Storm in Paradise Valley

by Charles G. West

  “I heard gunshots. Where’s Mr. Pryor?” Curly finally asked.

  “Are you the foreman?” Mace answered with a question.

  “Yeah,” Curly answered. “I’m the foreman. Where’s Mr. Pryor?”

  Mace and Doc exchanged amused glances before Mace answered. “He’s in the house,” he said, “in his office, I think.” He glanced again at Doc for confirmation.

  “That’s right,” Doc said with a chuckle, “he’s in his office.”

  “What was the shootin’ about?” Curly asked.

  “Nothin’ much,” Mace replied.

  “Well, I’d best go in to see Mr. Pryor,” Curly said, unable to think of anything better to say and aware now that his boss was in trouble and so was he. With no idea what he was going to do about it, he prayed that he could somehow bluff his way through. He had foolishly walked right into an ambush; that had been unthinkable in his mind, in broad daylight, but the problem facing him now was how to get out of it. At least he figured he’d have a better chance to find some form of cover inside if there was going to be shooting. “Grady, you and Otis might as well go on back to the barn,” he said in as casual a voice as his nerves could manage. His remark inspired a wider smile on Mace’s face, as if the outlaw could read his every thought.

  “Sure,” Mace said cheerfully, “you boys go on around back. We’ll go in to see Mr. Pryor with ol’ biggun’, here.”

  With his hand resting on the handle of his pistol, Curly paused on the top step before starting for the door. “If you don’t mind, I’d best go talk to Mr. Pryor by myself,” he said, “and you men wait out here.” He was met with the same annoying satanic smile that seemed to be a permanent fixture on Mace Cantrell’s face. Since Cantrell offered no vocal objection, he stepped up onto the porch. From the level of the porch floor, he caught sight of Emilio’s arm on the ground at the corner of the house. There was no doubt about what was going on now. Knowing his life was on the line, he spun around toward the two men behind him and reached for his .44. It was halfway out of the holster when two slugs from Mace’s pistol ripped into his back. Effectively finished, he still made a painful effort to clear the weapon from its holster, only to go down under a barrage of pistol fire from Doc and Bob.

  Stunned beyond reasonable thought, both Grady and Otis bolted, running for their lives for the corner of the house. None of the three outlaws seemed concerned about their flight, and within seconds of their disappearance from sight, the battery of gunfire near the rear of the house told them that Otis and Grady hadn’t gotten very far.

  “He’s a heavy son of a bitch,” Doc remarked as he dragged Curly’s body away from the door.

  Mace paused before entering the house and turned to face his brother. “Send Bob and Lacey down there to make sure there ain’t nobody else hidin’ out in the barn or the bunkhouse. The rest of us will tear this damn place apart. He’s got some more money hid around here somewhere.” He paused again as he thought about it further, then amended his orders. “I don’t wanna be surprised by none of the rest of his crew showin’ up suddenly. Send Junior and Zeke out as lookouts, ’bout a quarter of a mile, one of ’em north and the other’n south. We wanna be ready for ’em when they come in this evenin’.” He went inside then, leaving Doc to issue his orders.

  Glancing briefly at the corpse slumped against the big oak desk, Mace nodded his head in satisfaction. It was like old times when he was riding with Quantrill and Bloody Bill. The blood spilled this day had served to make him feel whole again. The past few years had been hard on his sense of power as well as his ego—on the run for much of the time, chased by lawmen and deputies. But now, he felt like he was back on top. There may or may not be a large sum of money hidden somewhere on this ranch, but there was a defenseless town waiting to be plundered whenever it suited him to move against it. Once he and his men had taken care of the remainder of Pryor’s crew, he could take his time to gut the place before attacking the good people of Paradise.

  While his brother overturned furniture and kicked the walls looking for hidden pockets, Doc worked his way down the hallway searching for likely hiding spots. Finding the kitchen, he paused to pick up a biscuit from a plate on the table. “Mmm,” he murmured after taking a bite, and looked at the coffeepot on the edge of the stove. He was reaching for the pot when it occurred to him that somebody other than Pryor was most likely doing the cooking. His hand dropped quickly to rest on his pistol. The fellow sneaking around the side of the house with the shotgun, he thought. Maybe he was the cook. Maybe not. Might be somebody else hiding out in the house. A bit more cautious now, he walked through the kitchen toward the back door. Just shy of the back door, he noticed another door, which he at first assumed was the pantry, but then realized that the pantry was on the other side of the kitchen with the door open.

  A wide grin spread slowly across his face as he eased up to the closed door and cautiously tried the door knob. It was locked. He took a step back from the door and braced himself. A sizable man, Doc had little trouble kicking the door open, and as soon as the splintered door swung wide on its hinges, he ducked away from the open doorway. As he had anticipated, a blast from a shotgun whistled past his ears as buckshot peppered the kitchen wall on the other side of the room. He dropped to one knee and, with his pistol ready to fire, made a sudden lunge through the doorway, but checked himself just before pulling the trigger.

  The sight that met his eyes almost made him chuckle. A terrified Mexican woman was huddled against the far wall of the room, frantically trying to load another shell into the open breech of a single-barreled shotgun. Frightened beyond her wits, Juanita could not make her trembling fingers hold the shell still enough to reload the gun. Doc crossed the room in three quick strides and snatched the weapon from the woman’s hands. As gleeful as if he had discovered hidden treasure, he stepped back to evaluate his find. Glancing quickly around the room, he easily surmised that it was the living quarters of the woman and the dead man lying at the front corner of the house.

  A dozen or more years past the bloom of youth, Juanita was still far from looking matronly, an asset that would be to her detriment in this unfortunate instance. Still horrified by the gunfire and frightening noises outside the room, knowing that Emilio must surely be dead, she was rendered helpless before the leering monster standing over her. Sobbing violently, she tried to hide her face in her hands as she pressed herself into a ball against the wall.

  “Well, well, well.” Doc finally spoke. “Ain’t this a pretty little sight? Let’s have a look atcha, honey.” Hearing his brother behind him now, he said, “Look here what I found, Mace, a little ol’ mouse hidin’ in the corner.” He reached down and grabbed the terrified woman by her wrists. In one swift motion, he picked her up and stood her against the wall, then forced her hands away from her face while he leered at her.

  “Get rid of her,” Mace ordered stoically.

  “Ah, Mace,” Doc pleaded, “can’t I keep her? Hell, I found her.”

  More pragmatic than lustful, Mace was in no mood for dallying with a woman. “She’ll be more trouble than she’s worth,” he said. “When we’re done with this place, I don’t want to leave a living soul.”

  “She could do some cookin’ for us,” Doc said, “and I’d keep an eye on her.”

  That thought caused Mace to pause for just a moment before repeating his orders to his brother. “Get rid of her.”

  Doc was just about to plead for at least a few minutes with Juanita to answer lustful urges that seldom saw an opportunity for satisfaction. Before he could speak, however, they were joined by Bob Dawson and Lacey, who walked in the kitchen door. “I heard a shotgun go off,” Dawson said.

  “It wasn’t nothin’,” Mace said. “What did you find down there?”

  “There ain’t nobody down at the barn or the bunkhouse,” Lacey reported.

  “There’s seven bunks being used down there, so there’s four more out there somewhere,” Bob added. Glancing through the doorway
then, he and Lacey caught sight of Doc and his prize at the same time. “Well, lookee here,” Bob blurted gleefully, and pushed past Lacey in an effort to get to her first. “What you got there, Doc?”

  “You might as well back off,” Doc warned. “She’s mine. I found her, and I damn near got shot gittin’ her, but I got her, so you boys can just step back while me and the little lady go into the other room.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Lacey shot back and caught Juanita by the arm. “Ain’t none of us got any more rights than the rest of us. Besides”—he grinned—“you don’t know what to do with a woman like that, anyway.”

  “I say we draw straws to see who gets her first,” Bob said. “If we’re quick about it, we can all take a turn before Junior and Zeke find out about her.”

  “I ain’t said nothin’ about sharin’,” Doc stated emphatically, “and she belongs to me.”

  “Horseshit,” Lacey spat, and almost pulled the frightened woman out of Doc’s grasp. “I just might take my turn right now.”

  “The hell you say,” Doc responded and drew his six-gun.

  “Hold it!” Mace roared, fed up with the brainless lust. He stepped in front of Lacey and calmly drew his gun. With unhurried deliberation, he raised the pistol and put a bullet into Juanita’s forehead. The tormented woman slumped and slid down the wall before falling over dead on the floor, the prayer she had so desperately asked for having been answered by a .44 bullet.

  “I reckon that settles that,” Bob Dawson grunted. “Does seem a waste, though.” Doc and Lacey stood in silent shock for a few moments before either could speak.

  Doc found his voice first. “Damn, Mace, what did you have to go and do that for?”

  “Because we ain’t got time for you jackasses to fight like a pack of coyotes over one old Mexican woman,” he answered while he replaced the spent cartridge. “We’ve got four ranch hands that might be ridin’ in at any minute. I wanna be ready for ’em when they show up—take care of ’em short and sweet.”

  The disappointment in his brother’s eyes caused Mace to offer a word of consolation. “There’s bound to be more women in that little town. Maybe you can find you a younger one. That’d be all right, wouldn’t it? But first let’s get set up for them other four.”

  Chapter 5

  “I was wonderin’ if anybody was gonna show up to drive these cows back toward home,” Jason Storm called out cheerfully to the four riders who had just descended the east ridge. He nudged Biscuit forward to meet them.

  “Hello, Jason,” Sam Bradford returned the greeting and pulled up a few yards short. His three companions were right behind. After they had exchanged greetings with Jason, Sam said, “Curly sent us over to clear them outta this river bottom before you decided to drive ’em over to your place.”

  Jason laughed at the joke and replied, “Well, you’re just in time. I was fixin’ to do just that.” They spent a few minutes passing the time of day, since Jason hadn’t seen much of Pryor’s men since he’d gotten his place built.

  “We was talkin’ about you the other night,” Boyd Nixon said. “We hadn’t seen hide nor hair of you in weeks. We was wonderin’ if you’d decided to head out for parts unknown.”

  Jason laughed. “I reckon I’ve just been busy tryin’ to keep my little spread goin’. You know I’m pretty new at this cattle-raisin’ business.” The truth of the matter, which Curly and the boys had already figured out, was that Jason had come to the valley seeking solitude, and he preferred to keep to himself. Like the others, Boyd figured Jason Storm was riding away from a past. Good or bad, he wasn’t sure, and it didn’t matter as far as he was concerned. Raymond Pryor had decided the quiet stranger earned the right to make his way in this wilderness, same as anybody else. And Raymond Pryor was a pretty damn good judge of men.

  “I reckon we’d best round up these strays,” Sam said, “if we’re plannin’ to get back by dark.”

  “That’s a fact.” Slim piped up. “We get back too late and Otis is liable to throw the chuck to the hogs.”

  “I’ll give you a hand,” Jason offered, “ride with you as far as Blind Woman Creek.”

  “Much obliged,” Sam said.

  With five men to do the job, it didn’t take long to get the forty-odd cattle moving. They were soon headed south toward the high ridge that separated Blind Woman Creek from the river. When they reached the creek, Jason said good-bye and followed it up toward the mountains. He glanced back at the four men driving the cattle around the northern end of the ridge. They were good men—all Pryor’s crew were good men, and almost every one of them had lent a hand while Jason was building his cabin and barn. He felt a little guilty for not being more neighborly, but he was certain they knew how much he appreciated the help they had been. Maybe I ought to ride over and pay them a visit, he thought. “Maybe we’ll do that in the next day or two,” he said to Biscuit as he nudged the gelding into a gentle lope.

  The execution of Raymond Pryor’s last four crew members came off as easily as Mace Cantrell had envisioned. After the strays were deposited on the south range with the main herd, the four men rode to the barn to unsaddle. Waiting for them, on both sides of the barn, the six bushwhackers opened fire, cutting the four drovers down like stalks of wheat. The massacre was completed so quickly that there was not one return shot fired. Strutting like giant-killers, Cantrell’s ruthless men moved among the bodies, making sure there were no survivors.

  “Well, boys,” Mace crowed, “looks like we got us a ranch. This little battle is all over.” He stood watching while the men stripped the bodies of anything of value. Inhaling deeply, intoxicated by the smell of gun smoke, he took a moment to relive the glory of his war years. There was no denying—something he had always known, but never openly acknowledged—it was the slaughter that drove him. The spoils of robbery were satisfying, and necessary for survival, but the killing of men created the power that one man had above all others. At this moment Mace could feel that power. He could do anything he wanted to do and no one could stop him.

  “Whaddaya reckon we oughta do with these bodies?” Doc asked, breaking into Mace’s reverie.

  “Drag ’em into the barn,” Mace replied. “After we’ve finished tearing this place apart, we’ll burn it to the ground.” The other bodies had already been stacked inside Raymond Pryor’s front room. He gave his brother a smile then and said, “We’ll sleep in that bunkhouse tonight. Zeke and Bob can cook up whatever they find in the kitchen. We might as well enjoy ourselves before we ride into town. I’m thinkin’ we might as well take a day or two to make sure there ain’t no money hid around here, and then we’ll march on the town of Paradise.”

  “There’s a helluva lot of cattle scattered around this spread,” Doc said. “Worth a lotta money.”

  Mace fixed his brother with an impatient look. “Well, whaddaya wanna do about it? You wanna go into raisin’ cattle now? I sure as hell don’t plan on lookin’ after no damn cows.”

  “I was just sayin’,” Doc replied sheepishly. He silently scolded himself for seeming to always make stupid statements.

  Young Tom Austin propped his pitchfork in the corner of the back stall he had been working in when he heard horses approaching the front of the stables. By the sound, he determined it was more than a few horses, which aroused his curiosity. He could not help but feel a sense of concern when he got to the stable doors and recognized the group of riders pulling up in front. It was the same sorry-looking bunch that had ridden through town before, and this time each of the six men led a packhorse. “Can I help you fellers?” Tom asked.

  “Yeah,” a leering Mace Cantrell replied as he stepped down from the saddle. “You can take the packs off of these horses and give ’em some grain. We’ll be back later and you can take care of the ones we’re ridin’ then.” He continued to fix the young man with a studied sneer. “Ain’t you the deputy sheriff? Seems like somebody told me you was.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tom replied. “I’m the deputy in my spare ti
me.”

  “In your spare time,” Mace repeated and smiled as if it were a joke. “Where’s the sheriff? Is he in town today?”

  “Oscar? No, sir, he ain’t here, but his farm’s only a half hour ride from here.” He subconsciously took a step backward as Lacey and Doc walked up to stand on either side of Mace.

  “I expect you’d best go fetch him, sonny,” Mace said. “We’ve got some business to discuss with him.”

  “Well, I reckon I could go get him if you don’t think it’s somethin’ I can take care of.” Confronted with a situation that he had no clue how to handle, Tom was not sure what to do. One thing that registered in his mind, however, was the distinct feeling that the ominous-looking gang facing him boded ill for the town of Paradise. When his reply was met with nothing more than the amused leer of Mace Cantrell, he said, “I’ll saddle up and go fetch Oscar. I’ll go get Mr. Poss to take care of your packhorses.”

  “Tell the sheriff to come to the saloon. I’ll set up my headquarters there,” Mace said.

  His headquarters? Tom thought, but said nothing. I might better go out to tell Mr. Pryor about this.

  The outlaws waited while Tom hurriedly saddled a horse, then went to the house behind the stables to get Arnold Poss, the owner. When the owner came from the house, Mace repeated his instructions to the meek little man who came to take care of the horses. Then he climbed back in the saddle and led his gang up the street. Moving at a slow walk, he studied each business they passed to evaluate the likelihood that the owner might be inclined to resist a takeover of the town. The only possible threat he saw might be the blacksmith, who stopped to stare openly at them as they passed. The rest of the small community he estimated to be harmless. The town wasn’t big enough to stand up against his six hardened outlaws. The only real businesses were the saloon and the general store. He discounted any threat from the doctor, the barber, or the owner of the stables.