“They came and got their horses,” Tom said when Jason got back to the stables. “You reckon they’re plannin’ to leave?”
Jason didn’t answer at once. Seeing John and Roseanna Swain still there, he said, “I’d advise you to waste no more time here.” Then he answered Tom’s question. “I don’t think that bunch is plannin’ to leave town until they’ve taken everything they can carry, and now they’ve got payback for losing two men.”
In spite of his insistence that they leave immediately, Roseanna walked over to look up into the sun-bronzed face of the man who had saved her from a fate worse than death. “Can I ask you your name, sir?”
“My name’s Jason Storm, ma’am,” he replied politely.
“Well, Jason Storm,” she said, “I just wanted to know the name of my guardian angel.” She went up on her tiptoes and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Thank you, Jason,” she whispered, then quickly turned and joined her husband, who was waiting to help her up on the wagon. Jason stood dumbfounded, his cheek still tingling from her kiss. He could think of nothing appropriate to say, so he remained silent as he watched them drive away, but thoughts of another woman came to him. She reminded him of Mary Ellen, the last woman who had kissed him, as she lay on her deathbed. She didn’t favor Mary Ellen in the face. It was just something about the way she walked up to him, like a lamb confronting a wolf. The lapse in his concentration lasted for only a few moments and then he was back to the business at hand. He turned around to find Tom and Joe Gault watching him expectantly, waiting to be told what to do.
“I killed two of ’em in the store,” Jason informed them, “so that leaves four to deal with. Maybe they’ll stay holed up in the saloon, but I don’t think so. I think they’ll come lookin’ for me. As I see it, the best place for you to take cover is under the riverbank.” Since the town was laid out in a single line of stores along the course of the narrow river that they fronted, that position would afford them the advantage of being able to cover the entire street.
“I’ll work my way up across from the saloon,” Tom immediately volunteered.
“All right,” Jason replied, knowing the young deputy felt it his obligation to be at the heart of the matter. It was Jason’s opinion that the outlaws would more likely come out the back way, planning to work their way along the back of the buildings, looking for him. For that reason, he planned to move up from the stables to meet them. He turned to Joe then. “I reckon a spot across from your forge is as good a place as any for you.” They parted then, each man to his position.
Chapter 7
Mace Cantrell was livid when told that Junior and Zeke were dead. He was further infuriated that Doc and Bob retreated into the saloon instead of killing the man responsible. “God damn!” he roared, and slammed a chair against the wall to vent his anger. “Who the hell is he? I shoulda shot down that son of a bitch when he walked in here!” Something had told him that the big, quiet man was trouble. He should have followed his instincts. Now he was short two men. “Dammit!” he blurted again.
“We’ll get him,” Doc said. “He ain’t but one man.”
“We’ll get him, all right,” Mace added. “We’ll damn sure get him.” There was no feeling of remorse for the deaths of Junior and Zeke. Mace’s anger came from seemingly being bested by Jason Storm. “We’ll flush him out. Most likely he’s done run for it, but if he ain’t, we’ll find him. Bob, you and Lacey go down the back alley. Me and Doc will work down the front.”
Lying up close behind the riverbank, Tom Austin waited and watched, a tangled thread of thoughts running through his brain. The responsibility of his position as deputy sheriff weighed heavily upon him and he knew he should have taken more control of the situation Paradise found itself in. But there had been a natural tendency to fall in behind Jason Storm. The man appeared to always be in control. It occurred to him then that no one in town knew very much about Jason, where he had come from, what he had done. He had just appeared one day looking for a place to settle down and seemingly a place where he had little contact with the townsfolk. And now he was here to avenge the atrocities that had befallen the people of Paradise. Further thoughts were interrupted by the two men who suddenly appeared in the doorway of the saloon.
Tom hesitated. He had never shot at a man before. Jason had cautioned both him and Joe to shoot to kill, the same as if executing a mad dog. Still Tom hesitated as Mace and Doc stepped out the door. His conscience caused him to question his duty as a deputy and the rights of any criminal. He made a hasty decision. “Stand right where you are!” he shouted. “This is Deputy Austin and you’re under arrest. Drop your gun belts and raise your hands.”
At first unable to believe his ears, Mace exchanged an astonished glance with Doc. Then their natural reactions took over as both outlaws pulled their weapons and started shooting at the riverbank where Tom waited. Having risen to one knee to warn them, he was an easy target. He collapsed on the bank with a bullet in the shoulder and one in his leg.
Almost as quickly, Joe Gault joined the battle and sent a series of shots flying toward the saloon, causing Mace and Doc to duck back inside. Thanks to the fact that Joe had swapped his double-barreled shotgun for a Henry rifle that Jason had brought, one of his shots caught Doc in the side as he disappeared inside the saloon.
“Damn!” Doc cried out in pain as he stumbled in the door and fell heavily on the floor. “I’m shot!” he wailed to his brother.
Mace stood over the wounded man, his anger rising almost to a rage. He couldn’t help being perturbed at Doc for letting himself get shot. “How bad is it?” he finally asked.
“I don’t know,” Doc whined painfully. “It’s hurtin’ somethin’ awful.”
“Can you walk?”
“I don’t think so. It’s startin’ to bleed pretty heavy, but I’ll try—maybe with a little help.”
Mace studied his brother for a few moments. Doc getting shot didn’t help matters one bit and Mace knew he had to do something quickly. The big stranger had evidently gathered some help. The shot that got Doc had come from farther down the riverbank, the blacksmith maybe. At least he no longer had to worry about the deputy, but he was not going to regain control of the town until the big man was taken out. “I’d best go out the back and catch up with Bob and Lacey,” he decided and prepared to leave.
“What about me?” Doc blurted. “You’re gonna have to help me. I don’t think I can walk on my own.”
Mace paused. Doc was now a burden to him, and useless in the fight. “You ain’t no good to me in that shape,” he declared. “I’ll help you to the back and you can stay here and make sure nobody gets to our horses.”
“I’m gonna need that doctor down the street,” Doc replied. “This thing is bleedin’ and painin’ me plenty.”
“We’ll get him for you just as soon as we take care of the son of a bitch that shot Junior and Zeke,” Mace assured him. “You just keep an eye on them horses.” As soon as he got his brother situated by the back stoop of the saloon, he hurried down the alley after Bob and Lacey. He doubted very seriously if the doctor had remained in his office after the shooting started. It wouldn’t have surprised Mace if the good doctor had seen fit to leave town when the Hatfields fled, but he didn’t see any sense in telling his brother that.
By coincidence, Jason Storm knelt at the corner of the little whitewashed house that Dr. Albert Taylor used as an office and home. There was no sign of the doctor, but his horses and buggy were still in the stables when Jason left there. He had heard the shots fired after Tom had called for Mace to surrender. Jason shook his head when he thought about it. It was a damfool thing for the young deputy to do and like as not might cause him to get himself shot. It was easy to recognize the report of Joe Gault’s Henry rifle, and things had gotten quiet afterward. Jason was in the process now of working his way building by building to the head of the street in an effort to see what had taken place. He had situated Joe and Tom along the riverbank in front of the stores so
they could use it for cover and have a safe place to use their rifles in case the outlaws showed up out front. He did so because he had honestly expected the remaining four to come down the back alley after him. It ain’t the first time I’ve been wrong, he thought and prepared to move from the corner of the doctor’s house to the other side of the alley and Joe Gault’s forge.
Running as fast as he could, he was almost across when bullets kicked up dirt behind him, causing him to dive for cover behind the blacksmith’s anvil. He rolled over and over until he had the anvil and a large wooden tub filled with water squarely between him and his assailants. “Damn!” he muttered through deep gulps of air. “If I make any more mistakes like that, Biscuit is gonna be an orphan.” He was not out of trouble yet. If all four were stalking him, it would be an easy matter to flank him on both sides. So far, he could account for only two shooters, and they were on either side of Hatfield’s outhouse. They had him pinned down behind the anvil. His only avenue of escape was to crawl backward toward the street out front. And that was not a position he wished to be caught in if the other two outlaws were circling around to come in behind him. While trying to keep an eye on the two in front of him, he constantly looked over his shoulder, wondering when he was going to be attacked from that direction. When the rear attack failed to materialize, he wondered if the gunshots he had heard from Joe Gault had accounted for the other two outlaws. Whatever the case, he decided that he was tired of lying behind the anvil. It was time to make a move.
Thinking of Tom Austin’s ill-advised approach, he decided that it might be the ploy he needed right then. He cupped his hand around his mouth and yelled, “If you two throw down your guns and come out from behind the outhouse with your hands in the air, I won’t shoot.”
Lying flat on his belly behind the outhouse, Bob Dawson cursed. “Why, that cow-brained son of a bitch,” he growled. “Here’s my hands in the air!” he yelled back, and got up on one knee to give himself a better shot. When he peeked around the corner of the outhouse to aim, he saw the barrel of Jason’s rifle waiting for him. The bullet smashed into his chest before he could pull his trigger. He reeled over backward, his finger squeezing the trigger in reflexive action, sending a bullet sailing harmlessly over the top of the outhouse.
“Bob!” Lacey blurted. “Jesus!” he exclaimed when he saw Bob Dawson’s lifeless body sprawled on the ground. He had no more time to think about his partner, for Jason threw a steady barrage of rifle shots, then pistol shots at the outhouse. Great chunks of wood flew in every direction as the .44 bullets chewed at the wooden structure, knocking holes in the walls and making it a hot spot for Lacey. In short order he decided it too hot a spot in which to remain, but he was afraid to run, for there was no cover between the outhouse and the Hatfield’s building. There was one other option, however, that Lacey considered. Jason was obviously shooting as fast as he could pull the trigger. He had to reload sometime, and that would be Lacey’s chance. His guns were bound to empty pretty soon, and when they did, Lacey was confident that he could kill him before he had a chance to reload.
Jason had had the same thought, so he saved one cartridge in the chamber of his Winchester. And with the hammer cocked, he paused and waited. The lull in the barrage that Lacey was waiting for finally came. Jason’s guns went silent. Certain that the battle had turned in his favor and that this was his chance, he scrambled to his feet and charged out from behind his bullet-riddled fortress. “Now, you son of a bitch—” were his last words as Jason’s carefully aimed shot slammed into his forehead. He staggered three more steps before crashing to the ground.
Watching the shooting from behind a large barrel at the rear of Hatfield’s store, a suddenly shaken Mace Cantrell realized the magnitude of the killings he had just witnessed. He was struck with the sobering fact that he was now alone. His gang of six men was now reduced to himself and his wounded brother. The odds were not to his liking. He was not really sure how many he was up against, but his main worry was the relentless avenger crouching now in the blacksmith’s shop. If I can get a clean shot, Mace told himself, I can take care of the rest of them. He felt he had nothing to fear from the townsfolk if he could kill Jason. The deputy was already taken care of. The others would probably run. He decided to take the shot, even though it was not completely clear and it would give away his position.
Sighting his pistol on the largest area of body he could see through the rails around the forge, he tried to take steady aim. To his alarm, he found he could not keep the pistol from wavering off its target. Desperate to get the shot off, he pulled the trigger anyway.
Jason flinched when the bullet ricocheted off the anvil and whined up through the roof of the shed. Rolling his body over behind the barrel, he tried to pinpoint the source while hurriedly reloading his weapons. Figuring that the only place the shot could have come from was behind the barrel at Hatfield’s back stoop, he sent a series of rifle slugs to carve a lacework pattern in it.
Realizing that his protection was not that good, Mace decided his only option was to run for it. A new sensation struck him as he dashed back to the saloon—fear. He had never had occasion to experience the gut-wrenching feeling he now felt growing in his stomach. He had always had the advantage of having plenty of help around him, men who lived by the gun to pillage and rape. It was a different sensation now that he stood alone against an obvious killing machine in the tall, stoic stalker who had methodically wiped out his gang. He desperately wanted Jason Storm dead, but he was no longer willing to chance a face-off with him. To hell with this town, he thought. It was time to save his hide.
Jason suspected that the shooter had retreated, but he hesitated to rush after him until he knew the whereabouts of the sixth member of the gang. Again replacing the spent cartridges, he crept carefully toward the edge of Gault’s corral, scanning the alley for any movement that might offer a threat. Prepared to move out into the open alley, he paused when he heard his name called. Looking toward the front of the forge, he saw Joe Gault struggling to help Tom Austin walk.
“Tom’s got shot,” Joe called out as he helped the wounded man sit down on a hay bale. “We need to get him to Doc Taylor’s if Doc’s still there.”
“How bad is it, Tom?” Jason asked as he hurried over to help Joe support the deputy.
“I don’t know,” Tom gasped. “They got me twice, the shoulder and this one in my leg.” He leaned back a little to let Jason take a look at the wounds. “I know you told me to shoot first and ask questions later. I guess I messed up.”
Jason saw no reason to admonish the young man. Getting shot twice was lesson enough. “I’ve seen a lot of gunshot wounds in my time,” he said. “You’ll be okay—gonna be gimpy as hell for a few weeks, but you should be all right.” Thinking now of the time he was losing, he said, “Joe can take you to the doctor’s house. I ain’t seen a sign of him since the shooting started, but I have an idea he’s hidin’ out in his house.”
“What are you gonna do?” Joe asked.
“We’ve got two more to take care of before this nest of snakes is finished. I’m headin’ for the saloon. That’s where they’re holed up.”
“One of ’em’s wounded,” Joe said. “I’m pretty sure I hit one of ’em when they ran back in the door.”
“That helps,” Jason replied. “I’d better get goin’.”
Joe Gault paused to watch the broad back of the imposing hunter as Jason left the corral. Turning to lend his arm to Tom, he wondered aloud, “Where the hell did that man come from?”
Grunting with pain as he took Joe’s arm, Tom replied, “Don’t nobody I’ve talked to know where he came from or what he was doin’ here. I’m just damn glad he’s here right now.”
Once he saw the path before him, Mace Cantrell wasted no time in preparing to escape. Ignoring Doc’s questions, he hurried inside to collect his saddlebags, saying only, “Keep an eye on that alley. If that big bastard shows his face, shoot it off.”
When Mace ran out of th
e saloon and threw his saddlebags on his horse, Doc tried to get up from behind the back stoop to get to his horse. “You’re gonna have to help me, Mace,” he called when he found he could not get to his feet. “I can’t make it by myself.”
Busy loading one of the packhorses, Mace glanced hurriedly in his brother’s direction, taking notice of Doc’s shirt and trousers, which were now soaked with blood. “You’re hurt bad, Doc. I don’t think you can make it. And if you’re goin’ with me, you’re gonna have to make it on your own. The rest of the boys are all dead and I ain’t gonna wait around here till they come for us.”
Realizing the sentence his brother was imposing upon him then, Doc was stunned. “Mace!” he cried. “You ain’t leavin’ me, are you? You can’t leave me here. I’m your brother.”
Ready to ride, Mace stepped up in the saddle. “If you can get on that horse, you can go with me, but I ain’t waitin’ around for you. You ain’t no good to me in the shape you’re in.” He wheeled his horse, grabbed the lead rope on his packhorse, and headed around the south side of the saloon at a gallop, leaving his brother behind.
He could not believe his brother would desert him. His initial reaction was anger. He picked up his pistol and aimed it at a spot between Mace’s shoulder blades, but he could not pull the trigger. When he and Mace had ridden off to war, he had promised his mother that he would take care of his younger brother. In all the years since, Doc had always watched over Mace, through the many raids and robberies. He couldn’t bring himself to forget his promise to his mother. With tears rolling down his wide, simple face, he lowered the pistol and turned to watch the alley, prepared to protect his younger brother one last time.
Straining forward, with his pistol resting on the second step of the small back stoop, Doc watched the alley and waited for the big stranger who had brought them all the bad luck. He looked down at his blood-soaked shirt. It was still wet with new blood constantly oozing out no matter how hard he pressed his hand against it. Maybe Mace was right and he was done for, but he still harbored faint hope. If I can stop this son of a bitch, then I can make it down to that doctor’s office, he told himself. I can get healed up and go find Mace. Feeling a great sense of fatigue now, he closed his eyes for a moment to rest them. At once, he prompted himself to remain alert. When he opened his eyes again, he was confused to find the day had grown dim. He blinked hard several times in an effort to see more clearly. Barely able to make him out in the now hazy alley, he spotted the dark figure moving carefully along the back of the store next door. With a hand that had now suddenly grown weak and heavy, he raised the pistol and pulled the trigger.
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