“I’ll be goin’ back to my place now,” Jason finally said. “I need to tend to a few things and pick up some extra cartridges before I go to Paradise to look the situation over.”
“Whaddaya want me to do?” Tom asked, ready to turn his responsibility over to the formidable man who seemed to have calmly taken control.
“My place is a day’s ride from Paradise,” Jason said. “I’ll start back tonight. Why don’t you go on back and meet me at the stable in the mornin’? I oughta be there before noon. See if you can talk to those men you mentioned about helpin’ out.” He turned to step up in the saddle, then turned to look back at the deputy. “And, Tom, it might be best if you stayed away from that bunch till I get a chance to see what’s what.”
“If you think that’s best,” Tom replied, relieved to be told not to engage Mace Cantrell and his men.
Early the next morning, Jason put his cabin in order, then saddled Biscuit and checked his Winchester to make sure it was loaded, then strapped on his gun belt. Lowering the rails in the corral, he let his stock out to roam free. He was not sure what he might run into in Paradise, but he wanted to make sure his animals were free if something happened that kept him from returning. At about a quarter to noon Jason Storm rode into the stables at a slow walk. He found Tom and Joe Gault talking to the stable owner, Arnold Poss. Tom came forward to meet him. “This here’s Joe Gault,” he said, nodding toward a short, broad-shouldered man holding a double-barreled shotgun. Gault made no response, but looked Jason over carefully as he dismounted. “And this is my boss, Arnold Poss,” Tom continued.
“Tom told me about poor Mr. Pryor and his men,” Poss blurted. “It’s bad, really bad, and I’m afraid the same thing is going to happen here.”
“It’s already started,” Tom said. “They shot Ben Thompson right after I left to fetch Oscar, and they’re holed up in the saloon. Gus is in there with ’em as far as anyone can tell.”
“They’re doin’ pretty much whatever they want,” Gault said. “Hatfield locked his doors this morning and put up the closed sign. A couple of ’em just kicked the door in and helped themselves to anything they fancied. Hatfield said one of ’em even tried to grab Lena, but she ran out the back door.”
“Where are Hatfield and his wife now?” Jason asked.
“Damned if I know,” Gault replied. “They just took off for home, I reckon. Left the store and everything—runnin’ for their lives. Can’t say as I blame ’em. Fred wouldn’t be able to put up much of a fight against that bunch.”
“I reckon that’s the best thing for all of us to do,” Poss said. “These men are hardened killers, and without Pryor’s crew to protect us, we have no choice but to run. Let them ransack the town and be done with it. Then maybe they’ll leave. There’s no sense in anybody else getting killed. I know Doc Taylor is staying, but he ain’t likely to be bothered, anyway.”
“We could use your help, Arnold,” Joe Gault said. “I never figured you’d be runnin’.”
“If we had a ghost of a chance against those outlaws, I’d stay,” Poss replied. “But we ain’t. Killing and robbing is their business, and I ain’t willing to lose my life for the sake of this little town. There ain’t no hope for us now since Raymond Pryor’s dead.”
Jason said nothing while the three men discussed the situation between them, with Tom saying the least since he still considered himself an employee of Arnold Poss. Gauging the backbone of the owner of the stables, Jason figured Poss would be of little use, anyway. The help that Tom Austin had speculated upon was reduced to the three of them, and Jason was trying to decide if Tom and Gault could be counted on when the situation got hot. They could at least watch his back, he finally concluded. Gault looked like a man who was not afraid to stand up and fight, and Tom, though inexperienced, was willing and taking his responsibility as deputy to heart. Jason’s concern in that respect was to keep the young man alive. He had the same concern when it came to himself.
The odds were certainly in Mace Cantrell’s favor in a shoot-out. There was no sensible way for the three of them to mount an assault against the six outlaws holed up in the saloon. It was going to take some other approach. He was going to have to take the measure of the men he was up against, and the only way to do that was to go in the saloon and see for himself.
“Are you crazy?” Joe Gault exclaimed when Jason told them of his intentions. “They’ll shoot you down like they did Ben Thompson.”
“Maybe,” Jason replied, “but I need to see what I’m dealin’ with. They don’t know me from Adam. I’ll just be a drifter that stops in the saloon for a drink. Besides, from what you tell me about this Cantrell feller, I suspect he might wanna take a little time to impress me with what a big man he is.”
“It’s your funeral,” Gault said, “but I don’t think you’ve got a chance in hell of comin’ out on your feet.”
“Well, if I don’t, you and Tom better put your heads together to decide what you’re gonna do after that,” Jason said.
“What we got comin’ here?” Zeke Cheney muttered to no one in particular. Leaning against the saloon doorjamb, he had been idly watching the dusty street outside.
Mildly curious, Bob Dawson walked over to see what had attracted Zeke’s attention. “Looks like we got us a customer,” he said when he saw the stranger looping his reins over the hitching post.
“Big feller, maybe he’s the sheriff,” Zeke said. Since Mace had sent the deputy to fetch the sheriff they had not seen hide nor hair of either. “He’s comin’ in the saloon.” He turned his head and called back to Cantrell, who was sitting at a side table eating a plate of beans and bacon. “Hey, Mace, there’s some jasper comin’ in.”
“Well, let him come on,” Mace replied. Like Zeke, he considered the possibility that it was the sheriff finally making an appearance. The man who appeared in the doorway moments later was not what Mace had expected. Standing only a couple of inches shy of the doorframe, he had to duck his head slightly to keep from knocking his hat off.
Pausing in the doorway, Jason took a long look around the room, making note of where everybody was, especially wary of anyone who might be in a position to put a bullet in his back. Glancing then at the two standing on either side of the door, he affected a broad smile and said, “Howdy, boys. Is the saloon open?”
Watching him closely, Mace eased his hand off the handle of his pistol and resumed his assault on the plate of beans and bacon Gus had cooked for him. “Why, hell, yeah, it’s open,” he called out to Jason, “if you’ve got money.”
“I reckon I’ve got enough for one drink,” Jason said. “Been ridin’ all mornin’. Need to cut the dust in my throat.” He avoided eye contact with Gus, who was staring wide-eyed at him from behind the bar.
“We thought you might be the sheriff,” Zeke said.
“The sheriff?” Jason responded, feigning surprise. “Nope, I ain’t the sheriff. I’m just passin’ through and saw this place, so I thought I’d get a drink of whiskey.”
“Gus,” Mace ordered, amused by the unexpected customer, “pour the man a drink.” His curiosity aroused, he got up from the table and walked over to the end of the bar.
“Much obliged,” Jason interrupted when Gus started to speak. “A shot of rye will do just fine.” Fixing the confused bartender with a steely gaze, he slowly shook his head. Gus had seen Jason only once, but Jason was a man you didn’t forget. He understood the look and held his tongue.
“Where you headed?” Mace asked and motioned for Gus to pour him a drink as well.
“Nowhere in particular,” Jason answered. “Do you own this place?”
“I own the whole damn town,” Mace replied.
“Well, if you own this place, then you’d be Ben Thompson,” Jason said.
“Ben Thompson?” Mace had to think a moment to remember the slain saloon owner’s name. He grinned then. “Nope, he passed away, rather sudden-like. Lead poisonin’, I think.” His remark caused a hearty laugh from the others
watching them.
While the two men sized each other up, Gus inched away from the bar as casually as he could manage. He figured Jason Storm to be a dead man, and while everybody’s attention was drawn to him, he decided it in his best interest to slide out the back door. He had been watched pretty closely most of the time, and this was his first opportunity to think about escape. Only Junior turned to cast an inquisitive glance in his direction as he eased toward the back door. “Mace said to fetch more wood for the stove,” Gus said and paused near the door. Junior wasted no more than a second’s glance upon him before shrugging and turning his interest back to the broad-shouldered stranger. Gus went out and quietly closed the door behind him before heading down the alley at a dead run.
Inside, Jason had seen all he needed to see, and measured the depth of evil in the leader of the pack of murderers. The other five were representative of the hundreds of pitiless gunslingers he had faced over the years as a deputy marshal. There was going to be no easy solution to Paradise’s problem. Thoughts of arrest and trial were off the table. Judge and jury, his job called for extermination. He saw what he was up against and he was resigned to ridding the town of the plague that had befallen it. He figured he owed it to Raymond Pryor. In addition, he considered it any man’s duty to rid the world of scum like Cantrell and his gang of cutthroats. “Well, I best be on my way,” he said. “How much for the drink?”
Mace snorted a half laugh. “It’s on the house,” he said. “What’s your hurry?”
Before Jason could answer, Zeke called from the doorway. “Lookee here, Mace, there’s some folks in a wagon.” Jason walked to the door with Mace and the others, their interest shifting from him at the moment. Outside, a man and woman on a farm wagon pulled up in front of the general store.
“I’ll take care of ’em,” Zeke said and started toward Hatfield’s store.
“Me, too,” Junior volunteered. “I always wanted to be a store clerk.” He hurried along after Zeke, his motivation triggered by the farmer’s wife.
The rest of the gang remained to return their attention to Jason. There was something about the stranger that caused Mace to be a bit wary of him, especially the way he had positioned himself at the bar so that everyone in there was in his field of sight. It was almost as if he was prepared to draw the .44 he wore and start blazing away. For that reason Mace was very interested in seeing Jason mount up and ride away, ending any further speculation on his part.
“Much obliged,” Jason said again as he turned Biscuit’s head toward the end of the street and rode off at an easy lope. His concern now was for the man and woman on the wagon. They had picked an unfortunate time to visit the general store. Obviously, the news about the town being taken over had not spread to all the farms in the area. Under the circumstances, he could not very well have advised the couple to stay on the wagon and drive out of town. He was worried about the treatment the man and his wife might receive from Cantrell’s vermin, but he had seen no choice but to ride.
John Swain glanced briefly at the two men hurrying toward the door of Hatfield’s store as he prepared to help his wife down from the wagon seat. When she was on the ground beside him, he turned and noticed the door was open even though there was a closed sign hanging on it. He did not ponder the thought, finding it only curious.
Roseanna Swain stepped lively up on the boardwalk. A childless woman of thirty-two, she looked forward to visiting with Lena Hatfield, a treat she was able to enjoy infrequently. She had developed a fond affection for her husband, who was fifteen years her senior, but John was not a man of many words, and Roseanna needed the relief that a visit with Lena afforded. For that reason, she was at once disappointed when she stepped inside and did not see her friend. Looking hurriedly about the store, she was suddenly struck by the disarray of the counter and the shelves behind it, not at all typical of the place. It was only then that she took sharper note of the two men who had preceded her, and at once she felt a cold shiver run the length of her spine. She attempted to ignore the open leers of the rough-looking pair and asked, “Where is Mrs. Hatfield?”
John walked in in time to hear Zeke tell his wife that Mr. and Mrs. Hatfield no longer ran the store. Like Roseanna, he sensed immediate danger. Something was obviously wrong, and his instincts told him to exit the store at once. “Come on, Roseanna,” he said. “Fred and Lena ain’t here. We’d best leave now.”
“Well, now, there ain’t no need to rush off,” Junior said, stepping up close to Roseanna. “We can take care of you. Give you everythin’ you need. Ain’t that right, Zeke?”
Grinning foolishly, Zeke closed the door behind him. “That’s right, maybe more’n you need.”
“We’ll just come back later,” John said, trying hard to keep the tremble out of his voice. “Come on, Roseanna.”
Still leering down into the frightened woman’s face, Junior said, “Maybe Roseanna don’t wanna go. She’s a right pretty little lady. She might wanna stay here where she can get what she needs.” He looked up at John then and cracked, “You can go if you wanna.” He laughed a low, taunting laugh. “Or you can stay and watch the fun. Hell, we might even let you in on it. You can go third. Right, Zeke?” He made a sudden lunge toward the frightened woman, but she was quick enough to jump away from his clumsy attempt to grab her. “Now, you might as well make up your mind you’re gonna get rode, ’cause it’s gonna happen.”
Zeke stepped over beside her husband and said, “That’s right, it’s sure as hell gonna happen.” He stared down in John’s face, daring him to do something about it. “Maybe your daddy’s thinkin’ about stopping us.”
John’s voice trembled as he said, “She’s my wife, and I’ll thank you to keep your hands off of her.”
“Your wife?” Junior replied, surprised. “Well, damn! Good for you, old man. Then I reckon it ain’t nothin’ new to you, so you won’t mind goin’ third behind Zeke and me, will you?”
“I expect the party’s over for you two.” The voice, low and menacing, came from the end of the counter. Startled, all four turned to discover the formidable figure poised with a .44 handgun leveled at the two outlaws. For John and Roseanna it was one more terrifying surprise. But Zeke and Junior knew they were looking into the face of death. Both men reached for their guns, and both dropped to the floor with a .44 slug in the chest. In one sudden explosion, it was over almost before there was time for it to happen. Jason did not pause a moment. Dropping his pistol back into the holster, he ordered, “Quick, come with me!” When John balked slightly, still confused, Jason roared, “Move!”
Taking Roseanna by the arm then, John did as he was told. He was afraid not to, but he protested weakly, “My team and wagon . . .”
“They’re already gone,” Jason replied as he took a horrified Roseanna by her other arm and started her toward the back door. Her husband followed quickly, realizing then the need for urgency. The ominous situation of a few minutes prior had been distraction enough to prevent John Swain from realizing that Tom Austin was quietly leading his team of mules toward the stables. By the time the fatal shots had been fired, Tom was almost at the stable door.
Out the back door and down the steps, Jason hurried the frightened couple along. “Your wagon’s down at the stables,” he said. “Get on it and get out of town as fast as you can. There’s gonna be a lot more shootin’ around here pretty damn soon.” Satisfied that they felt the imminent danger, he then turned to watch the back door of the store.
Only then able to realize how close he had come to witnessing a brutal assault upon his wife, John Swain finally gathered his wits about him. Though he was unable to understand where their seemingly dispassionate savior had suddenly come from to intercede on their behalf, he paused to thank the imposing stranger whose attention was now focused solidly on the back door. “Mister,” he blurted, “I don’t know where you came from, but you have my thanks for what you did.”
Jason shifted his gaze only slightly, somewhat annoyed that the man and h
is wife were still there. “You’re welcome. Now get the lady out of here.”
“What the hell . . . ?” Mace blurted when he heard the shots from the store next door. “Doc, you and Bob go see what the shootin’s about.” He was concerned but not alarmed, although there were two shots fired. Junior may have decided to take target practice on the jars and cans on the shelves. He was often guilty of cartridge-wasting foolishness such as that.
At first unable to push the door open, as some weighty object seemed to be blocking it, Doc enlisted Bob’s help. Together they forced the door open to find that the object that had blocked it was Zeke Cheney’s body. Instinctively, both men drew their weapons, but there was no one in the store, not even the man and woman. Pushing past Zeke’s body, Doc discovered Junior lying in the middle of the floor. “What the hell’s goin’ on?” Doc muttered while looking around him as if expecting an attack from any direction.
“The back door,” Bob directed, and they both hurried through the storeroom toward the rear of the building. It was difficult to accept the fact that the unimpressive homesteader had gotten the jump on both Junior and Zeke, but that was the only explanation until they reached the back door. Standing in the alley behind the buildings, maybe forty yards away, the big stranger who had just left the saloon waited with gun drawn.
Their first reaction was to shoot, but at that distance, and stumbling all over each other on the small stoop, their shots were wild. Jason quickly returned fire. However, with no time to take careful aim, his shots—though not as wild—only tore chunks of wood from the doorframe around the two men. Doc and Bob scrambled back inside for cover. With no intention of taking on the other four while standing out in the open alleyway, Jason made a quick retreat toward the stables. He had been lucky to trim the odds by two, but he could no longer count on surprise as an advantage. The question now was whether the four outlaws would come after him or decide to stay holed up in the saloon.
Storm in Paradise Valley Page 8