother had a whit of sense, he would have run after the ambush and kept running. By now he could be miles away, especially if he had mounted and rode. The rain would catch him in the saddle, but he’d be far from Slocum.

  Slocum cursed his luck, his lack of common sense trailing Joshua on foot. There hadn’t been any hint the sudden rain would engulf him like this and provide an easy escape for his quarry. Would Joshua drag Beatrice along or would she be too much of a burden? If he left her on foot, Slocum might rescue her yet.

  “Beatrice!”

  He called her name at the same instant lightning filled the sky and thunder drowned him out. The lightning and thunder had come at the same instant, telling him the storm was directly overhead.

  And the rain came down even harder. He stood and tried to get his bearings. All he could see were white slashes left by the falling rain in the night. No matter what direction he turned, rain. Which way led back to his horse proved a puzzle he could not solve.

  Rather than wander aimlessly, he sought shelter. The occasional flashes of lighting illuminated the landscape, but only for a few feet. It hardly seemed possible, but the rain hammered down harder than ever.

  He stumbled ahead, not sure what he might find out on a prairie that had been stripped bare by a tornado only a week before. Taking refuge in a ravine didn’t seem wise in spite of the lightning crashing above his head. The gullies were getting brim full with runoff.

  Miserable, lost, Slocum staggered on until he saw a low hill limned in a lightning flash. Relief lent speed to his feet. He was certain this had to be the pile of debris near the bogus campsite. It wouldn’t give much protection from the storm, but he could sit on the lee side and cut the fierce wind. Although he might be soaked by the rain, he would be a little warmer since he could get away from the knifelike wind.

  He approached the pile and realized this wasn’t the one a
t the campsite where Joshua had ambushed him. He didn’t care. Any protection from the storm was welcome.

  He circled, found a small spot where the rubbish blocked the wind, and sank down. The mud sucked at him, forcing him to half stand and flop backward onto the pile. For a moment, it held his weight. Then he fell backward. His arms flew up into the air as the rubble and the ground under it caved in. Slocum crashed down flat and was immediately seized by a wall of water cutting a new streambed in the prairie.

  Thrashing about, he tried to right himself. The arroyo deepened and he fell farther. Lightning crackled above and he saw he had fallen into what looked like a broad, shallow riverbed. And it was all filling with water, from the distant shore to where the ground had caved in. He tried to get his balance but the roiling water spun him about. Grimly fighting, he got himself facedown in the water and began to swim, letting the current whip him along and not fighting it.

  He angled toward the nearer shore, swimming hard in the powerfully raging water. A steep bank thwarted his first attempt to get free. He was tossed about, then saw a root dangling in the water. A lone mesquite had its roots exposed as the river washed away the earth under it. Making a frantic grab, he caught the rough root and snapped along as the current swept past him. He grunted, pulled himself up under the tree, and started to get free of the river.

  The mesquite, roots undercut by the rain, tore free. Slocum was swept back in the river. As he was rolled over and over, his head hit a rock and his world went as dark as the Texas prairie around him.

  13

  Blackness engulfed Slocum. He tried to swim, but his arms had turned to lead. Calling out only filled his mouth with disagreeable, gagging substance. But with what? He tried to spit and couldn’t. Not water. Sand. Gritty, choking sand. Kicking as hard as he could, he rolled onto his back and stared up at the night sky.

  Occasional flashes of lightning lit the clouds, but the actual lightning bolts were nowhere to be seen. He heard the distant thunder, then realized the rain wasn’t hammering at his face. The storm had moved on.

  Forcing himself to sit up, he saw he had washed up on a sandbar in the middle of the raging stream. The powerful current split at his feet and worked to devour the island of safety. The runoff feeding this river had not stopped, although the rain had. When his boots caught the forceful flow, he scooted back a few feet to better avoid the water. The speed with which the water eroded the sandbar told him he didn’t have much longer before being cast into the flow.

  Slocum stood, gagged on the sand that had been jammed into his mouth, bent, and retched. This got some grit out. It also left a burning in his throat and mouth that caused him to puke again. When he had emptied what little he had in his belly, he took off his bandanna and wiped out his mouth. Soaking the cloth in the river and wringing it out cleaned it of vomit and sand. He retied it around his neck and then peeled his hat brim from his forehead so he could push back his Stetson to get a better look at his predicament.

  The nearer bank was only a dozen feet away. In the other direction he’d have to cross more than twenty feet of river, but the way the water curled and boiled around submerged debris told him the longer distance was safer. The near bank required crossing water that might be too deep. In the other direction rocks poked up in the stream and limbs caught on underwater rubble.

  He had to step away when more of the sandbar disappeared. Slocum took a deep breath, then launched himself to the far bank. The current dragged at him instantly, but he was prepared for it. He caught a rock, spun around, and floated to a tree limb. The wood gave him a few seconds’ respite, then he fought his way in the watery doom and gasped when something underwater hit him in the chest. Slocum kept spinning, fighting, and an eternity later clawed at the slippery bank.

  He dug in his toes, got better purchase, and heaved hard to land flat on his face. This time he didn’t mind the mud trying to work its way past his lips. He got on his hands and knees, spat, and then let out a whoop of glee. He had escaped a watery death in the arroyo.

  Climbing to his feet, he wiped off his face again before getting his bearings. The stars were hidden under the heavy storm clouds, but the lightning flashes gave a little light. He turned slowly and knew he had to hike back upstream to find where he had tried to capture Joshua.

  As he trudged along, something more came to him. His horse had been abandoned in the midst of a torrential downpour. Slocum tried to remember how securely he had tethered the gelding. He usually made certain the reins were fastened to a tree or bush that wouldn’t be uprooted easily, but he had been concentrating on Joshua’s campsite.

  Lit by diminishing lightning, he finally reached the campsite. The two bedraggled blankets had been swept up and caught on nearby rocks. The campfire had been washed away, and only remembering where it had been convinced Slocum this was the right place. He picked up the soggy blankets and wrung them out before tossing them over his left shoulder. His own clothing was soaked, and the wind made him shiver. The blankets helped block some of the chill.

  Knowing the right direction now, he reversed his path and came to where his horse ought to be.

  It took him the better part of a half hour searching to realize his worst nightmare had come true. His horse was gone. Where the paint had been tethered showed no sign that the horse had reared, broken the limb, and escaped. There wasn’t any leather left on the bark to show the horse had reared and yanked itself free.

  Slocum squatted by the tree trunk and pulled the blankets around him. The horse hadn’t run off on its own. Slocum had to think that Joshua had stolen the horse.

  “You’re in big trouble now,” Slocum said to the night wind. “You stole U.S. mail.” The notion that Joshua was in more trouble stealing the mail than he was not killing Slocum struck him as funny, giving him the first good laugh he’d had in some time. He settled down as cold resolve filled him.

  Joshua wasn’t going to get away with kidnapping his sister, stealing the mail and horses—and trying to ambush John Slocum.

  He pulled the blankets tighter around him, then nodded off. His dreams turned to nightmares, and he awoke to a fresh dawn as tired as when he had fallen asleep.

  Stretching, he looked around and decided what he needed to do. Finding his horse was at the top of the list. If he incidentally found Joshua, good. And he needed to find out if Beatrice had been kidnapped. He was certain that she had tried to warn him about the ambush set up at the fake campsite, but he knew nothing of what had happened back in town. She might have gone along willingly with her brother since he had seen no evidence of a struggle in the stable. If this was the way it came down, Beatrice might have called out to warn him because Joshua had decided to kill any pursuer.

  Or she could be his prisoner.

  Slocum shook out the blankets, considered leaving them, then slung both over his shoulder and began looking around the area for any trace of Joshua and the horses. The ground wouldn’t give him any usable information. The heavy rain had erased everything, but broken limbs and other spoor might give him a trail.

  It took the better part of an hour before Slocum found a twig with a scrap of cloth caught on it. He recognized the color of the material immediately. The gray matched that of the enigmatic rider who had dogged him before and probably had gunned down Bonnie Framingham. All he needed was to see if there was a tear in the rider’s shirt.

  He got out of the wooded area and looked across the prairie. The chance Joshua had ridden straight from this point was good, but it was only a guess. It was still the only option Slocum had. He began walking. Within an hour he found piles of horse dung, hard and rain-battered on the outside but still soft inside. Whoever had come this way had done so while it was still raining the night before.

  By noon Slocum trudged to the top of a rise and looked around, hoping to catch sight of his quarry. The best he could hope for on the level prairie was three miles.
From the top of the rise, another mile might come under his scrutiny. A smile came to his lips when he saw the farmhouse a couple miles off. From here he couldn’t tell if it was deserted, but it well could be where Joshua had gone to ground.

  Approaching would be more difficult since it was wide-open prairie a mile leading to it. If Slocum had been on horseback, he might have considered taking the rest of the day, riding in a wide circle and coming at the farmhouse from the opposite direction. That way he’d be protected from sight by scrub brush and a long, low ridge that ran off to the northwest.

  He had to hope that Joshua wasn’t watching his back trail. Before Slocum had gotten halfway to the house, he heard an explosion. Flames lapped upward toward the sky as fire engulfed the house. Distant shrieks reached him from the direction of the house. As tired and footsore as he was, Slocum began running the last mile.

  Gasping for breath, he vaulted the wire fence and went to where a woman stood with her arms wrapped around her, staring at the fire and shaking all over.

  “He shouldn’t have done it. There was no cause,” she said over and over.

  “Who did this?”

  She jumped as if he had poked her with a stick.

  “Who’re you?”

  “I’m after the man who set that fire.”

  She looked at his disheveled clothing, hunting for a badge.

  “You don’t look like a marshal.”

  “Was his name Joshua?”

  “Yes.” She spat out the word as if it burned her tongue. “Michael and I took him in and fed him, then he robbed us and . . . and set fire to our house! We’ve lost everything!”

  “Was he alone?”

  The woman turned back to staring at the fire chewing away at the last vestiges of her home. Through the fire on the far side of the house, Slocum saw a man struggling with two buckets. He set one down and heaved the other’s contents. A bit of steam rose as the water touched the fringe of the fire. The second bucket was similarly emptied. The man grabbed the rope handles and turned to go back to his well.