“Is that so?” Jason responded. “And you’d tell me if you had seen him, wouldn’t you, Briny?”
“Hell, no,” Briny grunted gruffly, “but there ain’t been nobody.” He lowered his chair legs to the floor and walked over to spit in the fireplace. “Damn you, Jason Storm, you cost me a good customer the last time you showed up in my store.” He pointed to a dark stain near the center of the room. “The damn bloodstain is still right there in the middle of the floor. Ned Skelley, he was like a brother to me and you gunned him down.”
“He shouldn’t have taken a shot at me,” Jason countered. “I’m sorry Ned’s passin’ grieved you so much. What about Mace Cantrell? Is he like a brother to you, too? How long has he been gone? He’s like a brother to me. I need to catch up with him and I know he was here.” Jason was not bluffing. Upon hearing Briny’s words when waking abruptly from his nap, Jason was sure Cantrell had been there. I mighta knowed, Briny had blurted. To Jason that was the same as confirming that someone who was on the run had been there. It had to be Mace Cantrell. “Where was he headin’ when he left here, Briny?”
“You go to hell,” Briny replied. “I told you he ain’t been here.”
It was obvious that the old man wasn’t going to offer any help beyond what he had inadvertently supplied. “Well, Briny,” Jason said, “I’d like to stay and visit with you, but I’ve got to be on my way.”
“You’re wastin’ your time,” he heard Briny yell as he went out the door. Outside, he untied the reins from the hitching post and took a moment to scan the clearing around the store as he mumbled to himself, “You may be right, old man.” There were hundreds of tracks, going in all directions, some old, some new, some in between, and he realized he didn’t have a clue to start him in one direction or another.
He was still standing there stroking his chin thoughtfully over his dilemma when he saw Horace coming from behind the barn carrying an empty bucket. Jason walked to meet him, leading Biscuit behind him. He recognized him as Briny’s employee, and he recalled that Horace was not burdened by a complicated mind. “How ya doin’, Horace?” Jason called out cheerfully.
“Pretty good,” Horace replied, trying to remember where he had seen Jason before. “I was just sloppin’ the hogs.”
“Yeah,” Jason lied, “Briny said you were out back of the barn.” He cocked his head to the side with a friendly grimace. “Seems a mite warm for this time of year, don’t it?” When Horace allowed that it was warmer than expected, Jason said, “Briny said I just missed Mace Cantrell. I was hopin’ to catch up with him.”
“That’s a fact,” Horace said. “You missed him by a day or so. He joined up with some fellers that rode in from Butte the other day. You’re gonna have to ride hard to catch up with them now.”
“Damn,” Jason remarked. “Which way’d they go?”
Horace turned to point. “Back up the river. I think them other boys had a camp up there somewhere.”
“Well, I’ll see if I can catch up to them. How many were there?”
“Five countin’ Cantrell,” Horace replied, feeling good about being able to help. He stepped back while Jason climbed in the saddle.
“Much obliged,” Jason said in parting. He nudged Biscuit into a comfortable lope through the fir trees that lined the river. In less than a mile, he came upon the campsite and the remains of a large fire. He dismounted and took a look around. It was fairly easy to confirm Horace’s report that there were now five men he was trailing. He was curious as to what manner of men Cantrell had joined, and whether or not they were of the same evil caliber as Mace. It could be that they were unaware of the company they were now keeping. The more he thought about it, however, he had to assume it was more likely they were outlaws as well, like most of Briny’s clientele. At least it should make tracking easier following five instead of one lone rider. He took his time scouting the entire perimeter of the camp. It appeared that the four men Cantrell had joined up with had camped there more than a day or so, judging by the many tracks and the impressions still in the short grass where their bedrolls were spread, as well as evidence of the fire having been rekindled several times. In scouting the tracks around the camp, the thing he wanted to be most sure of was which set was the last to leave.
He finally settled on a group of tracks that were fresher than any others and all leading on a northern course along the river. He couldn’t be certain, but he guessed he was following five riders and four packhorses, and he counted himself fortunate to discover that one of the horses was evidently an Indian pony, for it wore no shoes. He set out after them with no further delay, not sure exactly how much lead they had on him. If at all possible, he hoped to catch up before they struck the main trail through the valley and mixed their tracks with the many others who had taken the mountain pass on their way to the Yellowstone.
The trail through the pass was not as difficult to distinguish as he had feared, thanks to the Indian pony. Once through the pass, they had turned to an even more direct northern course, causing him to wonder where they were going. There were no towns of any size in that direction. In fact, they appeared to be heading back the same way he had come when trailing Cantrell. Could they possibly be on their way to Paradise Valley? It was a question that gave Jason pause and spawned other questions. Who were these four men Cantrell had joined? And what did they have in mind, if Paradise was in fact their destination? The town had suffered a staggering setback from Mace Cantrell’s initial visit. Jason feared it could not survive a second visit like the first. What law there was was laid up, healing from two wounds. There would be no one to stop a gang of five outlaws. There were a lot of innocent people who might not escape harm this time around—folks like Fred and Lena Hatfield—and Roseanna.
Then he told himself that it didn’t make sense. There was nothing in the fledgling settlement to make it worthwhile for a gang of outlaws to ride that distance. Unless, he thought, they had an eye for rustling a herd of cattle. Now it was plain as day, and he wondered why he hadn’t thought of that possibility right away. He was convinced that this was what Cantrell and his partners had in mind, so much so that he abandoned the search for tracks and turned Biscuit’s head toward Paradise. His concern now was for Joe Gault. The blacksmith could not count on help from anyone to face the riders heading his way. “We’ll get there as fast as we can,” he said to Biscuit. “That’s all we can do.”
“We gotta rest these horses,” Booker said as they approached a small stream that wound like a snake across a treeless valley. They had been pushing the animals pretty hard for most of the morning and some of the horses were beginning to show the effects. “What’s the all-fired hurry, anyway?” he asked Cantrell. “You said them cattle is scattered all over hell and back. They ain’t likely to wander far.”
Cantrell squirmed nervously in the saddle. “I ain’t worried about those damn cows,” he replied. “There’s somethin’ else I wanna settle.”
One Eye grinned. “That jasper that chased you outta town?” Cantrell didn’t answer, but One Eye read his expression. “I believe he kinda got under your skin a little bit. Whaddaya think, Stump?”
The short, stocky man pulled his horse up alongside One Eye. “I believe he musta,” he said with a grin. “Ol’ Mace has got blood in his eye. Reminds me of that time in Sawyer’s Town when that feller shot Mace’s horse.” Cantrell only grunted in response. Stump continued. “You remember, Booker, that feller at the gristmill—took a shot at Mace with a shotgun, missed Mace but peppered his horse’s ass good.” He paused to chuckle over the incident. “Mace came off that horse, legs and arms flyin’. That feller took off runnin’, and Mace right after him.”
They all enjoyed a laugh, except for Mace. He remembered the incident well, and Stump was right, he had been furious. He had to shoot the man in the leg in order to catch him, but he was not content to simply kill him. He closed his eyes while he recalled the brutal satisfaction he felt while beating the helpless man to death with the shotgun
he had fired at him. He looked around him then at the four men he had rejoined, and he felt invincible again. Then the image of Jason Storm came to his mind’s eye and the picture kindled a slow rage that would not be quelled until he saw the man dead. Jason Storm had been the cause of Cantrell’s one moment of fear, the thought of which brought a sick feeling to the pit of Mace’s stomach.
Picking a spot where a thin stand of willows was making a valiant effort to procreate, they dismounted and let the horses drink. Booker sat down near the bank of the stream and pulled a plug of tobacco from his pocket. Using his pocketknife, he cut off a chew and offered the plug to Mace. He studied Mace carefully while he helped himself to the tobacco. “This feller, this walkin’ dead man you’re itchin’ to settle up with—who the hell is he? You say he ain’t the sheriff of that little town?”
“I told you,” Cantrell replied gruffly, “I don’t know who he is. He said he was just passin’ through—came in the saloon to get a drink and then I thought he went on his way. But the son of a bitch sneaked back in the general store and shot two of my men.”
Booker worked his chew up for a few moments, then spat before commenting. “Sounds to me like somethin’ musta caught his eye. He found somethin’ to make it worth his while to help the town out. Maybe he’s already roundin’ up them cows.”
“Maybe,” Cantrell allowed, “but it’s too big a job for one man alone, and there ain’t nobody that I could see to help him. Me and my boys took care of that first thing,” he said, thinking of the massacre of Raymond Pryor’s crew.
“We’d best take care of that stud horse before we do anythin’ else,” Booker remarked. “How much farther before we get to this town?”
“Before sundown tomorrow,” Cantrell replied. “Just remember I got first call on him. He owes me.”
Booker laughed. “Hell, you’re welcome to him. If he’s as tough as you say he is, I don’t know if the rest of us can handle him.” He winked at Stump, causing the stocky man to grin in return.
“Once I take care of him,” Cantrell continued, “the whole town is ours for the takin’. The only help he had was the deputy sheriff and maybe the blacksmith. I shot the deputy. He’s either dead or laid up, so that just leaves the blacksmith and he ought’n to be no trouble at all without the other two.”
The situation sounded good to his four new partners—a town for the taking. As soon as the horses were rested, they were back in the saddle and headed for Paradise.
One full day behind the five outlaws, Jason Storm pushed on, intent upon making up as much time as possible. With the passing of each mile, he became more certain that their destination was indeed the vulnerable little settlement of Paradise. Verifying his suspicions, he happened upon the remains of a campfire and evidence that at least five riders had stopped there overnight. Although the signs caused him to worry about the innocent folks who lay in harm’s way, there was little he could do to move faster. His horses had to rest or he’d wind up walking to Paradise. He wished there was some way he could warn Joe Gault and Fred Hatfield, and Tom Austin, but it was impossible. He feared he might reach Paradise only in time to find another massacre like the one he had discovered at Raymond Pryor’s ranch. Once more his thoughts centered on Roseanna Swain, and once again he asked himself why she kept returning to his mind. It occurred to him that this was the first time since Mary Ellen’s death that he had given much thought to knowing any woman. Like it or not, she was stuck in his craw, he conceded, and the only reason he could come up with was because she kept referring to him as her guardian angel. “Some angel,” he grunted, knowing that trouble was bearing down on the little town and he was too far behind to prevent it.
Roseanna Swain dipped her scrub brush into the bucket of soapy water again, then applied it aggressively to the pattern of stains on the wooden floor. It appeared to be a hopeless endeavor, for the bloodstains had leached into the grain of the pine planks. “Oh, darlin’,” Lena Hatfield uttered when she came in from the storeroom, where she had been putting the shelves back in order. “You shouldn’t be doing that.”
“It’s all right,” Roseanna replied. “I don’t mind. I should be doing it, since I’m the one who caused it.” She straightened up to give Lena a smile. “I’m afraid they’re not coming up, anyway.” Until that morning, she had been reluctant to even enter the room where she had been accosted by the two hoodlums. The violent deaths of the two outlaws had shattered her world of monotonous routine, causing fear that she had never experienced before. The picture of the two leering outlaws returned again and again to cause her to tremble even days afterward. Everything seemed to have happened then like lightning striking, and she could still picture the image of the brave avenger who stood tall and powerful as he dispatched her two assailants.
She had to admit to herself that at that moment she had been as frightened of Jason Storm as she had of the two outlaws. He had seemed so cold and efficient in the killing of the two men. She told herself now that she had been wrong in her initial assessment of the man. Out of gratitude for saving her life in the store, she had called him her guardian angel. After the events that followed in the days afterward, she became convinced that he truly deserved the title, for he seemed always to be there when she needed him most. She fervently hoped that he might return to Paradise.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Lena asked when Roseanna seemed to be lost in reverie.
Roseanna favored her friend with a warm smile. “Yes, I’m fine. But I’m giving up on these spots.”
“Don’t fret over them,” Lena said cheerfully. “After we open the store again, they’ll be hid under a layer of dirt within a day or so.” She reached down to take Roseanna by the arm. “Come on, we’ll fix something to eat. Fred’ll be wanting dinner pretty soon.”
From behind the back counter, where he was busy repairing a broken shelf, Fred responded. “That’s a fact, and I’m wonderin’ why you ain’t fixin’ some food right now.”
There had been a concerted effort by Fred and Lena to maintain an optimistic attitude toward the cleanup that had to be done after the gunfight. It was still undetermined if enough of the settlement’s population would remain to rebuild Raymond Pryor’s dream. A meeting was planned for that evening to discuss that possibility and the town’s chances for survival. The merchants in Paradise were at the mercy of the surrounding settlers. Supplies could be freighted in from Helena, but Hatfield would wait for a commitment from the farmers that they were not going to pull up roots and move to another valley. There had already been agreement on the idea of selling Raymond Pryor’s cattle and using the proceeds to strengthen the town’s businesses. Joe Gault, with help from Dr. Taylor’s son, Mike, had already been trying to round up some of the strays that had ventured too far from the herd. It was going to take more than the two of them to move the entire herd to Deer Lodge, where a large outfit, the Double-B, would probably buy them. Joe figured the Double-B could lend a few hands to help move the cattle.
Ben Thompson’s widow had offered Gus Hopkins half interest in the saloon if he would take over the management of it, so Gus was a strong advocate for resurrecting the town. Dr. Taylor had committed to stay, as had Arnold Poss and Wilson James, the barber and undertaker. With the help of a crutch, Tom Austin was already up and about, offering any help he could manage. The commitment they all needed was that of the settlers on the farms outside the town, and that would most likely be determined at the meeting in the saloon that evening.
“Don’t be too long,” Lena reminded her husband. “We’re gonna eat a little early because of the meeting tonight.” When Fred replied that she needn’t worry, he’d be right behind them, she and Roseanna left the store and went to the house.
“Do you think Jason will come back to Paradise?” Roseanna asked as they crossed the footbridge over the small creek between the Hatfields’ house and the alley behind the store.
Lena raised an eyebrow and replied, “Why, I don’t have any idea. I don’t know w
hy he would. A man like Jason Storm isn’t likely to settle down in one spot for very long.” Still concerned for Roseanna’s interest in a man that so little was known about, she asked, “Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” Roseanna replied. “Just curious. Don’t you wonder if he will catch up with Mace Cantrell and if we’ll ever see him again?”
“No, I don’t. There’s nothing I can do about it one way or another. They’re two of a kind. If he catches up with Cantrell one of them will probably shoot the other one, and that’ll be the end of that. The one that walks away will find some other place to make trouble.”
“Jason hasn’t made any trouble,” Roseanna insisted. “If it wasn’t for him, we might all be dead.”
“I guess you’re right,” Lena conceded. “I guess I am wrong to judge Jason, but I don’t think you should count on him too much. I don’t wanna see you get hurt.”
Roseanna could feel a sudden blush in her cheeks, and quickly denied any interest in the man. “I’m not gonna get hurt. I’m just grateful to him for what he’s done for all of us. My goodness, Lena, you worry too much.”
For all of the children that accompanied their parents that evening, and all of the women but one, it was their first time inside the saloon. The one exception was Patty Witcher, who had on several occasions boldly invaded the male sanctuary to retrieve her husband. Bob sometimes fell victim to the lure of the uncorked bottle and forgot to come home, and would not have remembered the way if he had started for his farm. Fortunately, Bob’s visits to town were infrequent, so Patty was not called upon to demonstrate her fiery temperament on a regular basis. Her no-nonsense persona and aggressive style were generally attributed to her red hair, which she wore in a tight bun. Though tough as nails, she was a handsome woman by anyone’s standards.
Storm in Paradise Valley Page 13