Slocum and the Texas Twister

by Jake Logan

  Slocum wasted no time skirting the fire. He felt guilty at his appreciation for the fire. The heat dried his damp clothing and warmed him for the first time in days. But the family’s loss was obvious. Hardly anything remained. The walls collapsed into the middle of the fire, causing sparks to flutter high and die in the air.

  “Let me give you a hand,” Slocum said.

  The man’s eyes widened, then narrowed as he studied Slocum. The same thoughts flashed through his mind that his wife had already put voice to.

  “I’m not a lawman. I am after the man who did this to you.”

  “A bounty hunter?” The man’s eyes went to the worn butt of Slocum’s six-shooter.

  “He has a reward on his head for horse stealing.”

  “He had a couple with him,” the man allowed. “Thought that was strange since he didn’t have any supplies.”

  “What about the woman with him?”

  “Wasn’t no woman,” the farmer said.

  “Let’s get to putting out the fire,” Slocum said, knowing this wasn’t the right time to get real information from the man. He grabbed the buckets and pointed. “I’ll fill them, you get halfway to the house. That’ll cut down how far you have to walk.”

  “Back’s about to go out on me hauling water up from the well, too.”

  Slocum dropped a bucket down, counting as it fell. The well was close to twenty feet deep. That was a long way to haul back the filled, heavy bucket. The man had done yeoman’s work to this point. Slocum got both buckets full and lugged them to the man, who rushed to the fire and heaved both onto the now-smoldering ruins. He might as well have been pissing on the fire for all the good it did. The fire was dying, not because of the man’s efforts heaving water onto it but because there wasn’t anything left to burn.

  The two of them worked for another hour until all the embers were extinguished. Slocum was tired to the bone, but he knew the farmer and his wife were in worse shape. Their life’s work had been snuffed out by a stranger.

  Slocum drank from the bucket, glad the water went somewhere other than onto the fire. The farmer and his wife came up to him where he sat on the ground, leaning against the rock wall around the well.

  “Mister, I want to thank you for all you done,” the farmer said. He had his arm around his wife’s still-shaking shoulders.

  “Here,” Slocum said, handing over his blankets. “You look to need these more ’n I do.”

  The woman took the blanket and still shivered after draping it around her slender body.

  “The missus said you was after the son of a bitch—”

  “Michael! Watch your language!”

  He looked hard at her, then turned back to Slocum and said, “She said that son of a bitch that burned us out has a reward on his head.”

  “He stole three horses back in Gregory. That’s a crime no matter what, but it’s even worse now since half the town was wiped out by the tornado.”

  “We caught the edge of that storm. Saw the twister bouncing along down south of us and wondered.”

  “We thought we were lucky,” the woman said, sniffing. “We weren’t harmed none by the tornado, but then he . . . he . . . that son of a bitch burned us out for no reason!”

  Slocum knew they had gone through hell, avoiding the tornado only to be the victims of a man whose sister claimed he was crazy as a bedbug. The thought made Slocum reflect on what he knew and what he had been told. He found it hard to accept everything Beatrice said as the Gospel truth. Her bother had involved himself in Slocum’s business more than the other way around, trailing him as he tried to deliver the mail and shooting at him.

  “If you have a horse, I’ll ride him down,” Slocum said.

  The farmer and his wife looked at Slocum. They shook their heads as if they were fastened by a rod, each moving exactly the same amount as they silently told him they didn’t have anything for him.

  “Did you see which way he lit out when he left?” Slocum bit his lower lip when he realized how he had asked the question.

  “We fed him, then he knocked over a kerosene lamp and flicked a match into it. We couldn’t do anything but get out. The flames spread too fast,” the man said.

  “Caught my fine lace curtains.”

  “Which way?” Slocum repeated gently.

  Again, as one, they looked over the hill where Slocum had thought to approach from if he’d been astride a horse.

  “What’s in that direction? He’s riding north for a reason.”

  “We’re not that far from the main road,” the farmer said. “Out there, the old Gallagher place. Miz Gallagher caught the grippe and died. Never quite sure what happened to Mr. Gallagher or the three boys and girl. Might have gone up to Mesilla. Heard Miz Gallagher say once they was from those parts.”

  Slocum took what little food he could get from the farmer and set off walking. The hike to the top of the hill tuckered him out after all the other traipsing along and the strenuous work putting out the fire. But he got a good view from the top and saw something that erased his exhaustion. A horse nibbled at some juicy buffalo grass not twenty yards away.

  He considered how best to approach the animal. Running it down wasn’t in the cards. Spooking it meant he would stay afoot for a long time. So he rummaged through the food the farmer had given him and found an apple. His belly growled and his mouth watered at the fruit he held in his hand, but he had a better use for it than sating his own hunger. Using his knife, he cut it in half and held it out.

  The horse’s head jerked up from the grass. Its nostrils flared as it caught the scent of the apple on the moist wind. For a moment, it stared at Slocum, then slowly came toward him. Remaining perfectly still, Slocum held out the apple. The horse edged closer, looked around and snorted, then reared, its front hooves kicking out.

  Slocum might have been a statue, unmoving, waiting for the right moment to act. The horse settled down and tentatively thrust out its nose. A quick bite took the half apple from Slocum’s grip. He brought up the other half and kept it just a few inches away from the spot where the horse had snatched the first half. The horse moved closer of its own accord and took the apple, allowing Slocum to put his arm around its neck. Trying to shy did it no good. Slocum’s grip was strong and his need greater.

  The horse tried to rear again, but this time it found a man astride its back. Slocum didn’t want to try to break the horse without a saddle and bridle, but it accepted his weight and calmed down.

  He rode it around a bit and then chanced dismounting to grab his pitiful bundle of food wrapped in a blanket. The horse watched him attentively, thinking it would get another apple.

  “Later, maybe later,” Slocum said, patting the horse’s neck and using his knees to steer it onto the path he through Joshua must have taken.

  Riding without a bridle was difficult but not impossible. Slocum laced his fingers through the horse’s tangled mane and used this grip the best he could. The horse hadn’t been on its own long enough to revert to wild mustang. If anything, it took to Slocum astride and galloped smoothly, not trying to throw him but reveling in the freedom of the run.

  An hour passed and Slocum began seeing evidence of another horse traveling this path recently. He couldn’t tell if it was one horse or many. The muddy ground kept him from getting a good idea but he identified at least one other horse.

  “Two,” he said. Patting his horse’s neck, he asked, “Were you the third one stolen from the Gregory livery?” The horse refused to answer. It enjoyed trotting along too much to bother with such speculation.

  A road beckoned in late afternoon. Slocum saw spoor and tugged on his horse’s mane to slow it. If allowed its head, the horse might have run the livelong day. Now was the time for caution since the road led somewhere. The twin ruts had been kept clean of weeds by frequent travel. It took al
l his skill to keep his horse from racing along when they rounded a bend in the road and another farmhouse appeared, set in a hollow to protect it from the incessant prairie winds. A few scrub oaks grew around it, and down by a running stream, Slocum saw a dozen cottonwoods.

  More than this he saw a barn about ready to fall down because of disrepair, and through the open door poked the rear end of a horse.

  Slocum recognized the paint immediately with the mail bags still slung behind the saddle.

  He drew his six-gun and rode forward slowly, ready to have it out with Joshua.

  14

  Slocum rode around the barn and came to it so the ramshackle structure shielded his approach from the house. He kicked free and made sure he had his few pathetic belongings with him because the instant his feet touched the ground, the horse bolted. Barely getting his fingers free of the tangled mane, Slocum stumbled and almost fell.

  He silently saluted the horse as it raced away, free of riders again. It had been a good mount, stronger and faster than the paint, but Slocum chose the horse partly hidden in the barn. The paint snorted and pawed at the ground as he approached and peered through a broken plank in the side of the barn. A huge brown eye just inches from his peered back.

  “Joshua didn’t even bother unsaddling you,” Slocum said in disgust as he shifted position to get a better look past the horse and into the barn. He considered ripping off a couple boards and squeezing into the barn but decided that might draw more attention than just walking around through the main doors.

  The paint nickered in greeting. Slocum regretted having given the entire apple to the other horse, but it had been a necessary bribe. He looked around for grain or hay. The barn was bare. Moving quickly, he stowed his food and the blanket over the mail bags still strapped to the paint. Joshua had simply ridden the horse in, tied the reins to a large iron ring, and left.

  Slocum tried to guess how long the horse had been stabled here. He took a few minutes to be sure the horse had water in a wooden tub before turning his full attention to the farmhouse. Like so many other structures out on the prairie, it had seen better days. The tornado had passed to the south but the huge windstorm surrounding the twister had ripped away half the roof and caused one wall to collapse. From the yard overgrown with weeds and the lack of any poultry, the farmhouse had been abandoned for some time.

  Without any other information, Slocum thought this was the Gallagher place the two who had been burned out mentioned. Somehow, having a name to put on the tumbledown pile of boards made it easier for him to advance, six-gun ready for action.

  Barely had he gone a quarter of the way when a rifle cocked. He spotted the barrel poking out between two planks, feinted to the right, and dived left, hitting the ground hard and rolling until he came up behind the remnants of a wagon. Both rear wheels were gone and one of the front ones canted at a crazy angle, telling him the axle had broken. Repairing it might have been too much of a chore for a man like Gallagher, who probably wanted nothing more than to be away from a place holding such ill memories.

  A slug tore a hole in the rotted wood several inches above his head. Slocum pulled himself up into a tight ball, got his feet under him, and waited. He had learned that others lacked his patience—and most of them had died. Some at Slocum’s hand but others were simply too antsy to bide their time and wait for the opportunity that always came.

  More slugs tore holes in the wagon. He shoved his face against the splintery side and peered through a bullet hole at the house. The rifle had disappeared, robbing him of the chance to aim a few well-placed shots where Joshua’s head might be. From the number of bullets fired, Slocum thought only four rounds remained in the magazine. Joshua might reload when he wasn’t firing, but Slocum had seldom seen anyone shooting at him with such presence of mind.

  If Beatrice was right, her brother was crazy and would concentrate only on the problem in front of him.

  Slocum chanced a quick look above to draw fire, ducking down fast and falling flat on his belly. Two more rounds were gone from the rifle’s magazine. He used his elbows to pull himself along and look out. Joshua anticipated this move. A bullet kicked up dirt just inches from Slocum’s nose. He flinched and a second round tore through the wagon.

  He might have been wrong about the number of rounds in the magazine, and if so, he was a dead duck.

  Digging his toes into the soft ground, he shot to his feet and ran for the house. He triggered two rounds intended to drive Joshua to cover rather than actually wing him. If a slug found a target in the man’s belly, so much better, but Slocum saved the last four rounds in his Colt’s cylinder for that.

  He hit the side of the house hard, his shoulder breaking apart one of the rotted planks and sending him crashing into the house. A flash of movement. He fired. His quarry yelped and shoved a large chair toward him.

  Slocum avoided it easily, stepped onto the seat of the chair, and peered down at . . . Beatrice cowering at his feet.

  “John!” She dropped the rifle and sat back, hands on the floor to either side and her legs straight. “I thought it was Joshua come back for me!”

  “Where is he?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.”

  He was slow to holster his six-shooter. Jumping down from his perch on the chair, he picked up the rifle and opened the breach. A cold chill passed down his spine, then disappeared as relief filled him. There had been one more round in the magazine.

  “How long has he been gone?”

  Beatrice scowled. Slocum wasn’t asking the right questions.

  “Aren’t you wondering how I am? I’m fine, thank you ever so much. No, my brother did not harm me.”

  “He kidnapped you back in town?”

  “What else?”

  “Why’d he abandon you here?”

  “I can’t say. He doesn’t reason like other men. I’m not sure he has any common sense at all but only reacts.”

  Slocum found himself skeptical about that. If it had been Joshua who had trailed him on his earlier mail deliveries, he was doing a whale of a lot of careful planning and not simply jumping about like a flea on a hot griddle.

  “How’d you come by a rifle if you were kidnapped?”

  Beatrice looked sly as she said, “I’m not without my charms. I hid it and he never bothered searching.”

  A derringer could be easily hidden. Maybe even a six-shooter, but a rifle? Slocum didn’t press the issue.

  “We should get on back to town.”

  “Town? No, not there. I need to be safe from Joshua. He’ll find me there for sure.”

  “Then I can take you to Fort Stockton. You’ll be safe in the middle of all those soldiers.” He didn’t miss the way she lit up, then tried to hide it.

  “That’s a good idea, John. A really good idea. When can we leave?”

  He didn’t see what had been keeping her by herself. If her brother had ridden away, even for a short while, she could have claimed the paint and hightailed it.

  “Why’d he burn down those settlers’ house?”

  This caught her by surprise. She started to say something, then words failed her.

  “A few miles to the east. He ate their food, then burned them out.”

  “He was always fascinated by fire. I didn’t know anything about that.”

  “Thanks for warning me when he tried to ambush me at the fake campsite. He’d just have enjoyed watching the campfire and thought I’d come to it like a moth to a flame.”

  “I couldn’t let him kill you like that.”

  Slocum held back a sarcastic reply. She had just come closer to ventilating him than her brother had with his careful trap. A new idea cropped up. By calling out to him at the campsite, Beatrice had guaranteed that he would try to rescue her. Had she been used as a stalking horse?

  He looked around. She h
ad a small valise. When she saw his interest, she hastily picked it up and held it close.

  “He let me bring this. To keep me quiet.”

  Too much didn’t make sense, but Slocum had reached the point of not giving a good goddamn. If Joshua had kidnapped her directly at the livery stables in Gregory, how did she have the valise since it hadn’t been with her when Slocum left her? And he wasn’t buying her story about hiding a rifle from a man who had kidnapped her. Even if he believed Joshua was crazy, he wasn’t stupid and he had good eyes. The shot that had killed Bonnie Framingham proved that.

  “You have a horse of your own or is there just the paint?”

  “We can get rid of the mail bag and ride double.” Beatrice wiggled all over in anticipation. “I’ll like that, my arms around you as we ride. I’ll see that you like it, too.”

  Slocum batted at something fluttering around his head. Then came another and another, this one making a loud splat on his hat brim. He looked up through the section where the storm had ripped away the roof and caught a fat raindrop in one eye.

  “We’ll have to ride out the storm rather than riding for the fort,” he said.

  “Afraid of getting wet? I enjoy it when you get me wet.” She spoke in a teasing voice but saw that Slocum was in no mood for joshing.

  He remembered too well being swept away by the cloudburst and how he had almost drowned in the arroyo. Risking that again, and this time with a woman who might have been trying to kill him, didn’t set well. He lowered his face and listened to the increasing tempo of rain against his hat brim.

  “There a spot in the house where it’s likely to be dry?”

  “I don’t think so. The roof’s gone.”

  Slocum scooped up a tarp that was half buried under rubble and shook it out. A few tears might let through water but being under it was likely drier than trying to find a spot out in the barn that didn’t leak. He worried more about his horse than he did Beatrice.