Storm in Paradise Valley

by Charles G. West

  No one knew how old Jason was, but if you were here when the town was born, you’d know that Jason Storm had ridden this part of Wyoming Territory for more than twenty-five years—and was the main reason this part of the territory was peaceful for the most part. He never seemed to age, looking the same year after year, riding a buckskin named Biscuit. Hank Brumby, who owned the Red Rooster Saloon, joked that Jason must have been sworn in when he was ten years old. Folks who had lived in town at least six years knew that Jason had once been married.

  Cheerful and gracious to a fault, Mary Ellen Storm had been a sharp contrast to her husband’s granitelike somberness. Dr. Shaw had said Mary had a weak heart and succumbed to a bout of pneumonia that most likely would not have killed her had she been stronger. Jason had retreated within himself to mourn her, but reported to work two days after her funeral to run Rafe Slater to ground. None had had the nerve to ask Jason why he had returned so soon after Mary was laid to rest. But if they had—and Jason had seen fit to answer—they probably would have been told that it was his job to arrest cold-blooded murderers such as Rafe Slater, even when it was necessary to follow him up into Montana Territory, where he held no jurisdiction. It was a comforting feeling for the people of Mission Valley to know that Jason Storm was on the job. Now, on this chilly day in early spring 1878, they would have been concerned had they known the thoughts lying heavy on Jason’s mind.

  Marshal Jim Masters glanced up from his desk to find Jason Storm standing in the doorway. Surprised, he greeted his best deputy warmly. “Jason! Come in, man. I didn’t expect to see you back this soon.” He leaned back in his chair. “Any luck runnin’ Slate Hatcher to ground?” He knew the answer before asking the question.

  Jason ambled into the office and eased himself into a chair. “I took Billy Tate’s body back home to his folks—just got back with Slate Hatcher’s body.” He dropped the canvas bank bag on the marshal’s desk. “There’s the bank’s money. I don’t know how much, or if it’s all there or not.”

  Masters nodded, then frowned. “Too bad about that boy Billy,” he said. “But, hell, he’s been bound and determined to get himself killed for quite a while. Hatcher shoulda been killed a long time ago. Ain’t nobody gonna miss him. You did a good job—did what you had to do. Why don’t you take a few days off and go huntin’ or fishin’? Everythin’ seems peaceful enough right now. The judge has a couple of subpoenas to serve, but one of the younger boys can do that.”

  “Well, that’s what I came to tell you,” Jason replied in his typical unemotional tone. “I’m takin’ off for good, Jim. I’ve had enough.” While Masters’ jaw dropped in disbelief, Jason slowly reached up and removed his badge, took one long look at it, then laid it on the desk.

  Drawing away from it as if it were a snake, Masters sputtered a reply. “You can’t be serious.” Jason Storm was the epitome of law enforcement in Wyoming Territory. Masters had assumed that the stoic lawman would always be the swift sword of justice that kept this part of the territory from becoming another badlands. “You just need to take a little vacation,” he went on. “I expect I’ve been ridin’ you a little too hard durin’ the last couple of months.”

  “No, that ain’t it,” Jason replied. “It’s just time to quit this business. Twenty-five years is long enough. I wanna quit while I’m still fit and I’ve still got time to move on to somethin’ besides sittin’ around some saloon talkin’ about the old days.”

  Masters pushed his chair back from the desk as if he needed more room to absorb the startling resignation, still hoping that Jason’s announcement was merely a spur-of-the-moment decision. Maybe the venerable deputy would change his mind after a few days’ vacation. “You’re a helluva ways from sittin’ around a saloon,” he commented. “Besides, all you know is the law. What do you figure to do? Farm? Hell, you don’t know nothin’ about farmin’.”

  Jason smiled. “I expect you’re right about that. I don’t know much about farmin’. I might raise a garden, but that’s about all. I’m thinkin’ more about raisin’ a few head of cattle and some horses, maybe—build me somethin’ a little more substantial than a one-room cabin. I’ve saved back a little money over the years, enough to get me started, and I’m thinkin’ about a little valley up Montana way I saw when I finally ran Rafe Slater to ground right after Mary died.” He continued to ignore the incredulous expression on Masters’ face as he related his plans. “Most of that land up there was open to whoever claimed it, so I reckon I’ll find out whether I’ve waited too long to do somethin’ about it.”

  The longer they talked, the more Masters realized there was no chance of changing Jason’s mind, so he resigned himself to losing the best deputy the territory had ever had. When Jason got up to leave, Masters rose and came around his desk to walk him to the door. A simple handshake was all Jason required to close this chapter of his life. Masters, however, was moved to say one final thing. “I don’t reckon I have to tell you that you’re welcome back anytime you change your mind.”

  “ ’Preciate it, Jim,” Jason replied and turned to leave.

  Masters stood in the doorway, gazing at the broad back of the man who looked to be in the prime of his life instead of like a man ready to retire. He remained there until Jason disappeared down the steps at the end of the hall. “Damn!” he swore, and returned to his desk, wondering how in hell he was going to replace Jason Storm. “Damn!” he repeated.

  Chapter 2

  It had been five years since he had crossed these grass-covered hills, but Jason remembered the cuts and valleys that had made tracking Rafe Slater a tedious job. The thought had struck him at the time that it was a country isolated enough to let a man escape the bother associated with a civilized world. It was a part of the country where he was not known, a fact that gave him a sense of peace. The thing that troubled him on this day, however, was the occasional sign of civilization that he now encountered every few miles as he followed the river north. Five years ago there were still Indians in many parts of this valley. Now they appeared to have been replaced by white settlers, judging by the cultivated plots he saw along the river. It was cause for conflicting thoughts. On the one hand, he wanted solitude. On the other, his practical sense told him that unless he planned to survive solely by hunting and trapping, he needed other folks for supplies as well as for seed stock for cattle.

  He continued along the valley floor, following the river north, leading one packhorse with all his earthly possessions, and growing more and more concerned by the frequency of fields and homesteads he passed. Finally, where the river took a sharp bend, he came upon a sawmill, and in a short distance he saw the town he had already surmised was bound to be there. Might as well see what’s what before moving on, he thought. Guiding Biscuit up from the riverbank, he struck a road that led into town.

  The town was built along one side of the river, the few buildings in a line, facing the river, with the road leading straight into town and out the other end. None of the structures were very old, some still under construction, which was not surprising since there had been no trace of the town when Jason last rode through the valley five years before. It must have popped up overnight like a crop of toadstools, Jason thought as he approached the first building. It appeared to be a saloon, the sign over which read simply, THOMPSON’S. Down three steps along a wooden walkway, there was another building. A roughly lettered sign nailed up over a pair of double doors proclaimed the establishment to be PARADISE GENERAL STORE. Between the general store and a livery stable, a blacksmith had set up shop. On the other side of the stable, a small combination barbershop and dentist office sat next door to the sheriff’s office. A wide alley separated the sheriff’s office from what looked to be the combination residence and office of a doctor.

  Not much of a town, Jason thought as he guided his horses toward the general store. I guess it’s about as good a start for one as any. He was surprised to see that it already boasted a sheriff, however. He guessed that position must be a part-ti
me job. The town hardly looked big enough to warrant paying a full-time lawman.

  Inside the store, he was greeted by the proprietor, a bone-thin middle-aged man who was busy dusting the merchandise on the amply filled shelves. “Afternoon,” Jason replied in response to his greeting. “I’m needin’ a few things if you got ’em.”

  “New in town?” Fred Hatfield asked.

  “Passin’ through,” Jason replied. He touched his hat brim politely when Lena Hatfield came from behind the counter. “Last time I was through this valley this town wasn’t here,” he said. “That was about five years ago.”

  “That was about one year before I built this store,” Hatfield said. “It didn’t take long for other folks to find this valley after the Injuns cleared out—good water, good grass, good land for crops.”

  “Yeah, I noticed a few homesteads on my way in from the south,” Jason said. “Maybe I’m a little too late. I had in mind to cut out a little piece of this valley for myself.”

  “Oh?” Hatfield replied, showing a little more interest in the stranger then. “Well, we’re always ready to welcome new folks into the valley, and there’s plenty of land that ain’t been settled north of the town. Mr. Pryor owns the whole valley and has options on most of the valley beyond this one, but he’s mighty reasonable to anybody that’s lookin’ to settle here.”

  “Have you got your family with you?” Lena asked hopefully.

  “No, ma’am. I’m all the family I’ve got.” Lena was visibly disappointed. From her expression, Jason guessed that she figured him for just another drifter passing through. “I’m figurin’ on findin’ a place where I can raise a few head of cattle and maybe enough of a garden to keep me from havin’ to live on nothin’ but meat.”

  His statement brought a smile to her face. “You might find what you’re lookin’ for up on the north end of the valley,” her husband interjected. “It’s pretty country, plenty of water and grass, but the lay of it is too hilly for most folks who want to cultivate farms. Might be just what you’re lookin’ for. Course it ain’t too convenient to town.”

  “That last part makes it more interestin’ to me,” Jason confessed. “I’ll go have a look up that way.” He did not hold out much hope for it, however.

  “Good,” Hatfield replied warmly. “Hope you find what you’re lookin’ for.” He glanced at his wife briefly before adding, “When you first came in, me and the missus figured you might be one of Pryor’s boys that we hadn’t seen yet.”

  “Who’s Pryor?” Jason asked.

  “Raymond Pryor is what you might call my business partner. He owns the saloon with Ben Thompson, and a piece of almost everybody else’s business, so he kinda runs the town. He’s helped almost every one of us get our businesses started up. He doesn’t try to tell you how to run your business. He ain’t interested in that, just wants the town to grow and be successful. Ben Thompson runs the saloon next door. Like me, he couldn’t make it without Mr. Pryor’s help. But Pryor’s more interested in cattle. He has a sizable crew that works his cattle ranch and takes care of anything else that needs fixin’ around town. If you’re plannin’ to ride up the valley, you’ll be passin’ through Pryor’s range. Might be a good idea to let him know what you’ve got on your mind. Chances are he’ll offer to help. He’s plannin’ on makin’ a real town outta Paradise and he’s glad to see new folks movin’ in.”

  “Much obliged,” Jason said. “Looks like maybe the right place to light.” Turning his attention back to the purpose of his visit to the store, he said, “I need a few things like coffee and flour, salt, and maybe some sugar.”

  “Yes, sir,” Hatfield said and hurried around behind the counter. Before he started scooping coffee beans onto the scale, he paused to extend his hand. “My name’s Fred Hatfield,” he said. He didn’t think to introduce Lena.

  “Jason Storm,” Jason replied, shaking Hatfield’s hand. He was mildly surprised that the store seemed well stocked. He said as much when the merchant weighed the beans. “It must be kinda hard gettin’ supplies this far off in the mountains.”

  “It would be, I reckon, if Mr. Pryor hadn’t made an arrangement with some folks over in Helena to freight in whatever we need.” He paused to stroke his chin, thinking. “Jason Storm,” he repeated. “Sounds familiar, but I can’t say why.” He gave it a few more moments’ thought, then turned his attention back to business.

  “Just a common name, I reckon,” Jason said.

  After taking leave of Fred and Lena Hatfield, Jason secured his purchases on his packhorse and hesitated a moment to consider the saloon next door. It’s been a while since I’ve had a drink of whiskey, he thought. After another moment, he decided he could afford to spend the money for one drink, so he led his horses over and tied them onto the rail in front of the saloon.

  There were no other patrons in the saloon when Jason walked in. The bartender, Gus Hopkins, was seated at one of the tables eating an early supper. “Howdy,” he called out as the doorway was suddenly filled with the imposing frame of the stranger. He squinted against the sunlight behind Jason in an effort to identify his customer and got to his feet and started toward the bar when he realized he didn’t know the man. “Just tryin’ to get a little supper et before the evenin’ crowd starts driftin’ in,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

  Jason couldn’t help but wonder where the crowd would come from. There didn’t seem to be more than two or three people on the street. Noticing the sign on the wall behind the bar that advertised the price of sour mash whiskey at two bits a shot, he replied, “I’ll have a shot of that sour mash.” He put his money on the bar and watched as Gus poured the shot glass full. Then he knocked it back and silently withstood the burn. “Damn,” he commented, “that sure as hell ain’t watered down. Where I come from, a shot of good whiskey is fifty cents. I expected it to cost more than that in a place this far from a city.”

  Gus grinned, pleased by Jason’s reaction. “You can thank Mr. Pryor for that,” he said. “He’s as fair a man as you’ll ever meet, and he’s set on attractin’ good folks to Paradise.”

  “Maybe I will if I ever run into him,” Jason said. “At two bits a shot, I reckon I can afford another one.”

  “Yes, sir,” Gus replied and filled the glass. “I don’t reckon you’d be a preacher by any chance, would you?”

  His face registering mild surprise at the question, Jason answered, “Hardly.”

  Gus’ grin grew wider. “Just thought I’d ask—Mr. Pryor’s set on gettin’ a preacher here. He figures buildin’ a church would bring in more settlers.”

  “I expect it might,” Jason replied. As he anticipated, Gus’ next question was the same one that Hatfield had asked, whether he was in town to stay or just passing through. Jason repeated his intentions.

  “Well,” Gus responded, “Fred’s right, there’s a lot of good grazin’ land on the other end of Mr. Pryor’s spread, better for horses and cattle than farmin’.” He offered his hand. “Gus Hopkins—welcome to Paradise.”

  “Jason Storm,” Jason replied.

  He left the saloon convinced that the fledgling town might in fact be properly named. It sure seemed that Mr. Raymond Pryor was intent upon making it so. “All well and good,” he confided to Biscuit, “but we still don’t wanna live too close to it.” The horse pushed on without comment.

  He didn’t have to ride far to see that what Hatfield had told him was true. There were no homesteads beyond about half a mile north of the town, and it was almost a half day farther, and close to dark, when he came upon a simple frame house sitting close by the river with a barn and what appeared to be a bunkhouse beyond. After hearing about Raymond Pryor in town, he had half expected to find a large gate with a fancy sign overhead announcing the entrance to a palatial ranch house. The modest Pryor home served to impress him with the man’s obvious values.

  Guiding Biscuit toward the house, Jason looked the ordinary structure over. There was no smoke from the chimney and the windows we
re dark except for a light in the kitchen. It appeared there was no one at home. The thought occurred to him that farther on there might still be the mansion he had expected and that he had been mistaken in his assumption. He nudged Biscuit with his heels and proceeded on to the bunkhouse, where there were signs aplenty that someone was home.

  As Jason stepped inside the noisy room, he found that he had arrived right at suppertime. There were seven men seated around a long table and a cook was serving up a hot meal. The loud conversation died away when the imposing stranger appeared in the door, and all eyes turned to Jason. “I’m lookin’ to find Mr. Pryor’s house,” he announced.

  A large man with no hair on his head save a sparse patch around the back and over his ears turned to look Jason over. “I expect you just passed it before you got here,” he said. “That is, if you came from town.”

  Since the man was seated at the head of the table, Jason decided he must be the foreman. “I’d be obliged if you could tell me where I might find Mr. Pryor.”

  “You found him,” the bald man replied.

  Jason nodded as if considering this for a moment before continuing. “Well, since I busted in just when you were eatin’ your supper, I reckon I can wait till you’re finished.” He started to turn to leave when the bald man stopped him.

  “Hell, I ain’t Mr. Pryor.” He nodded toward a thin little man with a shock of thick gray hair seated on his left. “He’s Mr. Pryor. I’m Curly Yates.”

  “You want to see me?” Pryor asked. “What about? Are you looking for a job?”

  “Nope. They told me in town that you owned most of the land in this valley and the next, so I reckon I’m just curious about what you’d sell a little bit of it for.”