Disclaimer: As ever, only one or two of the characters are mine. I make no money from this writing.
It took no more than half an hour for the storm to pass through and the sun to come out, hot and strong. Frank walked away then felt the soreness in his back from the pummelling of the hail and stopped, wanting to ride again, but he checked Hidalgo out first. A couple of cuts, nothing too bad. He seemed sound. He jumped on his mustang's back, grateful the horse was smaller than some, and kneed him forward.
He headed for town, unsure he could offer help that would be accepted. Already the people were out, trying to gather possessions from the mud, small knots of colour in a brown world. As he trotted forward he saw a woman standing, watching him and for a moment his heart lurched. But it was Phoebe Ann, sensible, dependable Phoebe Ann, and judging by the look of her she was mad with him. She looked out for him most of the time, but most of the time she was mad with him about something.
He slid off Hidalgo and waited for her.
"Hop! What'd you do a fool thing like that for? You could have gotten yourself killed!" Hands on hips, she reminded him of his mother, who had had occasion to tell him off from time to time. He felt a little foolish about his wild scheme to – well, whatever it was he had thought he was doing, running off on his horse like that.
"I'm here, ain't I? You're bleeding, Phoebe Ann. You need a doc."
"I am?" She put her hand to her head as if she suddenly realised she felt some pain there.
Frank stepped forward, ready to help her, and she unexpectedly fainted, catching him a little off guard so that he almost dropped her. He carried her to the nearest building, which happened to be the saloon. Clumps of bedraggled people sat at tables, drinking coffee and talking animatedly about what had happened. The place was untouched by the twister.
He carried Phoebe Ann to a chair and set her on it since he could feel her coming around, the strength coming back into her limbs and her voice. He pulled his sopping neckerchief from his neck and tried to wipe some of the blood from her face. She had a bad cut to her forehead. She was trying to bat his hand away when someone came over.
"You want some help with that, son?" A man stood by him, black coat and bag proclaiming his profession. He gave Phoebe Ann over to his care, ashamed that he was so grateful for the help. His hands were shaking. He grabbed a half-bottle of something and walked out, leaving someone else to look after her.
He went to find something else he could do that didn't involve anyone he cared about.
He had wanted something out there, on the prairie, something he could not even name to himself. But someone had made another choice for him and he was going to have to find a way to live with that.
Hidalgo waited for him, and snorted when Frank began to speak to him.
"You got any ideas what to do next, bronco? I don't feel like I know any more." He ran his hand down Hidalgo's back, searching for sore spots. It was soothing, doing just that, but he only felt guilt that he'd not been looking after his horse himself for too long. He stopped to take a pull from the bottle in his hand but Hidalgo stepped suddenly closer, shouldering him hard and he dropped the bottle. The liquor pulsed out onto the dust.
"Fool horse! What did you do that for? I ain't drunk yet." He reached down but Hidalgo wasn't letting him reach it. Any minute now and he'd end up in the dust himself. "All right, all right. Come on, let's go see about helping someone."
He walked away slowly and Hidalgo chose to follow, shadowing him. He went towards the area of the worst destruction and helped where he could, searching through piles of rubble for anything that was not now trash. He pulled a large table from a pile of broken boards and an old man thanked him. The old man had no house left, just a table, and yet he'd thanked Frank as if he'd saved his life. Miserably, Frank stepped back, letting others take over again as he walked further from the heart of the destruction.
The houses at the far end of town had survived – just two of them, one on either side of the street. One looked untouched, pots of geraniums still bright on the porch and not even a broken window.
The other, grander, a real two-storey place decked out with fancy wood carving and white paint, looked slightly wrong, crooked maybe, as if it had been shifted an inch or two out of true. Dangerous, that. He wondered whether he ought to check it out further, or maybe warn someone, when he saw a woman emerge from the front door, one hand occupied, holding onto a child of about four, and a heavy valise in the other. It dragged her to one side and she set it down quickly.
Frank stepped up to her quickly and offered to help, but a quick, "No, thank you," reminded him he was sporting a couple of black eyes and a day's growth of beard, not to mention the fact that his clothes still clung to him. She was right not to trust him. But when she made to go back in, he couldn't resist trying to stop her.
"Ma'am – it ain't safe in there. Look, the house, it's moved on the foundations."
"I know that! But I can't leave all baby's things in there! I need to look after the children now. And John is busy enough, trying to get our papers sorted out."
Frank found he'd opened some kind of floodgate, as she forgot her fear of him and grabbed his sleeve, telling him they would be leaving town and couldn't leave their valuables in the house for anyone to rob. She was nearly hysterical, and the child at her side was beginning to cry, pulling at her tightly held hand.
Then Frank realised she had said something about a baby, and sure enough, lying in a beautiful cradle right there in the front yard was a baby, right in the full sun. If the house decided it didn't like its new position it could fall right on that cradle and that would be the end of a life.
Frank pulled himself together as best he could, picked up the valise and encouraged the woman to follow him at least across the street. He left her with one child and went back for the other, picking up the cradle and glancing at the child, who was already looking pink and unhappy, and took it over to her. He set the baby in the shade of the building. She was still talking to him.
"John, my husband – you will help him, won't you? Perhaps you could just get a few more of our things, and bring them here? Susie, she hasn't any other clothes to wear but – I couldn't get up the stairs, John wouldn't let me, and …" She suddenly ran out of breath, and sat down abruptly, dragging the little girl down with her. "What will we do now?" she asked, eyes large and very blue. She was young, in her twenties, and Frank found he wanted very much to help her.
"I'll do what I can, ma'am. But that house is dangerous. I'll try to get your husband out of there."
He strode back across the street, aware that one or two people were wandering down the street in their direction. He would soon have an audience but he didn't want to give them a show. He just wanted to get the man out of his house and then go on his way.
He wrenched the front door open, aware that only a few minutes ago the woman had had no difficulty with it. Inside, it was a shadowy, creaking arrangement of leaning walls and jammed doors. He heard someone moving upstairs and stepped quickly up that way, his feet telling him the treads weren't right, too narrow, or not straight or something. He stumbled half up but grabbed the banister.
"Mister! Your house ain't going to stand much longer! You'd better get on out of here!" he shouted, trying to imagine what was keeping the man. No papers could be that important, to lose your life for them.
A man appeared at the top of the stairs, his arms full of a seemingly random assortment of things, clothes, papers, even a glass ornament in one hand.
"Get out, then! I didn't ask for any help! Or just grab what you can and come back for more. The house'll stand until I get what I need." The man came down the stairs, pushing past Frank in his haste. Frank followed him down, hearing one loud crack before the place begin to slip sideways more rapidly, walls tilting, pictures hanging crazily, and their escape route closing off as if the man's boast about the place had triggered its collapse.
Dust fogged the air and made Frank's eyes swim but he followed the man as best he could, shouting at him to drop his belongings and run for it, but the man was hunched over his goods and wouldn't part with them. Frank pushed him forward, down the narrowing corridor and they reached the front door, the woman's husband first. Frank saw him stagger out onto the porch and drop what he was carrying. He was out, though the front wall was slipping in his direction, and Frank shouted again to get him moving.
Frank had his hands out, trying to fend off the wall which was coming his way, but his feet tangled in something lying on the floor and he fell. He covered his head with his hands, wondered for a moment if this was going to be it, then the place fell about him and he lost his hold on the world for a while.
When he came back to himself, he wondered first how he'd managed to survive. He couldn't see, but he could hear people close by. He coughed, and tried to move but he was pinned and he couldn't see enough to tell what it was that was keeping him there. He didn't have time to do anything about it, for suddenly his arms had been grabbed and he was being pulled right out of the house, though the dust and the broken wood, and he felt like the luckiest man on earth. When they'd done with pulling him, people were standing round him, and poking and prodding at him to see if he had any hurts. He felt just fine, though he had a strange taste in his mouth and he was a bit numb. He was alive and that was pretty good.
"Mister? Mister? You okay?"
Someone was shaking his shoulder. He tried to open his eyes but they seemed to be full of something. They were shouting for water then someone was quite gently running water over his face. His eyesight slowly cleared.
He coughed again, and a cup of water was put to his lips. He took a mouthful, swilled it round and spat it out. He swallowed the second mouthful, then nodded his thanks and tried to sit up.
"Mister – how'd you live through that?" asked one man, kneeling at his side and helping him.
The house had gone sideways, folding like a house of cards, quite neatly – roof and floor now just layers in a pile of lumber. But by the front door there was a distinct triangular cave, about three feet high, where something had kept a wall away from the floor.
"Luck, I guess." Frank offered, grinning and looking round at the faces of the crowd. "The guy who owned the place- he all right?"
"I am, sir. Wouldn't be, if it weren't for you. I have to say it. I owe you my life." The man, looking as dusty and shaken as Frank felt, shook his hand.
A real live hero. He was truly a real live hero. He tried to make himself presentable, running a hand through his hair. Then he tried to stand. But that was one step too far for the hero, who groaned, gritted his teeth and then fell back into the man's arms, remembering all too clearly why he had had to push the man out of the house. Papers. He was hurting on account of a pile of papers. He closed his eyes and wished they would all go away.