Storm in Paradise Valley

by Charles G. West

  Roseanna looked at Mike and shook her head. “He’s got a lot more healing to do yet. The wound looked better this morning when I changed his bandage, but he needs something better than bacon and beans to make his blood strong. He needs some red meat.” She nodded toward the open door and the corral beyond.

  Mike caught her meaning right away. “I can kill one of those cows grazing out there. I can butcher one, too. I helped Garland Wheeler when he butchered one.” He glanced over at the wounded man. “I reckon that’s up to Jason, though.”

  “No, it’s not,” Roseanna pronounced emphatically. “It’s up to me, and I say he needs red meat to help him heal.”

  Mike looked at Jason again to see his reaction to her statement. “I reckon she’s the boss,” Jason said. “You can kill one of the calves. There’ll be less waste. We ain’t got time to dry it now before it spoils.” He looked at Roseanna and smiled. He didn’t say so, but he had no intention of lying around in bed waiting for his wound to heal. As far as he was concerned, Roseanna was right. He needed some red meat to strengthen his blood. He had already decided that if he improved as much by the next day as he had since yesterday, he intended to finish the business he had started. He didn’t need to be at full strength to pull a trigger. Maybe Cantrell and his partners would be satisfied with the cattle and move on out of the valley, but he couldn’t count on that. He was going to have to track him down, anyway. That herd of cattle belonged to the people of Paradise. It would bring them money they needed to build the town, and there was no guarantee that Cantrell and his gang could be bought off with the cattle.

  Mike’s butchering skills needed a lot of work, but he managed to render enough meat to satisfy their needs for several days, as well as a fair portion to take back to town with him. Roseanna skewered the fresh beef and roasted it over the open flame in the fireplace. The aroma of roasting beef filled the cabin, accelerating the healing process in Jason’s mind even before he enjoyed the first bite, and he thought he could already feel his strength returning.

  After a supper that satisfied everyone’s appetite, Jason and Roseanna said good-bye to Mike and thanked him for his help. Then, in spite of Roseanna’s protests, Jason fashioned a bed for himself using saddle blankets and the one extra blanket that he carried behind his saddle. “You need to get a better night’s sleep,” he told her. “It’s a wonder you ain’t plum wore out, sittin’ up against the wall every night. You take the bed. I’ll sleep just fine on the floor.”

  Jason had been right concerning Roseanna’s state of fatigue, for she was still sleeping when he got up the next morning. While she slept, he revived the fire and put on some coffee to boil. Then he walked outside to evaluate his condition of recovery. Walking to the woods behind the cabin to tend to his morning urgencies, he was aware that he was still a little shaky, but he figured that he would be a bit steadier after he had coffee and some food. His wound, though tender as hell, had not bled overnight. And while it was painful to turn his shoulders very far in either direction, he pronounced himself ready to ride.

  “What are you doing up?” Roseanna asked upon awakening to find Jason filling the two cups with fresh coffee. Looking around her in distress, she wondered, “How long have I been lolling here in bed while you were doing my job?”

  “Not long,” he said, smiling. “Did you get a good night’s sleep?”

  “I did,” she replied, hurrying now to get out of bed. Noticing then that he was wearing his boots and obviously dressed to do more than sit around the cabin, she asked, “What are you fixing to do?”

  “I figure it’s time to get you back to town before folks start to talk about you,” he replied with a mischievous grin.

  She was at once alarmed. “Jason, you’re not ready to go looking for trouble. Your wound needs time to heal.”

  “I’ll be all right,” he said. “I heal pretty fast.” He paused to take a sip of the hot coffee while he formed his words in his mind. “I reckon you know I can’t thank you enough for comin’ out here to take care of me. I know it was a heap of trouble on your part and I just want you to know I appreciate it.”

  “Jason, I wanted to do it,” she replied. Then, studying his eyes as he gazed at her, she asked, “Why didn’t you tell anyone that you were a law officer?”

  “I don’t know. I just wanted to put all that behind me, I guess—wanted to start out new before I got too old to do it.”

  “And you came here and got tossed right back into chasing outlaws,” she commented.

  He smiled. “Yep, I guess I did, didn’t I?”

  Changing the subject abruptly, she asked, “Who is Mary Ellen? Was she your wife?”

  The question caught him by surprise and he stumbled for a moment. “Mary Ellen?” he asked.

  “Yes, you called out to her during your sleep one night.”

  He nodded apologetically. “Mary Ellen was my wife. Pneumonia took her from me a long time ago. We hadn’t been married but a couple of years.”

  Roseanna didn’t comment, but she couldn’t help but feel justified in her belief in the goodness of the man. Satisfied, she could now put the question of Mary Ellen to rest in her mind. They sat in silence for a few minutes, drinking their coffee, before Roseanna announced, “Well, if you’re intent upon getting rid of me, I guess I’d better fix some breakfast. It’s a pretty good ride back to Paradise.”

  While Roseanna prepared the food, Jason went out to saddle Biscuit. Before he walked out the door, he said, “I don’t have but one saddle. You want me to bridle my packhorse so you can ride bareback? Or do you wanna ride up behind me on Biscuit?” She chose to ride up behind him. Breakfast finished, and the two plates and cups cleaned and put away neatly on the shelf, they climbed up on the horse and started for Paradise.

  Chapter 13

  “Hardheaded sons of bitches!” Booker swore as he raced to head off a half dozen cows that had turned away from the herd. The four outlaws were finding out in short order that they knew little about moving a herd the size of this one. They had rustled cattle before, but not in numbers this great. Their experience had been limited to cutting out a dozen or so from some rancher’s herd and stampeding them ahead of them in their getaway. He looked around him to find his partners exhibiting a similar lack of drover expertise. “Maybe this ain’t such a good idea,” he muttered to himself, thinking he’d rather rob a hundred banks than try to drive these ornery animals. “Let’s let ’em graze here for a while,” he called to Stump. “I’m hungry.” He got no objection from Stump, who was as frustrated as he.

  While Booker picked a spot beside a small stream to build a fire, Stump rode out to signal One Eye and Cantrell. When they arrived to join Booker, he was still struggling with flint and steel, trying to light his fire. “Who’s got some damn matches?” he fumed. “I swear, I don’t know what happened to all of mine, and it’s gonna take all day to start this fire this way.”

  “I still got plenty,” Stump replied, laughing at Booker’s frustration. “You ain’t doin’ it right, anyway. You got to get you somethin’ better’n them sticks for tinder, else you ain’t never gonna get a spark to light it.” He reached in his shirt pocket, took out one match, and handed it to Booker.

  His comments were met with a scowl as Booker took the match and struck it on his belt buckle. Fanning it carefully, he managed to start a flame in the bed of dried leaves he had placed under a crosshatch of small limbs. Stump and One Eye grinned at each other, enjoying Booker’s lack of skill in building a fire. One Eye was the one who usually built the campfires, for no particular reason other than that somewhere along the line he had just happened to take on that chore.

  Cantrell, however, found a sense of competition in all things related to Booker, so he was moved to comment. “You’d be in a helluva fix by yourself without no matches,” he said. “I reckon you’d have to learn to eat your meat raw.”

  “Not as long as I could bust open a cartridge and dump the gunpowder out of it,” Booker retorted.
r />   “Most likely blow your arm off,” Cantrell parried.

  “You two move aside and argue somewhere else,” One Eye interjected, impatient with the bickering between the two would-be bosses. “Me and Stump wanna get some coffee made before dark.”

  Booker gladly let him take over the chore. He stepped out of the way to watch One Eye work. While he watched, his discontent with driving cattle returned, causing him to comment, “I swear, I hate drivin’ cattle.”

  “I ain’t partial to it myself,” Stump said. “ ’Specially when there ain’t no chuck wagon along.”

  “We’re already short of supplies,” Booker pointed out, thinking of the matches and a dozen other things. “And there ain’t no place to get any between here and the Musselshell.” His comment started the other three thinking. The plan they had talked over and decided upon was to drive the stolen cattle to a grassy roundup spot next to the Musselshell River, a spot often used by a large cattle outfit. They had sold small lots of cattle to the owner of the large outfit before. He had no qualms about where the cows had come from, and paid cash on the barrelhead.

  There had been some speculation that the rancher might not want to buy a herd of this size. “Then what the hell will we do with ’em?” Cantrell had asked. “If he don’t buy ’em, we sure as hell can’t keep drivin’ that many cows all over the territory.”

  “He’s always paid cash on the spot before,” One Eye replied.

  “For the few we had to sell,” Booker reminded him. “He ain’t likely to be carrying enough cash with him to buy all these cows. We’d have to wait for our money, and trust him on the sale.”

  The discussion went on for a while after the coffee boiled until Cantrell finally summed things up. “There ain’t no towns where we’re headin’, and we need supplies. There’s a town for the takin’ a day and a half back that way. I say we leave the damn cows right where they are for a few days. They’ve got grass and water. They ain’t goin’ nowhere. They’ll be right here when we get back. And we’ll get the stuff we need.”

  His companions looked at each other, thinking it over. “Hell, sounds like the thing to do,” Stump said. “They’re as good as in a holdin’ pen right where they are.”

  “Suits me.” One Eye agreed, thinking that what he needed most at the present time was a drink of whiskey.

  Booker looked at Cantrell and shrugged. “I reckon we’re ridin’ back to Paradise,” he said.

  The comment brought a smile to Cantrell’s face. He, like the others, could use some supplies. But the thought of being driven out of town before had never left his mind for most of his waking hours. He would have his revenge upon the miserable little town for the pain and humiliation its inhabitants had caused him. Of that he was certain, but it seemed that the slow, frustrating task of driving the herd of cattle was only serving to take him farther and farther away from realizing his vengeance. The killing of Jason Storm was not enough to satisfy his lust. He would not be content until he had killed everyone who had dared to resist him, especially those who had a hand in the death of his brother.

  It was a late start the following morning, but no one seemed to be in any particular hurry. It was going to take a day and a half anyway, so there was no reason to hurry.

  Tom Austin made his rounds of the town’s businesses on this day like he had for several days now. His crutch already discarded, he walked the short street with a limp as he favored the wounded leg. A lot had happened in the last few days to put the town’s citizens in a constant state of nervous alert, and Tom was determined to man up to his responsibility as sheriff, a title he had assumed after Oscar Perkins resigned. He nodded solemnly to Wilson James, the barber, as he passed his establishment, and Wilson returned the nod with one of his own, accompanied by a lifting of his shotgun by the window.

  All of the few merchants in town had risen to the occasion in a show of solidarity against another attack on their town. Tom was sure he could count on Joe Gault, Gus Hopkins, and Fred Hatfield. They had more to lose than the others. He didn’t expect much from his old employer, Arnold Poss. Arnold just didn’t have much stomach for fighting. Some of the farmers who lived close to town had offered to help if needed, but of the lot, only Bob and Patty Witcher had demonstrated their commitment. In fact, Patty had moved in with the Hatfields temporarily, defying Bob’s insistence that he feared for her safety. Patty was adamant in her claim that she could handle a double-barreled shotgun as well as she could a broom. Tom had to smile when he remembered the look of frustration on Bob’s face as he tried to reason with his wife’s determination. The missing factor was the one man who could make the difference when it came to defending Paradise. But Jason Storm was critically wounded, according to Mike Taylor and Joe Gault, and Tom could not look to him for help. It’s up to me to hold this town together, he thought as he turned in at the sheriff’s office. It’s my job now and I intend to do it.

  It was difficult for a man of Tom’s age to seat himself in the sheriff’s desk chair and not feel the satisfaction of being of such importance. Although the other townsfolk had endorsed his appointment, there was no form of compensation now that Raymond Pryor was dead. Tom’s meager income still came from his employ as Arnold Poss’ stable manager. Still there was the feeling of being in charge that temporarily made up for the lack of income. Planning to rest his leg for a while before making his presence known on the street again, he took his arm out of the sling and tested the soreness of his shoulder. It was still too tender to go without the sling’s support for any length of time, but he knew he was going to discard it if the showdown with Cantrell occurred. He lifted the edge of his bandage to take a peek at the wound. It was healing nicely, thanks to Dr. Taylor’s care. A few more days and it should be a lot less tender. Unfortunately, unknown to him, he didn’t have a few more days before he would be called upon to test it.

  With nothing else to do, he picked up the Winchester rifle that Raymond Pryor had purchased for the sheriff’s office and checked the action. He was reloading the live cartridge that was ejected as a result when something in the street caught his eye. Pausing to gaze out the open door of his office, he was stunned to see the four men riding abreast down the dusty street.

  In spite of all his mental preparation, he found himself frozen in his chair as the terrible reality of the situation struck him like a boulder. It was Cantrell and his men! He was going to have to act! It seemed as if time stood still as he remained immobile behind the desk, but when he finally willed himself to get up from the chair and go to the door, the four riders were already past and headed for the saloon. Removing his sling and casting it aside, he clutched the Winchester with a desperate grip, trying to decide what to do. The thought entered his mind that he could just take aim and start shooting. Yet he hesitated, not sure if that might start a massacre of the whole town. He looked down at his hands clutching the rifle so hard that his knuckles were white, and the weapon seemed to be twice as heavy as before.

  He was still standing there, staring after the four outlaws when Mike Taylor ran across from the barbershop to shake him out of his trance. “Tom!” Mike exclaimed in a panic. “It’s them! They’re here! What are you gonna do?”

  Doing his best to bolster his courage, Tom hesitated before answering, realizing that, like him, no one else along the street deemed it wise to take a shot at the invaders—all were reluctant to trigger the shoot-out. By this time the four were tying their horses at the hitching rail in front of the saloon. When he finally responded to Mike’s excited question, he had steadied his resolve. “I expect I’ll go up to the saloon and take care of ’em,” he said, still uncertain exactly what that would entail.

  “I wonder what Gus is gonna do,” Mike blurted. There was no report of a gunshot as the four men disappeared through the doorway to the saloon.

  “I don’t know,” Tom replied, “but I’d better get up there and take charge of things.” With fatal resolve, he gave the doctor’s son a determined nod and started tow
ard the saloon. Mike stayed to watch him as he limped up the dusty street. Then Mike ran to the blacksmith shop to find Joe Gault.

  The four outlaws had not passed the general store unnoticed. Fred Hatfield, alone in the store while Lena and Patty Witcher went to the house to start supper, stood beside the front window, peeking at the unwelcome visitors. Like Tom Austin, he held a weapon in his hands, but was afraid to use it lest he call death and destruction down upon himself. The will to fight had been there when the citizens had gathered to talk about defending the town. But in the reality of seeing the faces of the dangerous men, he had lost the nerve to fire the first shot. Relieved temporarily when they passed him by and went to the saloon, he hurried to the door, turned the CLOSED sign around, and pulled down the door shades. When Lena and Patty returned with his supper, they found him still peeking out the corner of the window. When he related the news of the outlaws’ return, Lena’s face blanched and Patty went immediately to the corner of the counter where she had left her shotgun.

  As before, when the outlaws suddenly appeared at his door, Gus Hopkins was momentarily paralyzed. He let his hand drift underneath the counter to rest on the stock of the shotgun, but was unwilling to withdraw it lest it mean certain death. To confirm his fears, Mace Cantrell greeted him. With a malevolent grin on his unshaven face, he said, “Hello, Gus. Go ahead and pull that shotgun.”

  Gus immediately placed both hands palm down on the counter and moved away from the shotgun. “I wasn’t gonna do nothin’,” he said. Fully aware that he was again at their mercy, he made an effort to assume a business-as-usual façade. “What can I do for you fellers?” He unconsciously flinched when One Eye reached over the counter and fished for the shotgun, causing Stump to chuckle at his reaction.

  “Whaddaya think?” Booker replied to Gus’ question.