Tilghman forded the creek a half mile south of the Stratton ranch. To save time he had cut cross-country, rather than taking the road. Yet his horse was laboring for breath, foamed with sweat from the long run. On the opposite bank, the horse lost its footing, then recovered as it reached the barren treeline. He slowed the gait to a steady trot.
When he rode into the compound, Tilghman was struck by the silence. There was no sound, no one in sight, simply an empty stillness that pervaded the clearing. Off to the far side, he saw that the barn had been torn from its foundation and scattered to the winds. But closer to the road, as though the funnel had zagged at the last instant, the house was relatively unscathed. Other than the windows being blown out, it appeared to be intact.
In the yard, Tilghman leaped from the saddle and hit the ground running. He left his horse wheezing for air as he sprinted across the yard and onto the porch. The front door was hanging open, the windows on either side of the house imploded in shards of glass. He stopped in the hallway, listening a moment, straining to catch any sound. The parlor was empty.
“Zoe!”
“Bill?”
Her voice came from the rear of the house. Tilghman hurried along the hall as she stepped through a door at the far end. Her face was smudged with dirt and tears, and the sleeve of her dress was ripped at the shoulder. She threw herself into his arms.
“Oh God, Bill!” she cried. “I’ve never been so happy to see anyone in my life.”
“Same here,” Tilghman said, holding her wrapped in his arms. “I was afraid you might’ve been hurt.”
“No, I’m fine,” she said. “I’ve been tending to Daddy. He was hit by flying glass.”
“How bad?”
“His arm and chest.”
She led him into the bedroom. Amos Stratton was bare-chested, stretched out on the bed still clothed in his work pants and boots. His right forearm was bandaged, and a blood-soaked compress was bound tightly across his chest. He managed a weak smile.
“Hello, Bill,” he said. “How’d you weather the storm?”
“Not a scratch,” Tilghman replied, halting at the foot of the bed. “How are you feeling?”
“Little woozy in the head.”
Zoe moved to his side. “We were in the house when the funnel went past. The windows blew out just as he came through the parlor.”
“How deep are the cuts?”
“His arm isn’t too bad. The cut on his chest is worse, but I got the bleeding stopped. I think he’ll be all right.”
“Damnedest thing,” Stratton said in a fuzzy voice. “That twister was headed for the house and then it spun away. Just blew the barn clean to hell.”
“Barns can be rebuilt,” Tilghman said. “Where were your horses?”
“Turned ’em loose when I saw it coming. I expect they pulled through.”
Stratton lay back on the pillow, suddenly weary. His eyes closed, and a moment later he drifted off to sleep. Zoe checked the compress on his chest, then turned from the bed. She led Tilghman into the hall.
“He’s worn out,” she said, walking toward the parlor. “More from worry about me and the horses than anything else.”
“I’m just glad you’re safe,” Tilghman said, putting his arm around her shoulders. “Things could’ve been a lot worse.”
“Where were you when the storm hit?”
“A mile or so out of Chandler.”
She saw his features darken. “What happened?”
“Looked like hell on earth.” Tilghman paused, shook his head. “Half the town’s gone. Blown down or burned down.”
“Good Lord,” she sighed. “It must have been terrible.”
“Yeah.” Tilghman had a sudden image of a man trapped beneath fiery rubble. “Hope I never see anything like it again.”
“There must be some way to help them. What can we do?”
“You know what I said about your pa’s barn?”
“When you told him it could be rebuilt?”
Tilghman nodded. “We’ll help them rebuild Chandler.”
CHAPTER 38
A week later Tilghman was summoned to Guthrie. The message, sent by express pouch on the stagecoach, ordered him to report to Nix’s office on September 20. There was no reason given, and the terse wording left him vaguely uneasy. He wondered what Nix was planning.
Tilghman was reluctant as well to leave Chandler. At the request of the mayor, he had assisted Sheriff Frank Gebke in restoring order to the town. The day after the tornado, special deputies had been sworn in and assigned to patrol the streets. Their primary responsibility was to maintain order in the midst of chaos.
The toll from the storm was worse than anyone had imagined. Fourteen people had been killed and more than eighty had suffered crippling injury. The Presbyterian church had been converted into a hospital, as well as a temporary morgue for the dead. Doctors from nearby towns volunteered their aid, along with donations of medicines and drugs. The dead were buried in services conducted by local ministers.
Aside from human loss, the damage to property was almost beyond reckoning. The downtown business district, for all practical purposes, was a total loss. Merchants salvaged what they could from the wreckage, and resumed business in hastily constructed board shanties. But there was no way to house the vast numbers whose homes had been destroyed by the tornado. Farmers and ranchers offered shelter to many families, and others built temporary shacks on their lots. Their personal effects were buried beneath the rubble.
Under the direction of Harry Gilstrap, editor of the Chandler News, a relief committee was formed. The other members of the committee were Will Schlegel, a storekeeper, and Tilghman, whose name was known throughout the territory. Within days, word went out requesting aid and hundreds of wagons began rolling into town from as far away as Guthrie and Oklahoma City. The raw essentials for survival were needed, and there was an outpouring of donations from other communities. The wagons were loaded with food provisions, bedding, and everyday clothing for the newly destitute of Chandler.
Three days after the storm, Zoe began
