Slocum and the Texas Twister

by Jake Logan

  Slocum let the comment pass. A man like you. What sort of man was he? He looked back at the mail bags and knew he had a job to complete. Tracking ambushers in weather like this only delayed completing the chore. Driving a stagecoach wasn’t the greatest job in the world, but it was honest work. Until the company brought in a new stage, delivering mail would bring him a few needed dollars and put him astride a reliable, if ancient, horse. He patted the paint’s neck and got a whinny of protest for going out in such inclement weather.

  “Any farms in this direction where he might go to earth?” Slocum pointed into the drizzle. Gray clouds refused to part and let in sunlight. It had been dark so long he wasn’t even sure what time of day it was. Slocum wasn’t about to pull out his pocket watch to find out because it didn’t matter.

  They either found the sniper quick or they wouldn’t find him at all.

  “One or two. Cain’t even find the road.” Folkes looked around and held up his hand, halting the other soldiers with him. “Boys, we’re goin’ back. No way can we find shit in rain like this. What about you, Slocum?”

  “I’ll stop back by the post when I deliver some more mail.”

  Folkes shook his head, tugged on the reins, and got his now-eager horse moving back toward a dry stable. Slocum watched the trio vanish behind a curtain of fog dipping down amid the rain, then pushed on into the storm.

  Barely a mile later the storm broke and feeble shafts of sunlight poked through the clouds. As Slocum spotted a farmhouse with a curl of smoke rising from the chimney, he also saw a figure trudging along, head down.

  He decided it was better to go to the farm and guided his stalwart horse down a muddy path into the house’s front yard. Chickens clucked fitfully from a nearby henhouse and a barking dog caused a man to come onto the porch. From the way he stood, he held a six-shooter at his side, ready to use it. Slocum lamented how the tornado had changed life in West Texas. Before, folks had been open to strangers and now only suspicion reigned.

  “Howdy,” he called. “I’m delivering mail. Mind if I get out of the wind?”

  “Where’s Teddy?”

  “He the usual mailman? Lit out for parts unknown’s what I heard,” Slocum said. He detailed how he had been stagecoach driver and finally come by the mail job.

  “Come on down, mister.”

  Slocum dismounted, led his paint to the lee side of the house, and finally pulled the mail bags free. The horse gave an almost human sigh being free of yet more weight on its hindquarters. The bag slung over his shoulder, Slocum went back to the front porch. The farmer didn’t invite him inside, and he didn’t ask. From behind chintz curtains poked two sets of eyes watching him.

  “Your kids?”

  “Are,” the farmer said. “You got mail for Reynolds in there?”

  “Well, sir, let me see.” Slocum spread out the mail, mostly dry, and began leafing through the packets until he had a small stack for Alman Reynolds. He held them out. “This you?”

  “Is,” the farmer said. He snatched the letters with his left hand, then leafed through the pile using his thumb to slide the letters over one another to read the return addresses. A slow smile came to his lips, and he relaxed. “Reckon you are who you say.”

  “I am,” Slocum said. He gathered the undelivered letters and stuffed them back into the mail bags. One was almost empty. It would be a while until he could turn both bags over and turn out nothing but dead bugs and gritty sand. “Can I ask a favor of you?”

  This made the man tense again. Slocum still hadn’t seen what the man held in his right hand, slightly behind his back.

  “What?”

  “I saw a woman walking along. Dressed in a wedding gown. She doesn’t seem right in the head. You know anything about her?”

  The man stepped back and thrust the letters into his house as the door opened a fraction. He tried to close the door, but a woman came out, her lips pulled into a thin slash.

  “Really, Alman, the man isn’t going to harm us.”

  “Mary, we—”

  “Ma’am,” Slocum said, “I understand your husband’s concern. Some soldiers and I ran into a nasty gang a few days back. They’d killed the Yarrows and—”

  “All of them?” Mrs. Reynolds sucked in a deep breath and held it.

  “Their two girls are over at Fort Stockton.”

  “Do they—”

  “Mary, no!”

  “They’ve found good people to look after them,” Slocum said to forestall what was likely to become a drawn-out family argument. The woman would have welcomed the two Yarrow girls into the family, and her husband likely saw nothing but trouble ahead. The tornado hadn’t passed too close to them, but the incessant rain might destroy their crops and make for a difficult harvest season. More mouths to feed would push near impossible over into the deadly impossible.

  “You’re sure?” the woman asked.

  “A sergeant and his wife lost their children. It’s a good fit for all of them,” Slocum said. He waited for the woman to get the upper hand in the conversation again. It didn’t take but a few seconds.

  “Go read the letter from your brother. He’s surely sending you good news, Alman.”

  “Mary, I can read the letter later.”

  “You know the woman? It’s not right she walks around looking for a dead beau,” Slocum said.

  “That’s Miss Blaine,” she said.

  “Blaine? I tried to talk to her before and she said her name was Zimmer. Amanda Zimmer.”

  “No, she never married. Her betrothed was killed by Apaches. He was a Ranger, or so I heard in town.”

  “Keith Zimmer?” Slocum asked.

  “Yes, that sounds about right. Poor Amanda’s been wandering about for close to three years. She became unhinged when she heard about her fiancé’s death over at Indian Springs. The preacher in Gregory tried to help her, but she wouldn’t have anything to do with him or his congregation. She said she had to find Keith.”

  “Might be I can take her to Fort Stockton. There’re so many people needing help, she might find it there.” Slocum saw that Alman Reynolds wanted nothing more than for him to leave. His wife wanted to say something more, perhaps offer some hospitality.

  “That would be good,” Mrs. Reynolds said.

  “I’ll be on my way.” When he didn’t hear any argument, Slocum heaved the mail bags over his shoulder and started back into the wind. He paused at the foot of the steps leading up to the covered porch. “Other than the woman, you ever see a man wearing a gray shirt riding around the countryside? Has a rip in the shirt ’bout here.” Slocum indicated a spot behind the left shoulder.

  “No,” Reynolds said. He silenced his wife with a stern look. From the way she held her tongue, whatever she might have said would not have helped Slocum find Joshua.

  He touched the brim of his hat, loaded the mail bags back on the paint, and rode into the teeth of the rising wind. The heavy scent of rain blew into his face, but that didn’t bother him much now. There wasn’t any way he could get wetter than he already was.

  Making his way slowly, he found a road, got his bearings, and rode away from Gregory. He didn’t have a good idea where most of the people lived who were supposed to receive the mail in the bags he lugged about since the map he had gotten from Underwood only marked the farms, not who lived there, but they weren’t near town. Underwood would have kept those letters to pass out himself. Slocum saw a sign with the name Gannon crudely lettered. He turned in the saddle and fished around inside the mail bag and found several letters that likely had to be delivered to this farmer.

  He found a small trail leading away from the road and took it, but he slowed when he saw a flash of movement to his left. Trying not to be too obvious, he guided his horse around a deep mud hole to position himself properly. It took all his self-control
not to gallop wildly. He saw the woman in the battered wedding gown moving as if she had been dipped in molasses, coming toward him.

  Slocum watched her progress until she stopped a dozen yards away. Only then did she look up. He wasn’t sure she saw him although she looked straight at him.

  “Miss Blaine?”

  She looked around, as if wondering where the greeting originated.

  “Do you want to go see Keith?” Slocum hated himself for lying to her, but she needed to get out of the weather. If she had been wandering in this state for three years as Mrs. Reynolds had said, it was time for her to get surcease. Slocum wasn’t sure anyone at Fort Stockton could help that much, but he thought her chances of finding help there was greater than in town. Even without the destruction brought by the twister, Gregory didn’t seem to be as charitable as it might have been.

  “Do you know where he is?” She looked around frantically. “Where is my beloved?”

  “At Fort Stockton,” Slocum said. “I can take you there.”

  “Fort Stockton,” she said as if the name meant nothing to her. “Why is he there?”

  “He’s a Ranger, isn’t he? He’s helping the Army out.”

  “Yes, yes, he’s a Ranger! You know him!”

  Slocum hated himself just a bit more for the lies, but they were necessary. Her mood might change in a flash, but right now he had her willing to accompany him back to the post.

  “I need to deliver some mail, but it’ll only take a few minutes. Maybe a half hour. Wait for me, and I’ll see that you get back to Fort Stockton.”

  “And Keith, my Keith!”

  “Over there’s a good spot to wait. Under the tree’s out of rain.” He looked up and didn’t see any trace of lightning in the heavy clouds.

  “Hurry, I’ve looked so long. Hurry!”

  Slocum wheeled his horse about and trotted along the road to the ranch house. Cattle milled about in a feeding pen. Bales of hay had been tossed out for other animals recently.

  “Mr. Gannon!” Slocum put his hands to his mouth and called again. “Got mail for you.”

  He knew better than to ride on up with folks so excitable after the tornado. The notion that patrols had left Fort Stockton and hadn’t returned told him of widespread damage and maybe gangs of outlaws roving the country to steal what they could. The Terwilligers might have been only one of many willing to suck the lifeblood from their neighbors.

  “You got somethin’ fer me, youngster?” A man balancing on a cane came out and peered at Slocum. “Ride on closer so I kin git a look at you.”

  The man worked to polish his spectacles, but Slocum doubted clean lenses would much improve the man’s vision. Milky film covered one eye, and the other was rheumy.

  “These must be for you.” Slocum handed down the packet of mail. Then an idea hit him. “You have any ranch hands working for you?”

  “Half dozen of the laziest, orneriest varmints you ever did see. Why?”

  “Might be they can deliver some of this mail and get it to the people waiting for it.”

  “Might be. Look at the names and tell me who you got there.”

  Slocum glanced over his shoulder, growing uneasy about leaving Amanda alone under the tree along the road. If she wandered off, he wouldn’t have much trouble finding her. The rain had let up. The wind had turned to razors. Even if he wasn’t inclined to let Amanda spend the night in the open, he didn’t want to inflict that on himself when he could find a nice, dry cot in the Fort Stockton barracks.

  He dismounted and spread out the remaining mail for the old man to look at. Slocum had to read the names, then Gannon nodded and made comments about those to whom the letters were addressed. Slocum learned more about them and their habits than he cared to, but when he’d finished, there were three stacks of letters.

  “My foreman can take those. He’s out ridin’ the east fence now. Not far from the Thompson spread. He’s sweet on Hank Thompson’s youngest daughter. Cain’t remember her name, but she’s a pistol. Cute as a bug and smart. You should see her barrel ridin’. Ain’t nobody purtier. Cain’t remember her name, though. But she’s cute.”

  “What about the other letters?” Slocum began to feel trapped by the old man’s insistence on going over each of the recipients.

  “Both o’ them’s farther south. I kin deliver them myself. Need to see how they’re all doin’.”

  “The tornado?”

  “Naw, floodin’. The twister danced along to the west of here, but the hail damage was mighty awful. And then it ain’t stopped rainin’.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Gannon.” Slocum picked up the empty mail bags. Underwood would want them back. “Appreciate you having your hands—and you—deliver the rest.”

  “You want a nip, son? Got some mighty fine rye whiskey inside.”

  Slocum’s throat tightened at the mention of the whiskey. But he told Gannon, “I’ll take a rain check on that.”

  “The way the sky’s been openin’ up of late, you might take it with some rainwater.” The old man chuckled at his little joke.

  “When you get to town, tell Mr. Underwood you personally saw to putting those letters in the right hands.”

  “That old reprobate? Why, surely will, son, I’ll do that. Him and me, we come out here together nigh on fifteen years ago. Gregory didn’t exist then. Don’t know why it does now. But I’ll look Henry up and we kin talk ’bout old times.”

  Slocum mounted and left the rancher talking to himself about the mail going through because of his personal efforts. If it hadn’t been for a sense of duty and doing his job, Slocum would have dumped the letters into a stream and to hell with it. But now that his duty was discharged, he rode as fast as the paint would allow back to the spot where he’d left the daft woman talking to herself about her lost love.

  His heart jumped into his throat when he didn’t see her right away. Then he heard her mumbling. Riding to the tree where he had told Amanda to wait, he was startled to see her sitting on a long branch, legs scissoring back and forth. The wind caught her skirt and whipped it about her pipe-cleaner-thin legs.

  “Why’d you climb the tree?” He knew he shouldn’t ask a crazy woman for reasons, but he tensed when he heard hers.

  “I seen him again. I don’t like him. Thought he was Keith, but he’s not. He says terrible things, and I been hidin’ from him a lot lately.”

  “Who?” Slocum licked his dried lips and asked, “A man in a gray shirt?”

  Amanda’s head bobbed up and down.

  “Well, come on, sit behind me, and we’ll go to the fort.”

  “To see Keith!”

  The woman jumped and landed hard behind Slocum. The horse was almost driven to its knees but staggered forward enough to recover its balance.

  “I’m going to see Keith. At last my love and I’ll be together.”

  She began singing in a surprisingly clear, sweet voice. That made Slocum edgier than if she had been off-key. He rode back to Fort Stockton, eyes peeled for any sign of Joshua.

  18

  “Yer gettin’ to be a regular in these here parts, Slocum,” called the sentry. Slocum didn’t recognize him, but then he hadn’t bothered paying much attention to the squad that had tried to string him up the last time he rode into Fort Stockton either. “Who you got hangin’ ’round yer neck this time?”

  “Where’s Keith? I must see him!” Amanda kicked free of the horse and ran forward.

  The sentry lowered his carbine, and Slocum saw he was going to fire.

  “Whoa, hold your horses,” Slocum called out. “This woman’s in need of some help.”

  “Cain’t give her none without orders,” the sentry said doggedly.

  “Then get them.” The snap of command in Slocum’s tone made the soldier stiffen and almost come to attention until he
realized Slocum wasn’t his superior officer but was only a civilian.

  “Where is he? I want to see him so we can get married!”

  The sentry looked at her, then at Slocum.

  “We heard ’bout this one. She’s loony.”

  “She still needs help. Might be she can do chores around the post . . . while she’s waiting for her betrothed to show up.”

  The sentry looked dubious, and Slocum didn’t blame him much. But the soldier bellowed for the officer of the guard. Slocum wasn’t too surprised to see Corporal Folkes amble up.

  “You are a caution, Slocum. Never know what you’ll bring in. Them kids, Miz Sampson, and now this.”

  “I finished handing out the mail and thought this would be my final delivery.”

  “Captain Legrange ain’t gonna like this much.”

  “Ask him and see if there’s not a bed for one more woman at the post.”

  Folkes looked sharply at Slocum, then a wry grin curled his lips. He hitched up his belt and motioned for the sentry to let the visitors pass.

  “You got a wicked wit, Slocum. I’ll grant you that.”

  With Amanda cooing to herself about finding her long-lost love, Slocum and Folkes walked slowly toward the officers’ quarters.

  “Slocum! Wait up!”

  Slocum turned to see Sergeant Wilson making his way toward him, hardly leaning on the cane at all now.

  “Where are you going with her?”

  “Why, Sarge, Slocum here’s takin’ her to the captain.” Folkes snickered. “Said she’d make a good replacement for the captain’s bed.”

  Wilson lifted the cane, ready to hit Folkes, then stopped when he saw the confused expression.

  “What’s he talking about?” Slocum asked.

  “Why’d you bring her to the post?” Wilson shot back.

  “She needs help. If she wanders around too long out there, a coyote’ll end up feeding on her. She needs to be watched.” He sucked in his breath and looked hard at Amanda. “Might even be a soldier could see her down to the asylum outside Austin. I heard tell of a place there that takes the likes of her.”