Storm in Paradise Valley

by Charles G. West

  Gus immediately grabbed a bottle and filled four glasses while he nervously watched the door, praying that a party of concerned citizens would suddenly appear. Still trying to act as if everything was normal, he summoned the courage to speak. “You know, you forgot to pay for them drinks you had in here the other day.”

  “We didn’t forget,” Cantrell replied. “Keep pourin’.”

  Gus did as he was told, wondering where Tom Austin and the others were. While Cantrell remained leaning on the bar, holding Gus captive with his menacing eyes, his three companions poked around the room, looking for anything that caught their fancy. Stump peered inside the door to the storeroom. Booker checked the back door to the alley, while One Eye walked behind the counter. Sliding past the frightened bartender, he went to the cash register and opened the drawer. “You sure as hell ain’t got much money in here,” he commented.

  “There ain’t many customers come in this early,” Gus replied, glancing nervously from Cantrell to One Eye.

  “Maybe you keep more money someplace else,” Cantrell suggested. “I believe I saw a safe in that back room when I was here before.” He turned his head to call out to Stump. “What about it, Stump? You see a safe in there?”

  Stump had already spotted the small safe against the wall in the storeroom. “Yeah,” he called back, “there’s a safe in here, but there ain’t nothin’ in it. It ain’t even locked.”

  When Cantrell shot an accusing glance at Gus, the bartender quickly insisted, “Business is bad—hardly nothin’ at all since you killed Mr. Pryor.” As soon as he said it, he worried that he might have offended Cantrell.

  “I don’t understand why this pitiful little town ain’t dried up and blown away,” Booker commented after his poking around the room resulted in finding nothing of value. Glancing at One Eye, he said, “Take whatever there is in the register.” He looked around him as if taking inventory. “At least we can take some whiskey with us.” He smiled at the helpless bartender. “Then I reckon we can burn this place to the ground, unless Gus, here, remembers where he’s got some more money hid.”

  “I swear,” Gus pleaded, “there ain’t no more money.”

  “Well, hell,” Booker responded, “how can you stay in business? Might as well burn the place down anyway.” Impatient with the lack of potential wealth in the saloon, he told Stump, “Go next door to that store and see what they’ve got.”

  Stump walked out of the saloon, took the steps down to the sidewalk, and stopped to consider the locked doors of the general store and the CLOSED sign. “Huh,” he grunted, amused, before raring back on one leg, and with one powerful thrust kicking the double doors open. As the doors banged against the inside wall, he stood triumphantly for only a moment before the blast of a shotgun flung him backward to land on the board walkway.

  It had happened so suddenly that Fred Hatfield was momentarily petrified. Seated on her backside in the middle of the floor after pulling both triggers of the double-barreled shotgun at the same time, Patty Witcher seemed astonished by the results of her actions. She looked to either side of her, first at Fred, then at Lena. They both looked horrified by what had just taken place, and neither seemed able to move. Picking herself up, she reloaded both barrels of her shotgun and demanded, “Well, are you just gonna stand there like a statue? Close the doors before the next one comes bustin’ in here.”

  Acting out of fear instead of bravado, Fred jumped to obey. “It ain’t gonna do no good,” he complained. “The lock’s busted.”

  Impatient with Fred’s lack of courage, Patty said, “Well, put the bar on it this time. It’ll slow ’em down.”

  “There’s gonna be hell to pay,” Fred moaned. “We’d better get outta here before his friends come bustin’ in to get us.”

  Growing more and more disgusted with Fred’s lack of backbone, Patty chided, “I thought we said we were gonna fight those murderers and defend our town.”

  Adding anger to his fear, Fred responded heatedly. “Things have changed now since you blasted one of ’em. They’ll be comin’ in here to kill ever’one of us. We’ve got to run for our lives.” Clutching his own shotgun, he started for the back door. “Come on, Lena. It’s our only chance.”

  Out the door he went, his wife right behind him. “Patty!” Lena exclaimed. “Run!”

  “Run, hell!” Patty retorted. “I didn’t come here to run.” She moved to take cover behind the counter at the rear of the store. Outside, the sound of angry voices could clearly be heard as Stump’s companions found his blood-covered body spread-eagled on the board walkway. Remembering then, she ran back to the center of the floor, grabbed the box of shotgun shells she had left there, and scurried back to the safety of the counter. Moments later, one of the doors opened no more than a crack as Booker tried to peek inside. Patty immediately sent another blast of buckshot toward the door—this time emptying just one barrel.

  “Hoddo-mighty!” Booker exclaimed as he jumped back away from the door. Then, enraged, he emptied his .44, sending bullets smashing through the window. One Eye and Cantrell followed his lead, shattering the other window in a barrage of lead.

  As fast as they could reload, they continued the assault until Cantrell yelled a warning. “Look out! They’re comin’ up behind us!”

  Booker and One Eye turned at once to discover Tom Austin in the middle of the street. Not far behind him, Joe Gault and Mike Taylor were running to catch up. While the sight of the three armed citizens was enough to end their assault on the general store, it by no means instilled fear in the gunmen. Remembering the beating he had taken on his first visit to Paradise, Cantrell cursed angrily, “Come on, you sons of bitches,” and blazed away with his pistols. They were forced to dive for cover—Joe and Mike behind the corner of the barbershop porch, Tom behind a watering trough. An exchange of gunfire ensued, but the range was too great for pistols. The outlaws had scant cover, however, and they decided they’d be better off to retreat back inside the saloon.

  “The son of a bitch barred the damn door!” One Eye cursed when he could not force the door open. The realization that Gus had taken the opportunity to place the heavy timber across the door as soon as the three of them ran out to discover Stump’s body only fueled their anger.

  “I’m tired of foolin’ around with these bastards,” Booker growled. Moving quickly to his horse, he pulled his rifle from the saddle scabbard. Following his lead, Cantrell and One Eye did the same. All three returned to the questionable cover of the saloon steps without getting shot. “Now, by God.” Booker said, and opened up with the rifle.

  The superior accuracy of the rifles made things hot for the man behind the water trough and the two behind the barbershop porch. And as the lead came closer and closer, ripping chunks of wood from the porch floor and stripping large slivers from the trough, they found it hard to expose themselves long enough to aim at anything. They were forced to withdraw. Crawling backward, Tom safely reached the barbershop to join Joe and Mike, who were pinned down at the edge of the porch. They all scrambled for safety behind the shop. Out of the line of fire beside the building, they paused a few moments to try to decide what to do, having found that charging the outlaws was a losing game.

  As they started toward the back and the alley, a window suddenly opened and Wilson James poked his head out. “Whaddaya gonna do?” he asked the two startled men. “I’ve got my rifle, but I wasn’t gonna stick my neck out in the street and get my head shot off.”

  “Come on,” Tom said. “There ain’t but three of ’em. If we can get some of the others to help, we can surround ’em.”

  Wilson opened the window all the way and scrambled out. “What about Gus?” he asked.

  “Don’t know,” Tom replied, “but I reckon he’s all right. It looked to me like they tried to get back in the saloon, but couldn’t open the door. So I reckon he’s holed up inside.”

  “I heard a shotgun blastin’ away,” Wilson said. “Sounded like it came from Fred’s place.”


  “Yeah,” Joe Gault said. “Fred cut down on one of them outlaws when he tried to break in. That sure as hell took care of one of the bastards.”

  “I reckon that means Gus and Fred are both holed up in their places,” Tom reasoned. “They ain’t gonna be much use to us if they stay holed up. We’d best go back down to the stable to see if any help has showed up.” The farmers who had promised to help defend the town were supposed to come running if they heard shooting, and the stables were the agreed-upon assembly spot.

  Falling back to the stables, Tom was pleased to see Bob Witcher and Garland Wheeler arriving at almost the same time. There were six now, a much improved ratio. Wheeler was ready to charge up the street right away until Tom and Joe convinced him that it was not a good idea. Witcher made it clear that before he participated in any assaults, he had to make sure Patty was safe somewhere. So he informed them that he was going to go to Fred Hatfield’s house first, to inform his wife to remain there. “She’s liable to wanna jump right in the middle of the fight, so I wanna tell her to stay the hell outta the way.”

  “All right,” Tom said, realizing that there was no use arguing with him on that score. He was trying to think of the best way to approach the problem at hand, but he wasn’t at all sure how to go about it. He didn’t say it, but he wished that Jason Storm was there to take charge. “We’ll wait till you check to make sure Patty’s all right, then we’ll split up and surround ’em.”

  “How do we know where they’ll be by that time?” Joe Gault asked. “They ain’t likely to set there and wait while we’re makin’ up our minds what we’re gonna do.”

  “You’re right,” Tom said, still vacillating over his decision. “I reckon one of us oughta keep an eye on ’em till everybody is ready to move.”

  “I’ll do it.” Joe volunteered. “I’ll move across to the riverbank, like we did the first time we ran ’em outta town.”

  “All right,” Tom quickly agreed, all the while wracking his brain to try to formulate a plan of attack. There was no desire to rush the hardened killers. These men showed no inclination to run. But as sheriff, he knew the responsibility was his to direct the defense of the town. “You be careful, Joe. The rest of us can wait here till Bob gets back, or you signal that they’re comin’ this way.”

  “It’s me, Bob Witcher!” he yelled as he banged on the front door of Fred Hatfield’s house. There was no answer right away, so he continued hammering on the door until finally the door opened a crack and Fred peeked out. “Dammit, Fred, let me in.” Fred stood back and held the door open. Bob raised an eyebrow in surprise when he remembered what he had been told at the stables. “We thought you was holed up in your store after you shot that outlaw. Where’s Patty?”

  Standing in the hall behind her husband, Lena said, “Patty’s in the store. She’s the one who shot that man.”

  “What?” Bob blurted, horrified by what he had just heard. His knees almost buckled with the news. “What was she—” He stumbled. “Why did you let her do that? You shoulda watched out for her!”

  “Let her?” Lena responded. “Try to stop her is more like it. After she shot that man, we tried to get her to run, to come with us, but she wouldn’t do it.”

  “Oh, Lordy,” Bob wailed, picturing his wife at the mercy of the desperadoes. “I’ve gotta get her out of there. I shoulda never let her stay here in town. I shoulda knowed she’d get herself in trouble. I’ve gotta get back to the stables. We’ve gotta get Patty outta your store.” He immediately gathered his strength, spurred by the panic to save his wife. He paused only briefly as he headed out the door, to chastise Hatfield. “What are you hangin’ back here for, Fred? I thought we was all in this together.”

  “I’ve got Lena to worry about,” Fred answered lamely.

  Bob scorched him with a withering glance, then promptly turned and left, only to recoil in surprise at the sudden appearance of a man on horseback facing him. Fumbling to raise his shotgun, he recognized the rider in time. “Jason Storm!” he gasped. “I almost shot you.”

  “Well, I appreciate you holdin’ off,” Jason replied dryly. He reached behind him to give Roseanna a hand as she slid off the horse.

  Lena brushed by her husband and hurried to embrace Roseanna. “Are you all right?” she asked. “I was so worried about you.”

  Roseanna looked astonished. “Why were you worried about me? I was with Jason.”

  “We didn’t know what to think. What if Jason had died? He was hurt pretty bad was what we heard.” She gave Jason a quick glance. “No offense, Jason. We certainly prayed for your recovery.” Not waiting for his response, she returned her attention to Roseanna. “Maybe it would have been just as well if you hadn’t come back today.”

  “We heard the shooting,” Roseanna said. “So I guess they’re back.”

  “They’re back, all right,” Bob Witcher said, interrupting, “and they’ve got Patty trapped in Fred’s store. We’ve got to get to her.”

  “Four of ’em?” Jason asked.

  “Three of ’em,” Bob replied. “Patty shot one of ’em. That’s why they’re tryin’ to get her.”

  His reply surprised Jason. “Your wife killed one of those men? Where are the other three now?”

  “I don’t know for sure, but they were outside the saloon when I came here lookin’ for Patty,” Bob replied. “Tom Austin, Joe Gault, Garland Wheeler, and young Mike Taylor are waitin’ for me to come back.”

  With little show of emotion, Jason listened while Bob and Fred filled him in on everything that had happened. When he had a complete picture of what the situation was, he said, “All right, let’s go back to the stables and meet with the others, and we’ll see what we can do.” Having already judged Fred Hatfield’s potential in a gunfight, he instructed Fred to stay there to protect the women—an order that greatly pleased the storekeeper. With rifle in hand, Jason left his horse to Roseanna’s care and he and Bob went on foot to the stables.

  Chapter 14

  The sight of the broad-shouldered ex-lawman immediately lifted the spirits of the small group of vigilantes waiting at Arnold Poss’ stables. Tom Austin silently thanked God for Jason’s timely return. Figuring that enough time had been wasted, Jason wanted to know where the three outlaws were now.

  “Joe Gault’s over behind the riverbank,” Tom said. “He yelled a minute ago—said they finally busted Gus’ door open and they’re in the saloon now.”

  “Good,” Jason said. “We want ’em in a box, covered front and back. The first thing to do is get Bob’s wife outta that damn store. Then I reckon we’ll have to worry about Gus.” He sent Bob, Wheeler, and Mike up the back alley. “Tom, you take Wilson to the river with you to join Joe Gault. That okay with you, Sheriff?”

  Tom said that it was, then asked, “Where will you be?”

  “I’ll see if I can get Bob’s wife outta that store while you men have the saloon covered front and back.”

  “I reckon we’d best give them a chance to surrender,” Tom said.

  “If you want to,” Jason replied. “But I don’t expect they’ll wanna do that.” He paused just a moment before reminding him. “This time, keep your head down when you do it.”

  “Don’t worry, I learned my lesson last time.”

  “Good,” Jason said. “Let’s go, then.”

  Inside the saloon, Cantrell went straight for Gus Hopkins. “You miserable son of a bitch,” he ranted as he stuck his pistol in Gus’ face. “I’m gonna blow you to hell!”

  “Hold on, Cantrell!” Booker exclaimed. “We may need him alive.”

  “What for?” Cantrell demanded, his pistol still in Gus’ face, the hammer cocked.

  “I ain’t sure yet,” Booker answered, “but if things don’t go the right way for us, we might need him.” He waited until Cantrell relented, then called to One Eye over by the door. “Whaddaya see, One Eye?”

  “There’s a couple more over by that riverbank where the other’n was. Looks like they’re workin’ their way u
p the bank to get in front of the saloon.”

  “You can bet your ass there’s more of ’em fixin’ to cover the back door, too,” Booker said, then swore when it became clear they were boxed in. He cast an accusing eye in Cantrell’s direction. “I thought you said there wasn’t no fight left in these folks.” Cantrell did not reply. “Plum ready for the pickin’, you said. Hell, there’s a damn vigilante posse out there.”

  “Wait till the shootin’ really gets started,” Cantrell shot back in anger. “Then we’ll see how many of ’em run for cover.” He wasn’t at all willing to take a scolding from Booker, even if he had misjudged the town’s willingness to defend itself. “Without Storm they’ll scatter like a bunch of chickens when the lead starts flying.”

  “I reckon we’ll see,” Booker said, then turned to One Eye. “You’d best go watch that back door.” Next, he turned toward Gus. “You go pull a chair up to that back corner and set down. Lean back against the wall so there’s two legs off the floor and don’t move from there.”

  Gus quickly did as he was told, still shaking from looking so recently in death’s door. It seemed to him that his life was destined to be spent at the mercy of men like Cantrell. When they had run out the door after hearing the shotgun blast from the general store, he had run to close the doors and lay the bar across it. But they had managed to break in again when the nails in the bracket on one side of the doors were forced out, dropping the timber to the floor. Still, he had the option of greeting them with a shotgun blast, just as he assumed Fred Hatfield had done. At the sight of the angry faces in the broken doorway, he lost his nerve, thinking of the possibility that he might kill one of them, but the other two would surely kill him. And so he had laid his weapon down. Now all he could do was hope to get the chance to escape as he had the first time Cantrell had held him hostage.

  Booker went to stand beside the front door. Looking across the narrow street toward the river, he got occasional glimpses of the three men working their way along the bank. When they had reached a point directly across from the saloon, one of them called out, “You men in the saloon, this is the sheriff speaking. Come outta there with your hands in the air and there’ll be no shots fired.”