It was not a long wait. They had barely enough time to dismount and make themselves comfortable on the side of the low ridge when the distinct sound of a whip-poor-will drifted across the slope. “It does sound like a whip-poor-will a little bit, don’t it?” Doc commented.
Junior came out to meet them as they rode up behind the trees. “The gray-headed feller, he came outta the saloon and went into that store next door. Wasn’t in there five minutes when he come out again and headed north outta town.”
“All right,” Mace said to Junior, “get on your horse and keep on his tail. And, dammit, make sure he don’t see you. We’ll circle around these hills and come on behind you as soon as we get clear of town. I don’t want nobody to see us following him.”
Chapter 4
“If this jasper’s as rich as they say, his ranch sure don’t look like it,” Junior reported when Mace and the others caught up to him. “All I could see was a plain little ol’ house with a barn and a bunkhouse on the other side.”
The news surprised Mace somewhat but failed to alter his notions concerning Raymond Pryor’s wealth. “Maybe he ain’t the kind to show his hand,” he said. “How many men did you see around the place?”
“Only saw a couple down near the barn, but I expect there’s more than that if they’re workin’ a cattle spread.”
“This time of year most of his men oughta be out ridin’ the range,” Bob Dawson said. “Hell, it’s gettin’ well into summer. Spring brandin’s most likely already done.”
“Where the hell is he gonna drive cattle to market around here?” Mace demanded.
“I don’t know,” Dawson replied. “But there’s a big outfit up toward Deer Lodge that breeds ’em there and moves ’em to free range on the other side of the divide. It’d be my guess that Pryor maybe runs his in with somebody like that bigger outfit, and then ships ’em to the Union Stock Yards in Chicago.”
Mace nodded thoughtfully. Of all his men, Dawson was the one who knew the most about raising cattle. He had rustled a few in his time before they went to war. “All right,” he said, “let’s us go pay ol’ Pryor a little visit and see what’s what.”
Raymond Pryor looked up from his desk. Gazing out the window, he paused to puzzle over the group of riders crossing the stream, apparently headed toward the house. Unable to identify any of them at first, he then recognized the dark, moody stranger who had approached him in the saloon—Mace somebody. He couldn’t recall the name. “Damn,” he cursed softly, for he could think of no business he wished to discuss with the likes of that man and his crew. He remained seated at his desk, knowing that he was not likely to be spared the meeting. In a few minutes, Juanita tapped at his door.
“Señor Pryor, some men are coming toward the house.”
“I know, Juanita,” Pryor replied with a labored sigh. “I saw them.”
“Do you want me to make some coffee?” Juanita asked.
“No. Hell, no,” Pryor quickly replied. “I don’t want them in the house. They won’t be here long.”
When he walked out the front door, it was to find Mace and his five companions dismounted and already lolling about on the porch. The man who had approached him in the saloon and two others were making themselves comfortable in the three available rocking chairs. The remaining three were plopped down on the porch floor, their backs against the wall as if settling in for a visit.
“Is there something I can do for you, Mr. . . .”
“Cantrell.” Mace reminded him. “Mace Cantrell. I expect if you had been anywhere near the fightin’ in Missouri and Kansas durin’ the war, you’da heard of me, all right.”
“You’da heard, all right,” Doc echoed.
Pryor paused to cast a disparaging glance in Doc’s direction before responding impatiently. “Well, Mr. Cantrell, what is it you wanted?”
“What you got,” Mace replied and laughed as if joking. Doc and Lacey chuckled with him. Ignoring Pryor’s question, Mace went on. “How many men you got workin’ this spread for you?”
“Enough to get the work done,” Pryor answered, “so if you’re looking for work, I’m not hiring right now.”
“Now, I don’t see no cause for you to get your back up like that,” Mace said, his dark eyes squinting narrowly. “I don’t work for nobody. I replace people—your crew, for instance.”
Convinced now that he was having a conversation with an insane man, Pryor sought to end it abruptly. “Well, if there’s nothing else, I’m kinda busy right now. Like I said, I don’t need any more men.”
Continuing to ignore Pryor’s attempts to end the conversation, Mace went on. “You’re lucky me and my men came through this way. Why, we can run this place so’s you won’t even have to hit a lick. You may have some ranch hands that know how to wet-nurse a calf, anybody can do that, but we’ll handle any trouble that comes this way, Injuns, rustlers, anythin’, and take care of the cattle, too. Bob there will see to that.”
Pryor was flabbergasted, unable to believe the brass of the man. “Mister,” he said, “my business with you is over. Now, I’ll ask you to kindly get on your horses and get the hell off of my land.” It struck him at that moment that the situation was becoming more sinister than he had realized. These men weren’t looking for employment. They had something else in mind. Nevertheless, he was determined to maintain a bold front even as he met the dead cold gaze of the smiling Mace Cantrell. Curly and Grady were down at the barn. He hoped they would notice the men on his front porch, but he knew the house was a little too far from the barn for that to happen. He jerked his head slightly to one side when he heard Zeke Cheney get up from the floor and walk over to the door.
“Who’s in the house?” Zeke asked, peering inside the door.
“That’s no concern of yours,” Pryor snapped. “Now I’ve asked you politely to get off my land. I don’t want to have to call my men from the barn to escort you off.”
Mace’s smile spread farther across his face. He knew Pryor was bluffing. “Hell, call ’em. Me and the boys would enjoy meetin’ ’em. Wouldn’t we, boys?” He grinned again at the response from his men.
Curly was too far away to realize the danger his boss was in, but there was one who soon became aware of the situation. Standing near the window in the front room, Juanita heard the brazen confrontation going on outside on the porch. After listening for a few minutes, she hurried to the kitchen and out the back door to summon her husband from the garden.
Emilio, upon hearing Juanita’s concern for her boss, knew that he must act to come to the aid of Pryor, but he was not quite sure what he could do against six men. He had to decide between running to the barn to get Curly or getting the shotgun from the kitchen and sneaking around the side of the house. He was afraid he would not have time to go to the barn, so he chose to back up his boss with the shotgun. He dropped his hoe and ran to the kitchen. “Go in our room and lock the door,” he told his wife when he returned with the double-barreled shotgun. He waited until she disappeared inside before he began easing along the side of the house toward the front porch, hoping that the men would leave before he reached the front porch, sparing him the need to take action.
Back on the porch, Mace figured he had amused himself long enough with the mind games. It was time to get down to business. “Look here, Pryor,” he suddenly blurted. “I been hearin’ a lot about how much money you’ve got hid out somewhere. Word has it that you bankrolled the whole damn town. And from the looks of this little piece of shit house you’re livin’ in, I figure you sure as hell ain’t spent none of that money on it. Me and my men need that money more than you do. So things’ll go a helluva lot smoother if you just show us where the money is hid. If you behave yourself, I might even let you keep some of it.”
“So we’re finally getting down to it, are we?” Pryor said. “You’re nothing but a gang of thieves and you’ve got some crazy idea that I’ve got a lot of money hidden around here. If you had half a cup of brains you’d know that any sum of money I h
ad would be in the bank in Helena. That is, if I had any left after backing the saloon and the general store. You’re just out of luck, Mr. Cantrell. My advice to you is to ride on out of here before I call my men.”
“You’ve got a bad mouth on you, mister,” Mace came back, his smile gone. “You think I’m dumb enough to believe that? Helena’s a helluva long way from here and I expect you’ve got payroll to meet every month.” He didn’t like being dressed down by anyone and Pryor was clearly playing him for a fool. “We coulda done this the easy way, but I got time to do it the hard way. I want whatever money you’ve got in this house, so you might as well come up with it. Lacey, here, is gonna shoot off one of your fingers every time I ask you where it is and you don’t tell me. When you run outta fingers, we’ll start on your toes.”
Sufficiently terrified, Pryor took a step back toward the door, only to feel Zeke’s hand on his shoulder. “I swear,” Pryor choked, “there’s no money here but about fifty dollars. I’d be a fool to keep any large sums out here.”
“Mister,” Mace growled, “you’re tryin’ my patience. If I don’t get what I’m after pretty soon, you’re gonna find yourself in a heap of pain.”
Thoroughly enjoying the harassment of Raymond Pryor, Doc glanced toward the corner of the house and a shadow caught his eye. Curious, he turned his attention toward the edge of the porch, easing his .44 out of the holster. As he watched, the shadow moved even farther beyond the corner. The others were so engrossed in tormenting the trembling ranch owner that they didn’t notice when Doc slowly raised his pistol and aimed it at the corner of the porch.
With his heart beating so rapidly that he could barely make himself move, Emilio paused at the corner of the house to listen. What he heard was gravely disheartening—his boss was being threatened with torture. Knowing he must act, he held the shotgun up before him and eased around the corner. The barrels of the shotgun were still pointing up to the sky when Doc’s slug slammed into his chest. The open-mouthed look of surprise on Emilio’s face as he sat down hard on the bare ground caused Doc to chuckle smugly. The others, however, startled by the sudden gunshot, scrambled to take defensive stances, searching frantically for the source of the attack and causing Doc to chuckle even more. “Look out, boys!” he bellowed. “You’re gonna get shot!”
With all guns out of the holsters now, the outlaws moved quickly to make sure there was no one else behind the house. “He’s dead,” Zeke Cheney confirmed as he stepped around Emilio’s body. Throwing Doc a sidelong glance, he added, “Damn you, Doc, you coulda give a little warnin’.” His comment caused Doc to grin again, pleased by the reaction.
Mace was not amused by his brother’s quick action, for now a warning had been sounded to alert any of Pryor’s men who might be within earshot. “Dammit, Doc, we might notta had to shoot him yet. He mighta helped us turn up the money.” He motioned to Doc. “It’s Katy bar the door now. You and Junior get on the other side of the porch and keep your eyes peeled on that barn.” Grabbing Pryor by the collar, he demanded, “Who else is in the house?”
Struck dumb by the senseless murder of his hired hand, Pryor could not answer. “Emilio,” was all he could muster, his voice barely above a whisper, as he stared at the lifeless body lying in the dirt. Pryor’s helpless stupor was nothing new to Mace. He had seen it before on countless other raids upon innocent civilians—people just not accustomed to the violence his gang dealt in. Pryor was in shock. The ordinary thin gray man was suddenly rendered fragile and dazed. Mace spun him around and shoved him through the doorway of the house. “Let’s see if we can help this poor feller’s memory,” he said. “We might have a fight on our hands sooner’n we expected. Bob, keep your eyes open. There’s somebody down at that barn or in the bunkhouse, and right about now they’re makin’ up their minds what they’re gonna do.” He prodded Pryor between his shoulder blades and followed him into a hallway that ran the length of the house.
With one hand holding his prisoner by the collar, he looked at the room on the left. Seeing that it was nothing more than a parlor, he tried the room opposite it, which turned out to be Pryor’s office. “Now we’re gettin’ somewhere,” he said, gloating when he spied a small safe next to the desk. Giving Pryor a hard shove, he ordered, “Open that damn safe.”
Pryor fell to his knees before the safe, the result of another violent shove from Mace. Without hesitation, he dialed the lock and opened the safe. Too impatient to wait, Mace grabbed the back of Pryor’s collar again and spun him out of the way, eager to discover the contents himself. Still dazed, Pryor sank back against the wall next to his desk, staring at the monster in his house while Mace scattered documents of various business dealings around in his search for treasure. “Where is it?” he demanded as his frustration mounted. Then he spied a metal box under some notebooks and knew that was what he was searching for.
Pryor slowly regained his senses while Mace fumbled with the catch on the metal box. He realized then that the outlaw’s complete attention was on the cash box. He would not get another chance to act. With fingers trembling, he reached up and eased his desk drawer open and reached inside. The cold, hard feel of the revolver under his hand gave him the courage he needed.
A slight motion by the desk was enough to cause Mace to glance in that direction. He immediately dropped the cash box when he confronted the ugly barrel of the pistol aimed directly at him. At that moment he knew he was a dead man. There was no time to go for his gun. Frozen in death’s doorway, he could only wait for the fatal shot. At that instant, the explosion of the .44 shook him to his soul, but there was no pain. Instead, a round black hole suddenly appeared in Pryor’s forehead, and the frightened little man slid slowly over, then came to rest against the end of his desk.
“I believe he’da shot you,” Bob Dawson drawled and slid his pistol back in the holster.
Shaken by the near-death encounter and furious for having been caught off guard by the insignificant little rancher, Mace reacted by drawing his .44 and slamming three more shots into Pryor’s body. “Damn you, you sneaky little son of a bitch,” he roared.
Dawson was only half successful in holding back an amused smile, but he knew better than to push it. “Find anything?” he asked as he glanced at the clutter Mace had left on the floor.
“Who’s watchin’ that barn?” Mace said in lieu of an answer.
“That’s what I came in to tell you,” Dawson said. “There ain’t nobody showed their nose outta that barn yet. Whaddaya wanna do?”
His nerves under control once more, Mace considered what Bob had just said. Nodding his head to confirm it, he said, “That means there ain’t but one or two men down there. If there was more of ’em, they’d be chargin’ up here to see what the shootin’ was about.” Tired of worrying over the catch on the cash box, he took his pistol by the barrel and hammered away at the stubborn catch until it had no choice but to break off. Turning the box upside down to empty the contents on the desk, he was immediately disappointed to discover only a modest stack of paper money, a few gold coins, and a pocket watch. Snatching up the money, he hurriedly counted it out, hoping the small pile of bills was of large denomination. It was not. Pryor had not lied. “Forty-eight damn dollars,” he remarked in disgust, and turned to aim a scalding sneer in Pryor’s direction as if the pitiable little corpse had cheated him.
Equally disappointed, Bob echoed his disgust. “Forty-eight dollars? Is that all there is there?”
Mace didn’t answer him at once, pausing to think over this unexpected setback. “We’ll tear this damn place apart. He’s bound to have more money than that hid out somewhere—maybe in the barn.” Bob was about to offer his opinion that he doubted the man would hide any money where he couldn’t keep an eye on it, but he was interrupted by a call from Junior on the porch.
“Mace, we got company a’comin’.”
They hurried out to the porch, where Junior and Zeke were waiting. “Three of ’em,” Zeke said, pointing toward the barn. Three men
on foot were heading their way.
“Me and Bob and Doc will set here on the porch and wait for ’em,” Mace said. “You three go on around the back of the house.”
Curly Yates walked a couple of paces in front of the other two men as he strode fearlessly toward his boss’ house. Following, although with little enthusiasm, Grady and Otis tended to walk in the shadow of the big foreman. Grady had seen the six strangers ride in earlier, and reported it to Curly. It had aroused his curiosity but had been no cause for alarm—that is, not until the gunshots were heard. In the time that Curly had worked for Raymond Pryor, there had never been trouble of man’s making in the peaceful valley, but he had a bad feeling about the six horsemen that had suddenly appeared at the house. He wished now that he had not sent Sam and Boyd to help Hank and Slim drive strays out of the bottoms by the river. The job could have been done by two men. He shook his head and sighed. The only reason he sent them was to keep them from sitting around on their tails for half a day. If there was trouble up at the house—and it sure as hell looked that way—any one of the other four men would have been better for the job. Otis, the cook, never claimed to have any skill with a gun. Grady was willing, but slight in build, with a few gray hairs filling in at the temples. He was a good cowhand, but little more. They’ll have to do, Curly thought, still allowing for the possibility that there was no trouble. After all, Mr. Pryor had not called out, or sent Emilio to fetch him.
When Curly arrived at the porch steps, it was to be confronted with the silent smirks of only three of the six strangers. He didn’t like the feeling. He felt there was a sinister joke being played out and it was to be at his expense. At this point, he still had no idea whether or not the six riders were there to conduct some legitimate business with Raymond Pryor. No one seemed to feel the necessity to explain the purpose of their visit. All three simply continued to smile contemptuously, enjoying the joke that he was not privy to.
Storm in Paradise Valley Page 5