Jason ducked down against the back of the building when the bullet tore splinters out of the wood siding a foot over his head. He cautiously raised his head, searching for the source. He saw the horses tied out back of the saloon, but no one was there. The shot had to have come from behind the steps and the shooter had complete coverage of the open alleyway. Jason was going to have to find another way. He looked behind him. The corner of the store was a good twenty feet from him, but that was his best bet if he could make it there without getting shot. Then he could work his way around the building and maybe catch them from the rear.
He waited for a long moment, but there were no more shots from behind the steps. Waiting for me to show myself, he thought. Well, I ain’t getting anything done sitting here. With that thought, he sprang up and ran for the corner of the store. Reaching the corner and safety, he paused for a moment, surprised that there had not been a shot fired. Can’t figure that, he thought. Maybe they moved out of there—maybe coming around the building to get behind me.
Bearing that in mind, he started around the saloon, his rifle ready to fire at the first thing that moved. When he got to the front corner of the building, he paused. There was no one in sight. Continuing along, he moved across the front, and when he got to the door, he ducked inside. After determining that there was no one inside, he hurried through to the back door. Easing his head around the doorjamb, he took a cautious look out back—still no one. Wondering where they could have disappeared to, he stepped out on the porch and glanced down to discover a body slumped over against the steps.
With the toe of his boot, he pushed the body over on its back. It was not the man who led the band of cutthroats, Mace Cantrell. “That’s five of ’em,” he muttered to himself, “but where’s the stud horse?” With thoughts of a possible ambush, he began a careful search of the saloon and the outbuildings behind it. There was no trace of Mace Cantrell and Jason had to conclude that the man had run.
Five bodies showed evidence that the town of Paradise had been successfully defended. The threat was ended with Cantrell’s flight. He would not likely show his face in this part of the country again. Maybe the people would return to their businesses and the town could survive. Jason was not satisfied, however, not with Cantrell running free. Maybe it was his many years as a deputy marshal and the fact that he had never quit on a job until it was finished, or maybe it was a matter of vengeance for the murders committed by the outlaw. Whatever the reason, Jason resolved to track the murderer down. He was inclined to start after him immediately as he studied fresh tracks leading south along the farm road. But he was reminded then of Tom Austin. He would first have to see that the deputy was taken care of.
When he got back to the stables, he found Ben Thompson’s bartender, Gus, talking to Joe Gault. They both hurried to meet him as he entered. Considering the fact that Jason had walked boldly down the street, Joe felt it safe to assume that he had settled with the last two outlaws. “Did you get ’em?” he asked. “I didn’t hear but one shot.”
“All but one,” Jason answered. “The leader, that one that did all the talkin’, hightailed it.”
“I came back to see if I could help,” Gus said. “Looks like I was a little too late, but I figured I had to go out to Ben’s place to see what I could do for his wife and young’uns.”
“Well, there’s a lot of burying and cleanup that’s gonna have to be done,” Jason said, “so there’s plenty to do.” He turned to Joe then. “How’s Tom? Was the doctor still there?”
Joe smiled. “Yeah, Doc was still there, but I thought I was gonna have to break the door down before he was sure it wasn’t some of them outlaws. He had his shotgun in his hand when he finally opened up. Tom’s gonna be all right, just needs time to do some healin’.”
“I expect we need to get the word out to Hatfield and some of the others that it’s safe to come on back to town,” Gus suggested.
Joe Gault studied the quiet man who had come to rid the town of outlaws. “Mister,” he said to Jason, “I don’t reckon there would be any town left if it hadn’t been for you.” When Jason merely shrugged in response, Joe offered a suggestion. “I don’t know if the folks are gonna be too scared to stay on here after what just happened, especially without Raymond Pryor to back ’em up. But I bet they might if you would take the job of sheriff.”
Jason shook his head. “I’m not lookin’ for the job,” he said. “I’ve got somethin’ else I’ve gotta do.”
Guessing his thoughts, Joe asked, “You’re plannin’ on goin’ after Mace Cantrell, ain’t you?”
“I reckon,” Jason replied. It was a question he was still debating with himself. The homestead he had just finished that summer and the few horses and cows he had managed to accumulate were on his mind as well. It was a start he didn’t want to jeopardize by letting his stock roam free to stray while he was on a manhunt.
“Hell, Jason,” Gault said. “That man’s long gone. He won’t be back to cause us no trouble.”
“I can’t help but feel sorry for anybody else that’s in his path,” Jason said. “He’s got a lot of murderin’ to pay for and he needs to be put down, same as any mad dog.”
“I can’t see how it’s up to you to go after him,” Gault insisted. As far as he was concerned, the threat had left their town, so Cantrell was somebody else’s problem now. “Right now, those of us still here have got to see about putting the town back together—if we still have a town.”
Jason thought about what Joe said for a long moment before making up his mind. “Maybe you’re right, but I reckon I’ll see if I can track him down.” There were other issues to be faced. Foremost among them was what to do about Raymond Pryor’s cattle. There was a sizable herd that needed to be tended to, and the question resolved as to who owned the cattle now. Pryor and all his crew had been wiped out. Gault volunteered to take responsibility for the cattle until the matter was settled and a crew could be hired to herd them to Deer Lodge. “Talk it over with Tom and Hatfield,” Jason advised. “Maybe everybody could take shares in the cattle and split the money when they’re sold.”
“That sounds good to me,” Joe said. “I’ll get everybody together and we can decide.” He was already considering the prospect of the town of Paradise being owned by the people of Paradise, along with all the land Raymond Pryor had deeded.
That settled, Jason felt ready to start out after Mace Cantrell. “I expect Tom will be fit enough to help you in a few weeks,” he said as he readied his packhorse.
Chapter 8
John Swain worked away at a clod of dirt that seemed intent upon defying his hoe. When finally the stubborn boulder of sod broke into several pieces, he paused to look around at his garden plot. It needed rain. There had not been much, less than normal according to those folks who had been here from the start of Raymond Pryor’s endeavor. John was not one of the original settlers in Paradise Valley, having arrived two years later. He had not proven to be much of a farmer, although the pigs and chickens and his garden had been sufficient to provide him and Roseanna with food for the table. Corn was supposed to be his money crop, but he had not had much luck with this year’s yield.
He remained there for a few moments, leaning on his hoe, thoughts of the incident in town still weighing heavily on his mind. What was to become of Paradise? He flinched involuntarily when he recalled the scene in Hatfield’s store. It had been the first time in his adult life that he had been face-to-face with men of such evil intent. He admitted to himself that he had been terrified by the two ruffians who had accosted him. Had it not been for the timely arrival of Jason Storm, he would have been called upon to take action to defend his wife. And deep inside, where his darkest thoughts dwelled, he was not certain he could have protected her. He told himself that he would have attempted to do so, but he was not convinced that he would have had the courage to stand up to the two surly brutes. The nagging truth of the matter made him feel sick inside.
Admonishing himself to return to
his hoeing, he chopped again at the dry ground, only to pause once more when a man on horseback appeared on the path to the house. He was leading a packhorse, and when he saw John in the garden, he veered off the path and headed straight for him, oblivious to the damage he caused to the garden rows. He was a stranger to John, but when he pulled up before him, John was swept with a cold, uncomfortable feeling. Tall and lean, with brooding eyes peering out beneath dark brows, framed by jet-black hair and whiskers, he looked to be of the same ilk as the ruffians who had terrorized the town. John felt his fingers go numb on the hoe handle.
“I need supplies,” Mace Cantrell announced. “Bacon, salt, beans, anything you got to eat, and I’m in a hurry.” He was not asking; his tone was one of demand. Flustered, John was at a loss for a proper response, causing Mace to take a stronger tack. “I said I’m in a hurry, you damn ignorant sodbuster.” With no time for John’s indecision, he pulled his pistol and leveled it at the hapless farmer. “Now, dammit, move, unless you wanna be buried right here in this damn field!”
John realized at that moment that his fears were confirmed. This belligerent stranger was indeed one of the ruthless gang that had descended upon Paradise. The thought seemed to freeze the blood in his veins and sent his mind reeling—the second encounter with uncut evil in as many days. Unable to take his eyes off the muzzle of the pistol pointed at him, he stammered his confusion. “What do you want?”
“Somethin’ wrong with your ears?” Mace roared. “Dammit, I need food. Now march on up to the house and let’s see what you’ve got.”
“We don’t have much,” John protested as he stumbled along before Mace’s horse, his mind a pool of frightened thoughts.
“I want whatever you’ve got,” Mace said. Then it occurred to him that he had seen the man before. “Ain’t you the man in the wagon outside the saloon? Yeah, I remember you. You had a right fine-lookin’ woman with you. Is she in the house?”
John felt the frigid hand of fear clamp down on his gut. His courage was going to be tested once more, and this time there was no hope of being saved by Jason Storm. This evil-looking villain would no doubt assault his wife. He had to do something to protect her, but he was helpless before the hardened outlaw behind him. Determined that he would not fail her again, he could think of nothing he could do except try to warn her. “Roseanna!” he cried out suddenly. “Run! Run!”
“What the hell?” Mace responded. “Shut your mouth.”
“Run, Roseanna!” John yelled again as loud as he could.
“Damn you!” Mace cursed and kicked his horse hard, causing the animal to bump John and knock him to the ground. “I oughta stomp you good,” he threatened as he reined the horse back and pumped a warning shot into the ground next to his head.
Inside the house, some forty yards from the garden, Roseanna got up from the churn, puzzled to hear John shouting something. A moment later she was startled when she heard the shot. She ran to the window. What she saw terrified her. Her husband was lying facedown between the garden rows with a man on horseback standing over him, his pistol drawn. Her first thought was that John was dead. The thought served to further terrify her, and there seemed to be no time to think of any way to defend herself, so she did as John had tried to warn her to do. With wild abandon, she ran out the back door and fled toward the creek. Her only conscious thought was to escape the monster that had come to kill them. Splashing across the creek, she ran through the trees on the opposite bank, not even stopping when she lost a shoe in the soft sand of the creek. Running until she could no longer draw breath, she collapsed in a berry thicket, gasping for air, afraid the horseman was close behind her.
Back in the garden, Mace was rapidly losing his patience with the frightened man still lying on his face. “Get your ass up from there or I’m gonna shoot you where you lay.”
With little choice, John got to his feet and started for the house. There was a shotgun over the fireplace. He wondered if Roseanna had run as he had implored, or if she might think to defend him with the shotgun. He hoped she had run. He was convinced that she wouldn’t have a chance against this gunman in a face-off, and he couldn’t bear the thought of seeing her ravaged by the outlaw.
When they reached the house, Mace dismounted and pushed John through the doorway before him in case the woman he had warned might be waiting with a gun. After a quick look around, he determined no one was there. “Looks like the little woman took off runnin’,” he said with a smirk. It was all the same to him. No doubt it would have been pleasurable to have a go with the woman he had seen sitting on the wagon seat outside the saloon, but he didn’t have the time to dally. He had no way of knowing whether or not Jason Storm was on his trail, but he saw no sense in taking chances. “I see hogs out by the smokehouse, so I know you’ve got plenty of salt pork. Where is it?”
“I don’t have but a little bit left since I killed a hog,” John protested weakly.
Without warning, Mace cracked John across the skull with the barrel of his pistol, knocking the unsuspecting man to his knees. “Dammit,” Mace roared, “I told you I was in a hurry.”
“In the smokehouse,” John gasped, his head reeling from the blow that had felled him.
“Get up, dammit!” Mace commanded. When John was slow in responding, Mace cracked him again with his pistol, this time opening a long cut across the side of his face and temple. In a helpless stupor as a result of the blows, John collapsed to the floor again, which agitated Mace even more. He stood over the fallen man for a few moments longer before deciding that John was unable to respond. After one more blow with his pistol to make sure, he started out the kitchen door toward the smokehouse. Noticing the shotgun over the fireplace, he snatched it off its pegs and took it with him in case he was wrong about John’s state of consciousness.
He took a half side of bacon from the smokehouse and returned to the kitchen to ransack the pantry for anything that caught his eye, pausing every once in a while to glance at the still figure lying in the middle of the floor. “Musta killed him,” he muttered matter-of-factly as he bundled up his supplies. When he was satisfied that he had everything he needed, he paused at the front door and scanned the yard left and right to make sure there was no sign of Jason Storm. Then he hurriedly loaded his plunder onto the packhorse, stepped up in the saddle, and headed south, intent upon eventually reaching Three Forks and the pass that led from the valley directly to the Yellowstone River.
Fearing for her life while grieving for her husband, Roseanna crawled deeper into the thicket of berry bushes, unmindful of the scratches on her arms and legs. The image of her husband lying in the garden rows would not leave her mind. Frantic with despair, she didn’t know what to do. The only thing she could think of at the moment was to hide and hope the outlaw was not looking for her.
Then her thoughts returned to her husband and the tears finally came. I should have done something to help him, she thought. But he was lying so still, facedown. She had panicked and now she was swept under a heavy cloud of guilt—not just for the tragedy that had found them this day, but for their entire marriage. Although she would never have admitted it to him, she was sure that John knew she had accepted his proposal out of sheer convenience. Her prospects of marriage were not very great in the little town of Beaver, and she was already past thirty at the time. She had never considered herself attractive, but that was not the reason her prospects were slim. The younger men of Beaver had gone off to war and very few returned, leaving the town with males either too young or too old. John offered her a future in a new community in Montana Territory and she was determined to make him as good a wife as she possibly could. Although she felt no real passion for him, she did the best she could to fulfill his needs. In time, she had come to have a great affection for her husband, and she told herself she would settle for that. Very few people were fortunate enough to find the love of their lives, so she had counted herself lucky to have a good man, one who was devoted to her happiness. John Swain was a good ma
n, a gentle man, perhaps too gentle for this wild country in Montana, and he didn’t deserve to die this way. She began to sob in her despair, not knowing what to do or where to go. She was afraid to return to the house and almost equally fearful of remaining there in the thicket. Even now, the monster that had killed John might be searching along the creek, looking for her.
The woods around her slowly began to release the daylight as the sun sank lower in the western sky. She shivered with the cool air that swept across the creek bank and rustled the leaves in the thicket. Hugging her knees against the chill, she told herself that it was good that darkness was coming. It would make it harder for him to find her. Although she had not expected it to happen, she fell asleep sometime during the long night.
Cold and shivering, Roseanna woke up with a start to find the early rays of the new sun filtering through the bushes that were her refuge. The first thought that struck her was that she had survived the night. She was stiff and hungry, but these were not the issues that claimed her mind. What of the killer? Was he gone from her house? Or was he still searching for her? How long could she wait before cautiously approaching her home again? Thinking to go back to the creek to quench her thirst, she got up as far as all fours before freezing there, horrified to hear something moving in the bushes no more than a dozen yards away.
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