The Five Dollar Mail (Book 1: The Green & Book 2: Lynch's Boys)

159: Thunderstruck

Cover painting by Angela Taratuta. Chapter artwork of Storm by Diego Candia. All graphics by me.

"Wash wasn't too...too happy about having to go out there, you know." Tommy was whirling the damp flour sack towel between his hands, twisting it into a rope. Storm could hear the winding up of the towel, hear the forced casualness in Tommy's voice. "Hitching up the coach now and...well...it's raining pretty hard."

Storm handed him a freshly washed plate without turning around, his other hand scrubbing the greasy black patina off the pan Wash had used to carbonize their supper. "Snap my ass with that towel and see what happens to you. I dare you."

"I wasn't." Tommy took the plate from him. Storm could hear him grinning around the words.

"Like hell you weren't."

Storm dodged, and the towel snapped loudly into the edge of the sink, missing him by a hair's breadth. "Dammit, Tommy!" Storm whirled around, tossing a handful of dishwater at the boy, spraying oily soap across the lenses of his glasses.

Tommy flinched away too late. "Aw!" he exclaimed, pulling off his spectacles and gritting his teeth. "I hate that!"

"I know." Storm smiled wickedly, turning back to sink. "Do it again and your whole head goes in."

They both jumped when the arrow whistled through the air and hit the open door, half-ajar out onto the porch, with a loud, dull "thunk."

Storm gasped, reflexively ducking and reaching for the pistol at his hip. Tommy yelped, throwing himself backwards against the sink next to him. "Is that...?" Tommy started, startled fear etched across his face. "That's an...that's a..."

"Very bad thing," Storm finished for him, cocking his weapon and easing towards the open door. Balls. Where's Wash? His mind was racing. Where is Wash? Oh, this is very, very bad. "Tommy. Are you armed?"

Tommy was nodding, his face serious as he cocked his pistol and hurried to the window, wildly scanning the yard. "Yes. Yeah. Wash told me don't g...go anywhere without..."

"Good." He stared at the arrow lodged in the door, still quivering slightly. Luis is in the house with Miss Burgess. Got to get to them. He took a deep breath. Fear started clawing its way up his throat and he swallowed it, calming himself. "Help me snuff the lamps so they can't see in." He quickly turned down the brass wheel that controlled the wick on the nearest lamp with his free hand.

"Help!" Someone was running across the yard towards the kitchen, calling out in a raspy voice. "Don't shoot me, brothers!"

That's not Wash. Storm put out a hand on Tommy's arm, his own hand tightening on his pistol grip. A dark shadow stumbled into the open doorway, breathing hard and gripping the doorframe for support with gloved hands. Rain rolled off the man's battered hat, rolling off his broad shoulders in gleaming rivers.