July in this part of the country was usually the hottest month of
the year. The inhabitants of Four Corners and the surrounding ranches
and farms were forced to endure the scorching heat with very little relief
from rain. This July was the hottest and driest even the town's oldest
citizens could remember. Plenty of storms passed quickly through the
valley; they consisted of thunder, lightning and brief bursts of gusty
wind but were accompanied by very little rain.
The creeks and streams that flowed into ponds and the ponds themselves
were drying up rapidly. Crops that should have been ready to harvest
withered before they could ripen. Cattle and horses suffered from lack
of water and decent grazing. Normally rich green pasture turned a brittle
brown and bare soil developed deep cracks. The old timers predicted that
unless steady, soaking rains moved into the region within a few weeks
most crops would be lost and even the stock would begin to die.
The tension that hung over the town was almost tangible. Tempers flared
often and for little or no reason. Fights broke out even among best friends
and the usually more complacent of the populace. Chris Larabee and the
other members of Judge Travis' irregulars that had taken on the job of
guarding the town from drifters and drunken trail hands found themselves
in a strange situation; the threat to the town's peace now came from
within.
Four of the seven occupied their usual back table in the saloon. It
wasn't because the saloon was cooler than any other location; but this
was where most of the more recent altercations began. J. D. was taking
his duties very seriously and was making himself available at the Sheriff's
office in case he was needed. The jail cells were standing empty now
but that could change rapidly in direct correlation with the amount of
whiskey consumed in any given time period.
Josiah had reluctantly promised Nathan he would accompany him on a
short ride to the closest wooded area to replenish his supply of the
herbs he often used for healing. Nathan was also becoming quite proficient
with the more conventional means he was learning from a medical book
a salesman had given him in payment for stitching up a cut on his hand.
They had said they would be back by supper.
Chris, Vin and Buck were watching Ezra play solitaire as they sipped
their beer. Very few men, unless they were strangers who didn't know
any better, would actually allow Ezra to engage them in a real poker
game.
The saloon doors opened and Mary Travis walked in looking worried
and preoccupied, spotted the men she sought, and approached them with
an obvious purpose on her mind.
"Gentlemen." Her greeting took all of them in, but her gaze lingered
on Chris Larabee.
"Mrs. Travis." Chris touched his hat and, as usual, acted as spokesman
for the group.
"There is a called meeting of the town council this evening. Several
of the businessmen and the owners of the larger ranches are seeking some
way to lessen the effects of the drought on the harder hit members. I
fear that the discussion could become heated. Your attendance would be
appreciated."
"We'll be there, ma'am, but I think the only solution is several days
of steady rain. I don't think the council can legislate the weather."
"I agree, Mr. Larabee, but these people are desperate. Even talking
out their problems may alleviate some of the tension that seems to have
possessed everyone in this area. I've agreed to the use of my office
for the meeting. Please be there at 5:00."
"Yes, ma'am." Chris watched Mary turn and walk back out through the
swinging doors. He shook his head, whether in amazement at her determined
involvement in all town matters or maybe just in sheer admiration of
this unusual woman who was making her way as the owner and operator of
a successful business in a rough and tumble frontier town like Four Corners.
"Havin' a meeting to try to change the weather." Buck all but snorted
his contempt at the idea.
"And your brilliant solution to the problem would be . . ." Ezra drawled
as he played the jack of spades on the queen of hearts.
"Boys." Chris cautioned. "It's too hot to fight. It's even too hot
to argue."
"I was merely going to engage Mr. Wilmington in a verbal duel, Mr.
Larabee. Although I am confident I would emerge victorious in any type
of competition.
Just for a moment, Buck looked as though he was going to take offense
at Ezra's remarks, but he grinned instead.
"I know one thing I'm better at than you are, Ezra."
"Why, Mr. Wilmington, whatever do you mean?"
Vin Tanner had been silent for some time. He'd heard everything that
had gone on around him, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Making a decision
based partly on instinct and partly on experience the buckskin clad tracker
stood up from the table, finished his beer and donned his hat.
"Chris, I've got a really bad feeling. I'm going to ride out of town
where I can get away from any distractions and look for signs."
"Signs of what?" Chris looked puzzled.
Vin was definitely the most experienced outdoorsman of the group.
His former lifestyle as a hunter-first of buffalo and then of men had
taught him lessons about the wilderness that few others could match.
If Vin felt uneasy it might be best for him to act on his intuition.
Vin just shrugged. "Don't rightly know."
"How long do you think you'll be?"
"I may stay out til dark just to get the feel of things. I've got
this notion that something's just not quite right. Even the air feels
different."
"Hell, Vin. It's probably just another summer thunderstorm like we've
been having. Won't amount to anything."
Buck dismissed Vin's uneasiness, but not without respect. He'd been
on the trail with the man and valued his judgement highly.
"We'll see you when we see you." Chris watched Vin walk out into the
sweltering sun and head toward the livery stable.
He turned back to watching Ezra's game and began to regret telling
Mary he'd be at the meeting. Knowing the rest of the boys, they'd make
excuses and he'd have to go alone and listen to the somewhat pompous
businessmen and the ranchers who always thought they knew best. Well,
if he did end up attending the meeting without the others, he just might
get invited for a cup of coffee with Mary afterwards.
In the meantime, he was tempted to go to the boardinghouse and sneak
in by the back kitchen door. He didn't particularly want a hot meal but,
Granny Allen, the lady who did all the cooking seemed fond of him. He
admired the older lady greatly. At any rate, she was always putting extra
food on his plate when he appeared for meals and telling him he was too
thin. If there were any biscuits left from earlier in the day he'd settle
for a couple of those with some of Granny's excellent ham. He seemed
to remember she'd mentioned something about making apple fritters today
at breakfast when she was sure he would hear her.
Hell, he'd even sit at the kitchen table with her and listen to how
he reminded her of one of her sons. Sometimes it was one of her grandsons.
Of course, that meant she'd force a glass of milk on him with the ham
biscuits and the fritters. Milk! My God, this town was ruining him. He
shook his head in resignation at drinking the milk but those ham biscuits
would be worth the sacrifice. Just as long as nobody saw him.
Vin Tanner had his horse saddled, gear checked, two canteens filled
with lukewarm water from the bucket in the stable and was a couple of
miles outside of Four Corners before Chris had knocked at the screened
boardinghouse kitchen door. When Granny Allen saw that it was Chris she
pretended she didn't have time to bother with him but she was secretly
delighted.
"Knock the dust off you, boy. My kitchen is as clean as I can keep
it. You wouldn't be wanting some ham and biscuits would you?"
"Yes, ma'am. If It wouldn't be too much trouble."
"If you'll eat 'em, I'll fix em. Don't suppose you remembered that
I'd be making apple fritters today, did you?"
Granny's voice and manner were stern but she was a kind woman. She
had been widowed at an early age in an Indian attack but had gone on
to raise her three boys who had also survived. They stayed on at the
home place with their wives and children and farmed the land. All her
family wanted her to live with them but she was just too independent
and stubborn. She loved to cook and the boardinghouse was the perfect
place for her to show off her skills.
"Well, now that you mention it, ma'am, I seem to recall something
about the possibility of apple fritters being made this afternoon."
"Your timing couldn't have been any better if I had rung the dinner
bell. The last batch is finishing up. But you're going to eat some ham
biscuits first. Them apple fritters is too sweet by themselves. I'll
have to put on fresh coffee too. I think of all of you as boys but I
reckon you think you're too old to drink milk."
Chris looked surprised at the remark. Had he hurt her feelings the
last time in some way? Granny Allen noticed his reaction.
"I don't give a hoot in hell what you want to drink boy, be it coffee
or milk or water. But I do wish you'd slow down a little on the whiskey
in the evenings. I don't sleep real good and sometimes I hear you come
in or even go out again awful late. Reckon you don't sleep too good either.
But the whiskey won't help."
She busied herself with Chris's plate and the coffeepot. "You probably
think I'm a nosy old biddy, but your room's right above mine and I've
heard the nightmares you have too."
Her voice softened and grew even kinder as she sat down a plate filled
with ham and biscuits for Chris and large cups of fresh hot coffee for
both of them. When she finally looked at Chris she had tears in her eyes.
"Matthew Jeremiah Allen has been dead and buried for nigh onto thirty-seven
years. There ain't a day . . . Hell, there ain't an hour that goes by
that I don't miss him. But then I had three boys to raise. Maybe that
got me by. I don't know what happened to you to tear your heart and soul
plumb out and I ain't about to ask. I just wanted you to know that if
you ever need to talk to anybody, even an old woman like me, why, I'd
be right proud to listen."
She got up suddenly from the table on the pretext of getting sugar
and cream. Chris took his coffee black and so did Granny Allen but she
needed an excuse to wipe her eyes on her apron and she had the grace
to let him be for a minute or two as well. She had seen the haunted look
come into his eyes.
When she returned she carried a platter of apple fritters so hot and
fragrant that you just knew the crust would flake into tender pieces
almost before the fork had touched it.
"Granny Allen, I think you must have taught the angels how to cook."
"Why, Mr. Larabee, are you flirting with me?"
About the time that Chris was finishing his meal at the boardinghouse,
Vin had stopped and dismounted at the first small stand of trees before
the real wooded area started. This was high enough ground to see across
the plain. He made himself comfortable with his back against a tree trunk,
his horse cropping the sparse grass nearby.
Vin Tanner had something precious in addition to his expert training;
his intuition. He knew that something was wrong; he didn't know what
it was. But he intended to find out. He didn't have to wait long. Vin
heard the distant roll of thunder coming from the east about the time
he noticed the sky begin to darken and the air become thick and heavy.
"So Buck was right. Just another thunderstorm." Vin had almost started
to relax when the direction of the storm registered. A normal summer
pattern would have been for the storm to come from the west. This was
unusual, at the least.
From his vantage point, Vin saw the storm grow frighteningly fast.
The entire sky was now darkening ominously. Flashes of lighting and the
loud growl of thunder were almost constant. This storm was huge and it
was moving rapidly across the plain. He realized there was no way to
return to Four Corners ahead of the storm. Then he saw the funnel cloud
begin to form.
"Twister." Vin spoke his thoughts aloud and realized the danger he
was in simultaneously. He had never actually seen one form before; only
the deadly aftermath. As the memory of the little farms torn to shreds
leaped vividly to his mind he knew he had no chance here in the open.
Mounting his panicky horse, he moved as quickly as he could back toward
the wooded hillside. There was a cave near here. It wasn't much, but
it was probably the best he could do.
Nathan and Josiah had hunted for herbs most of the afternoon and had
been partly successful. Now they were resting before the ride back into
town and supper. Josiah heard the first rumble of thunder and noticed
the darkening sky as they began to move toward the horses. Neither gave
much notice to the oncoming storm except for the fact that they might
get a little wet. Then they broke cover from the trees and realized the
enormity of the assault.
"Josiah," Nathan began to warn his friend.
"Yeah, I know. Nathan, do you remember where that cave is? If we're
going to have a chance we'll have to get to it."
"It's not far. Let's go."
The men turned their horses back into the trees and began to angle
slightly upward. Nathan had hunted for herbs in this area many times
and had been inside the cave out of curiosity. He had never had a torch
with him so he hadn't gone in very far, but he remembered that it was
a large area.
Although coming from different directions, Vin heard the other horses
before he saw them and realized it might be Nathan and Josiah. As soon
as they were in sight through the trees he knew a warning was not necessary.
He merely made sure they saw him as well and he motioned to a spot not
far above him. They both nodded. There was no point in yelling to each
other. The wind made it impossible to be understood.
Vin reached the entrance to the cave first and found it difficult
to clear away the brush in front of it with one hand. He didn't dare
let his horse go. The animal was thoroughly frightened and would have
bolted instantly. He had the area partly cleared when Nathan and Josiah
arrived. Nathan held all three trembling horses while Josiah helped Vin
move the rest of the debris out of the way. They wordlessly agreed to
enter single file, each man leading his horse. In spite of Nathan's great
anxiety about the horses, they settled down once they were inside the
cave and away from the wind and some of the noise. The three men would
ride out the tempest here and hope it did not have the town directly
in its path.
Buck and Ezra sat comfortably in the saloon talking about all subjects
that came to mind, especially the drought and the subsequent ill tempers
of nearly everyone in the town. They remained sipping their beer after
first Vin, then Chris had left their back table. Their conversation had
been stimulated for a while, then faltered. Buck finished his drink while
he watched Ezra with his ever-present deck of cards. The heat and inactivity
was beginning to get on his nerves. He was happier when he had an assignment
to fulfill. He decided to at least go over to the jail and make sure
"The Kid", as Buck always thought of him, hadn't managed to get into
trouble.
"I'm going to check on J. D." Buck got up and stretched lazily.
"I believe I will accompany you. I feel the need for a short walk."
Ezra rose gracefully and, carefully brushing his faultless jacket,
followed Buck out the door and across the street. As they reached the
opposite sidewalk, both men noticed the darkness of the coming storm
and paused. The wind began to stir the dust from the street into tiny
whirlwinds as they watched when, like a large dark shadow, the real whirlwind
appeared and bore towards the town.
The sight was terrifying to both men. This was not something you could
face and fight. This was something to run from-and fast.
"Ezra, through the jail and out the back into the alley. Quick. There's
a cellar at the back of the boardinghouse."
Both men were through the front door of the jail so fast that J. D.
looked up in sleepy surprise at the interruption. Buck grabbed his arm
and got him up and moving with them toward the rear of the jail, down
the short passage and out the back door without an explanation. J. D.
had seen their faces and knew this was not a joke.
Just as the three men emerged into the alley between the buildings,
Chris and Granny Allen were looking out the screened door of the kitchen.
They had heard thunder and assumed a summer storm was near.
"Twister!"
Buck's single word galvanized Chris into action. He pushed the screened
door back and helped Granny Allen to the door of the cellar that Buck
had already thrown open.
"You stay with them."
Granny Allen turned back towards Chris with concern in her eyes.
"Where are you going, boy? Git into the cellar with us. You can't
stay out here."
"I'm going across the street to the newspaper office. I'll be fine.
There's a cellar behind the building."
Granny Allen reluctantly let herself be helped down the steps by J.
D. Ezra followed and Buck, after giving a worried look towards Chris
as he ran to the street, was last. He secured the door closed with a
thick board and then ushered everyone to the farthest corner. They waited
in half darkness and apprehension.
As Chris negotiated his way across the street in the high wind and
flying debris, Mary Travis heard thunder and approached the front windows
of the newspaper office in curiosity. She had been engrossed in research
and was not aware of the oncoming storm. Chris almost burst through the
front door and struggled to close it behind him against the force of
the wind. Mary stood still in amazement at his sudden appearance and
then, at his single word to her in explanation.
"Twister."
He took her arm and urged her to the back door, knowing that they
might have very little time to gain shelter. He had never seen anything
like this before and didn't know how to judge the speed and strength
of the gale that was rapidly approaching.
They ran down the back steps together and quickly over to the cellar
door. Chris stopped short at the sight of the padlock that held the door
shut. He only paused for a few seconds-a scrap piece of lumber beside
the door would do as a pry bar. They wouldn't be able to secure the door
behind them but they would be inside. The padlock remained locked, but
the worn wood it was attached to snapped after the third try.
Chris threw the door back and helped Mary down the steps and against
the farthest corner of the small space. He turned back to attempt to
at least pull the door across the opening but the sound of the rising
wind and Mary's pleas brought him back to her side. He faced her with
his back to the onslaught and they both sank to the hard packed dirt
floor. They huddled against the wall, Mary in Chris' arms.
Neither had ever experienced a tumult like this. The force of the
wind ripped the loose door off just seconds after they were inside and
threatened to do more damage as the minutes passed. Sounding as loud
as a railway engine rushing by and howling like the souls of the dammed
it was an eternity in coming to a close.
In reality the storm's assault lasted less than ten minutes. It seemed
to last forever to the terrified inhabitants of the town. As everyone
realized that the danger had passed, they emerged from various places
of refuge and began to call out to one another and survey the damage.
It was obvious that the town had not sustained a direct hit. Most of
the loss of property appeared to be at the north end of town where some
of the buildings were not even occupied. The twister had passed roughly
between Four Corners and the wooded land on the other side of the valley.
Except for a few smudges of dirt on her face and her now very dirty
skirt and blouse, Mary Travis seemed unaffected by the near disaster
around her as she helped account for all of Four Corners inhabitants.
She was calm but concerned for the others. She had recovered quickly
from her terror.
When they felt the worst had passed, Chris had begun to loosen his
grip on the woman he had held tightly and protected through the tempest.
Mary had shook in nervous reaction for a few moments, then turned her
attention to him.
"Are you hurt?"
She had just begun to comprehend what he had done. By placing her
against the corner with his arms covering her and her head against his
chest, he had taken the punishment from the boards, broken glass and
other swirling debris in the cellar.
"No. Are you?"
"I'm all right. But, Chris, you're bleeding."
He touched the most noticeable cut on his forehead and dismissed it
as nothing. But Mary could tell he had been hit hard at some point by
the way he moved slowly away from her and rose stiffly with a grimace
of pain before helping her to her feet. He refused to admit that he had
taken the brunt of the assault from the storm. Chris was worried about
the others.
As Mary spoke to her neighbors, Chris made his way across the littered
street to the alley behind the boardinghouse. He found the door to the
cellar blocked by several heavy boards and he heard Buck cursing as he
pushed against the door. He began to pull the obstruction away and soon
had the door clear. J. D. and Buck were waiting to push the door back
as Chris pulled from above. They came up the steps single file; looking
around in wonder at the damage the storm had left in its path.
"Everybody all right?"
Chris peered into the dark interior of the cellar, waiting for the
others to come up into the light.
"Chris, Granny Allen is dead."
Chris stood for a few moments in unbelieving silence. He shook his
head as if to clear his vision. Buck and J. D. looked concerned as Chris
walked numbly down the steps. He found Ezra at the back of the cellar
beside the tiny old lady. She was lying as though she was asleep on the
dirt floor. Her face was relaxed, peaceful. If she had been dressed in
a nightgown instead of her everyday work dress and spotless white apron
he could have almost believed she was sleeping. Chris knelt beside her
in stunned disbelief and Ezra stepped back and away from the tragic scene.
"I believe it was her heart. She was with us one second and then she
was just gone. It was very quick."
Ezra walked slowly away and up the steps to wait with J. D. and Buck
for Chris to appear. They had never let on that they knew but all the
men were aware of Chris's frequent visits to the boardinghouse kitchen.
Granny Allen's kindness and concern for their friend had been noticed
and were appreciated.
It was only a few moments until Chris walked solemnly to the steps.
He was carrying in his arms the lady who had fed him and worried about
him as though he was one of her sons. Granny Allen was not a heavy burden.
J. D. stepped forward as though to help him, but he stopped when he saw
Chris's despair at her death.
Buck and Ezra also moved aside. This was something Chris wanted to
do alone. He carried her frail body down the alley and into the street.
As the others followed him, the people milling around in confusion grew
quiet at the sight of the feared gunfighter cradling the old lady gently
in his arms. They made way for him as he moved toward the undertaker's
relatively undamaged building. It was not a pleasant journey for him
but Chris thought it was the least he could do. She had certainly tried
to carry him with her strength of will and now he would carry her.
In the three days since the tornado brushed past Four Corners a lot
had been accomplished by the townspeople. The necessary repairs to the
buildings had been completed hardly a day and a half later. The litter
of loose boards, piles of dust and dirt and broken glass had been picked
up and carted away. Everything was back to normal for the town and the
small farms and ranches in the valley.
There had been surprisingly few serious injuries from the storm. There
had been only one death; Rose Williams Allen at the age of 67 had apparently
died of heart failure during the twister. She was mourned by her considerable
family members, the townspeople and one man in particular.
Chris Larabee had sat either in the saloon or in his room and drank
steadily since her death. As far as Buck or any of the others knew, he
had not eaten or slept. Each of the group had tried in various ways to
talk to him and bring him out of this black mood. Chris's withdrawal
and heavy drinking had hit Mary worse than anyone when she realized that
Chris thought Granny Allen would be alive if he had stayed with her instead
of rushing to Mary's rescue. She was devastated and had tried several
times to talk to Chris with no results. He just stared straight ahead
and answered no one.
Buck Wilmington was extremely worried and he finally decided that
he was probably the only one who would have a chance with him. He had
to try one more time to get through to Chris. He strode into the saloon
and purposefully past the empty bar and tables to the back of the room.
"Chris, could we go somewhere else and talk?"
Buck got no response from the somber man at his usual back table in
the farthest corner from the door. He was sitting in the shadows staring
at nothing. His stillness and refusal to speak had stopped anyone who
tried to reach him in his grief and self-imposed guilt.
"Chris, I said . . ."
"I heard you, Buck."
His words were not slurred and he didn't even appear to be drunk.
But he had not shaved or cleaned up since the tragedy. He hadn't even
bothered to wipe away the blood from his cuts or let Nathan look at his
obvious bruises. Buck suspected from the way he moved stiffly when he
walked that he had a broken rib from one of the hits he took protecting
Mary in the cellar. He looked like hell.
"Well?"
"I don't want to talk. I just want to drink."
Chris gave Buck a cold warning look and reached for the bottle again,
filled his glass and sipped the whiskey slowly. Buck knew better than
to push his luck too far or Chris would explode in the mood he was in.
But he also knew he had to try. He lowered his voice and began again.
"If you think you're responsible for her death, you're wrong. If her
heart gave out like we think it did it could have happened anytime."
"She was worried about me."
"And what if she was? You were worried about her, too. And Mary. And
the rest of us. Dammit, Chris, you ain't God. You can't make things happen
and you sure as hell can't stop things from happening."
Buck got no reaction from Chris. He filled his empty glass from the
bottle again, giving Buck another dark look before he turned away.
"Do you think that little old lady would want you sittin' here, looking
like you're dead yourself and tryin' to suck comfort from that bottle?
She's gone, Chris. It was just her time to go. That's all."
Chris turned his chillingly cold green eyes on Buck, but Buck would
not be deterred. He remembered what happened after they returned to Chris's
ranch from Mexico after a trip to sell horses that day three years ago
and found nothing but death. He didn't want it happening again. He was
not going to let Chris retreat into alcohol and isolation.
Buck stood up and pushed his chair back in apparent defeat at the
other man's stubbornness. Then in a sudden burst of anger he reached
for the whiskey bottle and, scooping it and the glass off the table to
break on the floor, he turned abruptly and began to walk away.
Chris Larabee overturned the heavy table in sudden rage and stood
with his gun drawn and aimed at Buck. He had even cocked the trigger
in reflex to his own anger and to Buck's outburst. Buck heard the deadly
sound and turned to face the man who was his oldest friend and sometimes
his own worst enemy. His voice was full of all the emotion Chris's reaction
to the tragedy and his own memories of the past had awakened.
"Let it go, Chris. You ain't responsible for everything or everybody.
You can't take care of the whole world. Just let it go."
The care and deep concern in Buck's voice finally seemed to get through
to Chris as he realized that he was pointing his cocked gun at his closest
friend. His grim expression faded and, to Buck's amazement, Chris slid
the trigger gently back into position and holstered his pistol. Buck
thought he was going to say something as he took one step towards him
but he would have fallen to the floor if Buck hadn't caught him. Buck
carefully carried the unconscious man out of the saloon, across the street
and up the stairs to Nathan's quarters.
Nathan was there and looked up in surprise from the medical book he
was studying at his small desk as Buck carried Chris into the room and
laid him gently on one of the neatly made beds.
"What happened to him?"
Nathan went to work even as he asked the question. He started checking
Chris over for any obvious injuries as he listened for Buck's answer.
"He passed out. Too much whiskey. No food or sleep. Tryin' to carry
the whole world around."
"Help me get his clothes off so I can see how bad he got hurt. He
wouldn't let me check him right after I got back into town with Josiah
and Vin after the storm. And there were so many others who were hurt
or scared. I guess I should have kept after him."
"Nope. Wouldn't have done any good. If Chris Larabee don't want to
do something, ain't nobody can make him."
"Well, he can't do anything about it now. I'm going to clean him up,
dress those cuts and bruises, and I need to wrap that cracked rib so
it'll heal."
Chris could hear Nathan and Buck talking through the haze of the alcohol
and his exhaustion. He felt the warm water as Nathan began to clean off
the dirt and blood so he could work on his injuries. He kept his eyes
closed and just floated in and out of consciousness while they worked.
The only sign that he was partially awake came when Nathan had Buck hold
him up while he wrapped clean bandages tightly around his badly bruised
ribs. Chris gasped in pain and tried to push the two men away. Neither
paid any attention to his weak protests. They finished and laid him back
down.
Buck carefully pulled a sheet and a soft blanket over his bandages
after making him as comfortable as possible with an extra pillow from
one of the other beds. Chris Larabee slept. It was a deep, dreamless
sleep. He didn't wake up until the next afternoon.
It was the deep rumble of thunder that woke him. He quickly sat up
in the narrow bed almost in a panic. He thought at first that he was
still in the midst of the tornado. Or was that the terrible sound of
cannon fire? Then he fell back in pain and dizziness and realized that
it was raining. It was finally raining.
The slow steady drum of the raindrops on the tin roof seemed oddly
soothing. He felt weak and unsteady; he knew he shouldn't try to move
again. As he waited for the room to stop spinning and for some of his
strength to come back he thought of the events of the last week. He remembered
in great detail his last visit with Granny Allen and what she had said
to him about her husband and how she had gone on after his death. Then
the storm had hit. Should he have gone into the cellar with her? Would
that have eased her mind? Or would she have died anyway?
"No." He spoke aloud.
"No. Buck is right. They're all right. There's nothing I could have
done. If I hadn't gone to Mary she wouldn't have made it outside in time
and . . .
When he and Mary had gone back inside to survey the damage to her
office they discovered that the force of the storm had blown large sharp
sections of glass from the front window as far as Mary's desk. If Mary
had been near that window . . . He didn't finish that particular line
of reasoning. And, as if in answer to his thoughts, Mary tentatively
knocked and then opened Nathan's door. She wore her usual neat skirt
and blouse. Her fine blonde hair was swept away from her face but was
threatening to come loose from her walk to Nathan's in the rain. A loosely
woven shawl covered her shoulders. She looked taut and worried.
"Mr. Larabee, I wondered if you might be awake and wanting something
to eat."
To her surprise, he smiled slightly at the formality of her address.
"Thank you, Mary. Please sit down with me a minute."
He smiled slightly again when she carefully left the door open to
preserve appearances before she pulled a chair over to his bedside and
sat down. She folded her hands primly in her lap and waited.
"Mary, I'm sorry I wouldn't talk to you before. I know you just wanted
to help. And I'm sorry I reacted this way. You and Buck and everybody
were right. All of you were right. I couldn't have done anything different."
He swallowed with great difficulty and tried to continue. This was
not something he would ever find it easy to talk about. But he felt that
she had a right to some sort of an explanation because of his cruel indifference
during the past three days.
"It's just that . . ."
"I know, I know. It's all right. I understand. We all understand."
Her gentle tone was the same as she might have used to soothe her
son, Billy, if he was hurt or scared. Billy was the only person he had
ever heard her speak to in such a manner.
She stood up again and pulled his rumpled bedclothes in place. She
looked at him for a long moment in silence. Then to the surprise of both
of them, she brushed his wayward hair back gently and leaned over and
kissed Chris lightly on his forehead.
"Thank you for what you did for me. And for her, too."
Chris nodded. It was time to go on. He cleared his throat, which seemed
to suddenly have a lump in it and then inquired, "Did you mention getting
something to eat?"
"Oh, yes. The food is ready. I had the cook at the restaurant keep
some things hot since lunch. I can have a tray here for you in about
15 minutes."
She turned to go and, as she reached the door, looked back at the
enigmatic man who she believed had saved her life. The supposedly cold,
cruel gunfighter who had mourned deeply for an old woman who dispensed
home cooked meals and advice with equal enthusiasm. The "bad element"
who had befriended her son when he needed a friend badly. She shook her
head slightly. Men said they couldn't understand women; she couldn't
understand men.
"Mary, if you wouldn't mind, could you bring me one more thing."
"Why, yes. What would you like?"
Chris Larabee requested the last thing Mary Travis would have expected
him to ask for. "I'd like to have a glass of milk."
Chris's smile this time was almost a mischievous grin. Mary Travis
returned his smile with a quizzical look. She shut the door and carried
her puzzled expression all the way down the steps, across the street
and into the restaurant kitchen and, more or less, for the rest of that
afternoon.
The End
