Cover image for Logan's storm : a novel
Logan's storm : a novel
Wells, Ken.
Personal Author:
First edition.
Publication Information:
New York : Random House, [2002]

Physical Description:
288 pages ; 25 cm
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The capstone of Ken Wells's acclaimed Catahoula Bayou trilogy,Logan's Stormtracks the epic journey of Logan LaBauve as he flees corrupt cops while trying to lead Chilly Cox--the teenager whose "crime" was rescuing Logan's son, Meely, from a racist bully--to safety. But dodging two-footed predators deep in the Cajun backwaters turns out to be the easy part. As Logan, accompanied by a newfound love interest, heads to Florida to lie low, a killer hurricane springs from the Gulf--and lives are suddenly on the line. Wells writes with Twain's flair for adventure and Welty's sense of place, makingLogan's Storma trip through the heart and soul of a singular American character. From the Trade Paperback edition.

Author Notes

A Senior writer and features editor for page one of The Wall Street Journal. In 1982, he was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize for The Miami Herald. He lives with his family outside Manhattan.

(Bowker Author Biography)

Reviews 4

Booklist Review

Fans of the first two books in Wells' warm and funny Bayou trilogy will be pleased with his final book in the series. Set immediately after the events in Meely LaBauve (2000), it opens with Meely's father, Logan, on the run from the law with Chilly Cox, a black teenager who helped Logan rescue Meely from a bully and a corrupt sheriff. The pair flees the Louisiana swamps, heading for Tupelo, Mississippi, where Chilly has relatives. Along the way they meet Annie Ancelet, whom Logan is surprised to find himself strongly attracted to. Annie introduces Logan and Chilly to Harris, who offers to take them up to Tupelo in his truck. Logan decides that from Tupelo he'll go to Florida to work on an alligator farm, but before he gets there, he'll face thieves, a deadly storm, and his burgeoning feelings for Annie. When he finally sees Meely again, he admits to himself, "I've been runnin' from more than the law." Like Wells' previous novels, Logan's Storm is an affectionate and rewarding character study, filled with outrageous adventure and humor. --Kristine Huntley

Publisher's Weekly Review

Wall Street Journal writer and editor Wells (Meely LaBauve; Junior's Leg) takes his readers on a wild Southern roller-coaster ride in the final installment of his lighthearted Bayou trilogy, focusing on down-and-out widower Logan LaBauve as he tries to pull his life together despite some formidable opposition from law enforcement and the forces of nature. The former dominates LaBauve's maneuvers in the early going: he finds himself stuck in a swamp with his son Meely's friend, Chilly Cox, after an incident with the corrupt police in their Louisiana hamlet lands Meely in jail. Chilly and Logan escape, thanks to Catfish Annie Ancelet, who quickly becomes Logan's romantic interest for this installment. Annie helps Chilly line up a ride to return to his family in Tupelo, but when Logan tags along they get waylaid by two hitchhikers in an extended comedic sequence of cops-and-robbers. Wells shifts gears when Logan takes off for Florida with Annie to follow up on a job offer, but the lovers are stranded when a killer hurricane approaches. Wells is a pro when it comes to inserting plot twists and character foibles, although the romance seems prepackaged and overly gooey in the early going. The transition to the storm subplot is jarring, but Wells compensates with a strong, surprisingly affecting finish in which the stranded lovers try to rescue some local residents. Readers who have enjoyed the first two volumes will be sad to see this successful series come to an end, but Wells has done a fine job of whetting their appetites for his next literary adventure. Agents, Joe Regal and Timothy Seldes. (Sept. 10) Forecast: Wells who is on leave from the Wall Street Journal while he researches and writes a book about beer culture in America should have great stories to tell on the interview circuit and will surely charm readers on his five-city author tour through the South. (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

Library Journal Review

Set in Louisiana in the early 1960s, this novel takes up where Wells's fine first novel, Meely LeBauve, left off, recounting the adventures of Meely's alligator-hunting father, Logan, and friend Chilly after a run-in with the law has resulted in Logan's shooting up a police car. Escaping into the swamp, the pair brave the elements while avoiding pursuing law officers, making their way to the town of Pierre Point with the help of a friendly oil company employee. Here, Logan meets Annie Ancelet, an attractive widow who shares something of his swamp-rat ways. Through her contacts, the pair continue on to Chilly's family in Tupelo, MS. The smitten Logan soon returns to see Annie, who offers him a ride to Florida, where he will be safe working on an alligator farm. Along the way, however, they encounter the savage fury of Hurricane Belva. With a tale redolent of the bayou and conjuring the ghost of Mark Twain, Wall Street Journal writer Wells has concocted another winner. Recommended for public libraries.-Lawrence Rungren, Merrimack Valley Lib. Consortium, Andover, MA (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

School Library Journal Review

Adult/High School-Picking up the story from Junior's Leg (Random, 2001), Logan LaBauve narrates this set of adventures. He teams up with Chilly Cox, a young black man, and they set out to cross the Great Catahoula Swamp. The local police are after both men for helping Chilly's friend Meely, whom these same police officers had mistreated. The two make it across the Catahoula, incurring misadventures with various swamp critters, including some humans. They finally reach Mississippi, where Chilly finds a safe house with relatives. Logan meets Annie Ancelet, and they become lovers. They are bound for Florida and a gator-farming job for him when they are caught in Hurricane Belva. While the first sections of the book dwell on escape from the law, the last one features action as Annie and Logan battle for survival against the storm. Logan's fortitude provides the courage, endurance, and will to keep going, and Annie proves to be his mirror image. The author expertly describes the beauty and reality of the swamp and the storm, conjuring scenes worthy of the action accompanying them. Although the story can stand alone, it provides a satisfying end to the trilogy. Teens who enjoyed either of the previous novels will want to read this one.-Pam Johnson, Fairfax County Public Library, VA (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.



I see the snake slip out from behind a tangle of cypress knees and come side-windin' toward me, head arched up like a softshell turtle's, tongue tastin' the air. It's just my luck that he's a cottonmouth. They come out of winter full of poison and cranky as a drunk man's dog. He's a big boy, fat as a softball at the middle and close to six foot, which is about as big as they get around here. A spring moccasin that big could kill you quick, though not so quick you wouldn't know you was dyin'. Once again, I ain't in a good place, which might not surprise the people who know me. It's not enough that I'm runnin' from the law or that I've left my boy, Meely, with a broke leg on the roadside to deal with the police. I'm also neck-deep in water, my feet tangled in ooze and a thicket of sunk willow branches. Runnin's not an option. Swimmin' ain't either. Stuck up in a low-hangin' hackberry branch above me is a wasp nest, 'bout as big around as a bushel basket, covered in them big ole red swamp wasps. A man could count to a thousand, maybe two thousand, and not count 'em all, I figger. You don't wanna get them things after you. You tangle with 'em out here in a slow, open boat like this one, with no place to run, and you might as well shoot yourself with buckshot. At least with buckshot it'd be over quick. See, I had me a clever idea. Me and Chilly had been makin' pretty good time after we slipped off in the pirogue. Francis Hebert saw our wreck and promised to call the law and get help for Meely and them police that were busted up in that car that was chasin' us. Francis thinks us LaBauves are made for trouble, so that's about the one thing--callin' the law--he might be happy to do for me. I bet he done it cat quick. For Meely's sake, I hope he did. I ain't heard no boats or sireens but that don't mean they ain't comin'. So me and Chilly paddled away hard till we come upon the entrance of this slough we're in now. This cut is a secret to most people, the entrance covered by a thicket of swamp maple, gum, and scrub willow. Papa John Prosperie, a trapper I knew way back when, used to trap muskrats back in these waters, before them muskrats got trapped out and them nootras started to take over. He showed it to me one time maybe a dozen years ago. It zigs and zags in a diagonal clear through the heart of the Great Catahoula and I figgered if we could find it and push on through, we'd be hard to spot and save ourselves twenty, thirty miles to where I hope we're goin'. I've got a particular place in mind, though anywhere outta Catahoula Parish will do. We were doin' okay, maybe had put two or three hard miles behind us, when we come upon this wasp nest. The slough's narrow here and the swamp tangled as a blackberry thicket. That wasp nest ain't but about three foot off the water and wadn't no way around it, so I said Logan, just go under it. I got Chilly to lie down in the pirogue and I covered him up good with a coupla muddy, half-wet gunnysacks and said now, podnah, don't move till I tell you. Chilly said Mr. LaBauve, what died in these sacks? I said frogs, I guess. Crawfish, too. But that's the only cover I got. I shucked my huntin' vest and shirt and boots and socks and slipped out of the pirogue and into the water. It's as warm and black as tea and smells old as the world. My feet hit oozy bottom and big swamp gas bubbles rose up 'tween my toes. My boy, Meely, calls them ghost bubbles, and I can see why. I've took city people to the swamp and they've been spooked by them bubbles. Sometimes they just come boilin' up from the bottom for no reason. Well, sometimes there's a reason. Sometimes there's an ole alligator snappin' turtle down there, big as a wheelbarrow, sneakin' along the bottom, blowin' bubbles. Them things got the spiky shells of a dinosaur and could bite a man's arm off. You wouldn't wanna step on one barefooted. This slough ain't but four or five foot deep. My idea was to slip down with just my head above the water, like them gators do, and push the pirogue in front of me real slow till we cleared that nest. Wasps are mean but they ain't clever. It was a fine plan till that cottonmouth showed its wedgy head. I whisper to Chilly, I gotta stop for a second. You just keep holdin' still. He says you okay, Mr. LaBauve? I say I am but I cain't talk about it now. Just don't move, okay? He says don't worry, I ain't movin'. I wouldn't move for nuttin' in the world. That snake's about ten foot from me now and comin' on slow. I freeze and it's clear he don't see me. A moccasin generally won't attack 'less you step on him or corner him. A man who's still is invisible to a snake. I hold my breath and hope he'll go 'round the front of the pirogue. And not climb into the boat with poor Chilly. The cottonmouth slows and raises his head some and then stops, his tongue flickin' the air again. I don't like my position. I got a mosquito on my forehead and an itch in my ear and a crick in my neck and sweat runnin' down my nose. I'm steppin' on a branch that's diggin' hard into the bottom of my right foot, and I wonder how long I can stay still. But it's too late to retreat. The moccasin lifts his cussed head up higher then puts it down. Then he waggles that big tail of his and heads in my direction. That's when a frog comes kickin' right by me, about a foot in front of my eyes. He's a young marsh frog, about half the size of my hand. That snake sees the commotion and freezes. That frog slows down then stops, like maybe he senses somethin'. The frog just sits there. The snake just lays there. I'm wonderin' how I come up with this plan in the first place. I cain't just sit here forever. I suddenly got another plan. I reach down underwater with my right hand and then bring it up real slow and I poke that frog on the belly. He jumps high, trailin' water, right toward the snake. On his second jump, the cottonmouth practically lifts hisself out of the water and hits that frog in midair. Lightnin' don't strike quicker. The snake lands with a splash about three feet from me. Pretty soon we're eye to eye. I know why people think snakes belong to the devil. Them eyes are empty and dead to anything we feel. I try not to blink. He's got a mouthful of frog and I feel for that poor frog. His hind legs are stickin' out of the snake's mouth, shakin' like a man with palsy. I know what this snake wants to do--crawl up on a log someplace and enjoy its breakfast. It comes right at me, thinkin' maybe I'm the log he's lookin' for. He brushes up against my cheek and smells sour as the swamp. This won't do. I snatch at him hard and get him behind the head and I drag his big ole self down under the water and then I go with him. I got no choice, if I don't wanna be swattin' wasps too. He's thrashin' like a fire hose I once saw get loose. I wonder if I can hold on and I squeeze hard as I can and then I know I've made a bad mistake and grabbed him too low. I feel him turn and somethin' smashes at my wrist. I feel the hackles rise on my neck and wait for the burn. When it don't come I suddenly know he ain't got me--that his fangs are still buried in that poor frog. I come up quick with my other hand and grab higher, and by the way he whips and shudders I know I've got him right behind the head this time. I start to feel the fire in my lungs and I kick hard, swimmin' underwater, freein' up my left hand and searchin' desperate for the boat. When I feel wood, I bring the snake up and rap his head hard three times against the bottom of the pirogue. He goes limp, though he's still heavy as God. Poor Chilly. I can only imagine what he's thinkin'. I'm about to turn blue but I ain't forgot about them wasps. I ease myself along the bottom of the boat and come up slow as I can, my face toward the light. I hit the surface soft, but blowin' about like one of them whales I've seen at the movie show. I hear Chilly say Mr. LaBauve, what the hell is goin' on? What was that splashin' and thumpin' all about? I takes me a while to catch my breath. Chilly, I know, don't like snakes one bit. I say oh, nuttin' much, Chilly. I just had me a bit of a problem. I got tangled up in some vines down there is all. For the first time, I look at that snake. I've broke his neck good. I don't mind snakes much, actually, and usually give 'em plenty of room. I feel bad he didn't get to enjoy his frog breakfast--that was a doggone good catch. I hold that ole boy out far as I can from me and let him go. He sinks down into the tea-dark water and disappears. I reach underwater and wipe my snake hand against my britches and then scratch my cheek where that mosquito bit me. I say, soft, okay, hold on, Chilly. We're movin'. He says, quiet, too, I'm holdin' on. I duck under again and get to the back of the boat, then push the pirogue ahead. I slow-walk us past that wasp nest, my feet strokin' the muddy bottom easy as I can. I find a big fallen-over cypress log about twenty yards down the slough and pull myself up on it. I notice I've got a coupla nice-sized leeches on me, one on my arm, one on my belly, but I could be worse off. They don't hurt and I'm anxious to get goin'. When we stop for the night, I'll get 'em off with fire. I say we're okay, Chilly. We're through. Chilly rises from under the gunnysacks and looks back. He says I hope we've seen the last of them wasp nests. I say well, keep a look out. We don't wanna run into one by accident. I banged into one them things in a palmetto thicket and lost a good Catahoula Cur that day. Them wasps stung him till he swole up like a balloon. Mighta got me, too, had I not made the slough. He says are you serious, Mr. LaBauve? I say I'd actually like it better if you'd call me Logan. And, yes, I'm serious. Chilly says well, maybe we should go 'round this swamp stedda through it. I don't think it's a good idea for you to get in that water. All the money in the world wouldn't get me in that water. There's snakes in there. We've already seen two. Could be gators. Them big yellow and black swamp spiders are the size of hummin'birds, and for all I know them things can swim. Hell, maybe they fly. They give me the willies. Excerpted from Logan's Storm by Ken Wells All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.