Storm in Paradise Valley

by Charles G. West

  “Why, that’s that damn kid they got for a sheriff,” Cantrell said, standing behind Booker. “I already shot him once. He’s supposed to be dead.”

  “If he is,” Booker remarked sarcastically, “ain’t nobody told him yet.”

  “If he’d raise up from behind that bank a little, I’d make damn sure he is,” Cantrell said.

  Tom called out from the riverbank again. “You got no place to go. You’re covered front and back. You might as well drop your weapons and come outta there with your hands up.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Booker growled. Then, answering the ultimatum, he shouted, “I’ll tell you what, Sheriff, you and your men drop your weapons and come outta that river with your hands up, and I promise I won’t shoot you.”

  Satisfied that his legal responsibilities had been offered and refused, Tom said, “I reckon we can see if we can smoke ’em outta there.” Resting his Winchester in a small trench he had dug in the sand for the purpose, he opened fire, concentrating on the partially open door. Joe and Wilson followed his lead, showering the door and windows with rifle slugs. Moments after they started shooting, they heard volleys from the rear of the saloon.

  With the start of the siege, Jason walked calmly up to the back door of Hatfield’s store and pounded on the door. “Patty Witcher!” he yelled.

  Before he could say more, he heard her voice from inside. “Come through that door and you’ll get the same as your friend.”

  “Patty, it’s me, Jason Storm. Come on outta there and I’ll take you to Hatfield’s house.”

  A long, silent pause followed before he heard movement near the small back window. A few moments later, the door was opened and there stood Patty, a wide grin on her face. “Glad to see you’re still alive,” she said. “I had to make sure there wasn’t one of those bastards with a gun to your head, trying to trick me into opening the door.”

  He couldn’t help but grin. “Come on, and I’ll get your husband to take you to the house.”

  “You sure you don’t need another gun?”

  “No, I think we’ve got all we need. Come on.” He took her by the arm and hurried her across the alley to the outhouse behind the store. Leading her around to the back of the little structure, he ordered, “Stay here and I’ll get your husband.” She might have argued with any other man, but there was something in Jason Storm’s manner that discouraged it.

  Moving up to where the three men were firing into the already bullet-riddled saloon, Jason told Bob where his wife was. “Why don’t you go get her and take her away from all this shootin’?” Bob looked reluctant to leave, but he nodded briefly and, running in a crouch, retreated to the outhouse and his wife. Jason took a position beside the other two as a bullet from the saloon whistled close to his ear.

  Inside the embattled building, the three desperadoes found it increasingly harder to return fire. With Booker in front and One Eye in back, Cantrell moved back and forth between the two, trying for a lucky shot. Up to this point there were no casualties on either side, but it was getting more and more difficult for those holed up in the saloon. Gus had slid out of his chair in the corner to sit on the floor when a couple of stray bullets smashed into the wall near him. An unwilling spectator, he started to crawl toward the counter, but Cantrell ordered him back to the corner. Oh, Lord, he thought, if they don’t shoot me, my friends will.

  It was rapidly becoming obvious to the outlaws that the standoff was going to last until they finally ran out of ammunition. One Eye was the first to complain. “I’m runnin’ low on cartridges,” he called out. “Anybody got some extra?”

  Booker looked at Cantrell and Mace shook his head. “We’re runnin’ out, too,” Booker answered.

  The shooting continued, but at a noticeable decrease in frequency from the outlaws. Cantrell moved up beside One Eye and said, “Better hold off till you’ve got a clear target. We’re all runnin’ low on cartridges.” He peeked through a crack beside the back door, trying for an opportunity for a clean shot, and he suddenly saw a ghost. It was only for an instant, but there was no mistaking the image. “Jason Storm!” He gasped and stepped back away from the door.

  Hearing the utterance as he paused to reload, Booker blurted, “What?”

  Cantrell backed farther away from the back door. “Jason Storm,” he repeated.

  Booker’s reaction was one of fury and disgust. “Jason Storm!” he echoed. “Is that another one of your dead men come back to life?”

  “I swear, I shot him—saw him go down!” He turned to One Eye again and exclaimed, “Shoot him! Shoot the son of a bitch!”

  “I can’t get no angle to bear down on him,” One Eye complained. “He’s behind that big pine, and if I could get a little bit more out the door, I could get a piece of him.” He slowly eased the door open about six inches, enough to stick his rifle out to take aim. In less than a second, he grunted when a bullet slammed into his chest, then staggered backward to drop on the floor, his finger still on the trigger.

  From the front of the saloon, Booker heard One Eye fall. He called back over his shoulder, “How bad are you hurt?”

  “He’s dead,” Cantrell answered for him. He slammed the door shut and locked it. From his vantage point at the edge of the window, he had seen the big lawman in lightninglike response whip his rifle up and send the fatal bullet through the small opening in the door. He began to feel that cold fear in his gut that had seized him before, and this time he had no chance to run.

  “Damn,” Booker swore. “Our gizzard’s about cooked. We’re gonna be outta cartridges before long.” He looked over at Gus, still huddled in the corner. “I reckon it’s time we found out if his friends give a shit about him. I had a feelin’ we might need ol’ Gus before this little party was over.”

  “What are you talkin’ about?” Cantrell asked, his voice shaky and his eyes wide in desperation.

  “Ol’ Gus is our ticket outta here,” Booker said. “Gimme that apron.” When Gus removed his dirty white apron and tossed it to him, Booker knotted it around the muzzle of his rifle. Moving to the front door, he stuck the white flag through the crack and waved it back and forth. “Hey, Sheriff,” he yelled, “I got somethin’ to say. Hold your fire.”

  “The only thing you’ve got to say is you surrender,” Tom called back.

  “You better listen to me,” Booker said and motioned for Cantrell to bring Gus over to the door. “I’ve got your neighbor in here and if you don’t want him killed, you’d best listen to my terms.”

  “You ain’t got no terms,” Joe Gault shouted. “How do we know you ain’t already killed Gus?”

  “We ain’t touched a hair on his head,” Booker responded. “Tell ’em you’re all right, Gus.”

  “I’m all right, Tom. They ain’t done nothin’ to me yet.”

  “That’s right,” Booker said, “yet—but he’s gonna die if you don’t listen to reason. Now, here’s the deal. We want outta this town and you want us out. We ain’t killed none of your people and you’ve killed three of mine, so that oughta square us with whatever damage we’ve done. You get Jason Storm and them others from around back and bring ’em up front where we can see all of you. We’ll bring Gus out with us and get on our horses. Then we’ll leave your lovely little town of Paradise and won’t never set foot in it again. All right? Whaddaya say, is ol’ Gus’ life worth it?”

  Outside, there ensued a few minutes of discussion before Booker was answered. “I don’t trust those bastards,” Joe said.

  “Neither do I,” Tom replied, “but I don’t think they’re bluffin’ about shootin’ Gus. I thought surely he was already dead. I don’t think we’ve got much choice. We’re about to run out of ammunition and I don’t know how much they’ve got.” He turned to Wilson. “Maybe you’d better circle around to the alley and tell them to come up here.”

  “Well? Whaddaya say?” Booker called out impatiently when several minutes had passed with no response.

  “I sent for the ones around back,�
�� Tom responded. “Just wait till they get here.”

  “Jason Storm,” Booker called back. “I wanna see him out there with everybody else.”

  Several minutes passed before the three in back joined Tom and the others. Tom quickly told Jason what Booker was proposing and asked his advice. “Don’t seem like you’ve got much choice if they’re holdin’ Gus hostage,” Jason said. “We can’t gamble with his life.”

  Tom nodded his agreement, then gave Booker his answer. “All right, we’re all here and your horses are still at the rail—and Jason Storm is right here.”

  Inside the saloon, Cantrell was momentarily stunned by the sight of his personal devil. In a fit of rage, he jerked his rifle up and aimed it at the lawman. Booker was quick to grab the rifle barrel and snatch it up to send a bullet through the ceiling. “You damn fool!” he cursed. “You’ll get us both killed.” Returning quickly to the door, he yelled, “That was just an accident—no harm done. Gus is still all right. Tell ’em, Gus.”

  “I’m all right,” Gus dutifully recited.

  The shot fired through the roof caused a predictable reaction from the group of vigilantes outside. Everyone had scrambled for cover, the one exception being Jason Storm. He wasn’t sure what caused the shot—maybe they had decided to shoot Gus, but that didn’t make any sense. Whatever the reason, he was sure the shot wasn’t fired in their direction, so he accepted Booker’s explanation. “Everythin’s like you wanted,” he called out. “Come on outta there and we won’t shoot as long as we see Gus is all right.” He glanced at Tom when the young sheriff stepped up to stand beside him. “Make sure nobody shoots and causes Gus to get killed,” he said to him. Tom nodded and went to spread the warning.

  “All right,” Booker yelled, “we’re comin’ out.”

  It was a solemn group of men that stood witnessing the hostage situation as Booker marched Gus out ahead of him. Staying close to his captive, he held a Colt handgun pressed up against the back of Gus’ skull, the hammer cocked. Cantrell walked almost as close, the three men stepping as one.

  “I’m glad you boys are being sensible about this,” Booker said as he guided Gus over to the horses. “Now, in case any of you are thinkin’ about pickin’ one of us off, I can guarantee you that I’ll pull this trigger as soon as the first shot is fired. We’re takin’ Gus with us when we ride outta here, but I’ll let him go at the edge of town as long as nobody shoots at us.”

  Jason watched closely, in case there was an opportunity for a quick kill shot, but he decided it wasn’t worth the risk. Somebody was bound to get hurt, even if he got Booker, for Cantrell would surely retaliate. So he remained ready to react if necessary, but was convinced that the showdown would have to come at a different time and place.

  Booker marched Gus around behind the horses, putting the animals between the three men and the vigilantes. Taking only two horses, Booker put Gus in the saddle and climbed up behind him. Ready to depart, Booker had a final word. “Jason Storm,” he announced with a thin smile. “Never had the pleasure of meetin’ you before, but I know your reputation. Too bad we have to run off in such a hurry.” He started backing his horse slowly away.

  “I’ll be seein’ you,” Jason replied, causing Booker’s grin to widen.

  The two surviving outlaws backed away until satisfied it was safe to turn and gallop toward the south road. Cantrell’s fearful gaze returned to his customary scowl as the distance increased between them and the men watching. Jason turned and started walking toward the stables to get his horse. He had not gone far when he heard the one lone pistol shot. It needed no explanation. On the southern side of the river, at the ford where the road crossed the river into town, Gus’ body slid out of the saddle and landed at the horse’s back feet, causing the animal to sidestep. Booker hauled back on the reins long enough to cast a final look at the body with a single hole in the base of the skull. “That’s for One Eye and Stump,” he growled. Then kicking their horses hard, they were off and running.

  “Damn!” Jason swore and broke into a run to get to his horse. He was still thirty or forty yards from the stables. Cantrell and his partner had the advantage of a large head start, but Jason hoped Biscuit could catch up before they had time to hide. In the saddle, he raced to the south end of town. On the other side of the river he saw the group of vigilantes standing around Gus Hopkins’ body. He pulled up to see if there was any hope for the bartender, knowing already there was none.

  As soon as they saw him, everyone anxiously began pointing down the south road, yelling excitedly. As he expected, Gus was stone dead, and a potential posse was gathered around his corpse, a long walk back to their horses. Jason didn’t take the time to enlist any help. He nudged Biscuit and again the big buckskin gelding jumped to a gallop.

  A little over a mile ahead, having left the road and now following a wide stream that fed into the river, Booker and Cantrell paused when they came to a fork. “That big son of a bitch will be comin’ after us,” Cantrell said, looking back over his shoulder as if Jason might show up at any second.

  “We’ll do well to split up,” Booker said. “He might be the damn stud horse they say he is, but he can’t follow both of us.” Cantrell wasn’t sure he liked the idea, but he knew it was a guarantee that one of them would be free and away. Reading his thoughts, Booker added, “If we’re careful enough ridin’ up this stream, we might both cover our trails. Just stay in the water till you find a good place to get out.”

  “All right,” Cantrell agreed. “I’ll take the right fork,” he said, noticing that it seemed to be more heavily wooded. “Where are you figurin’ on headin’ once you lose him?”

  “I don’t know.” Booker hesitated, then said, “I reckon I’ll go to Briny Bowen’s place at Three Forks, where we met you. I’ll be needin’ supplies by then. Whaddaya say whichever one gets there first waits a day before movin’ on?”

  “Briny’s place, then,” Cantrell replied and promptly kicked his horse into a run again.

  Booker watched him splashing off up the right fork of the stream for a few moments until he was out of sight in the trees. Then he followed him, riding a few yards along the sandy bank of the right fork before entering the water. Satisfied that the hoofprints were distinct enough to indicate a horse went up the right fork, he turned around in the water and went back to follow the left fork.

  By the time Jason reached the fork in the stream, the sun was already beginning to set behind the western hills. It had cost him some time when he almost missed the point where the outlaws had left the road and taken to the prairie. Now with barely enough light to see by, he dismounted and studied the tracks leading into the right fork of the stream. A careless mistake, or a false lead, with the intent to throw him off the trail? He had to think it over. Disappointed by his inability to catch the two outlaws before darkness set in, he realized that the chances of losing them now were greater than ever. It was going to be another long chase, one he was not enthusiastic about. He might have even considered giving it up and saying, “To hell with it. They’re gone and won’t likely come back.” But it was a personal issue now. Booker had made it personal when he murdered Gus Hopkins. As for Mace Cantrell, Jason had a long score to settle with him, as well as a promise he had made to himself that he would free the world of the evil man.

  He stood up from the stream bank and looked toward the dark hills to the south and east. It was going to take some time and he would need some supplies and ammunition if he was to undertake it. “Damn,” he cursed under his breath. It looks like I’m bound to be trailing some murderer or thief until I turn my toes up, he thought. Feeling that he had no choice, he stepped up in the saddle and headed back to Paradise Valley.

  He figured there was no time to ride all the way back to his place on Blind Woman Creek, so he planned on getting what he needed at Fred Hatfield’s store. He had a little money hidden at his cabin and he was sure Fred would give him credit. The vigilantes were still gathered at the saloon when he got back
to town. Most of the other citizens of Paradise Valley had joined them as soon as the word had gotten around that it was safe to do so. Spotting Jason when he tied Biscuit in front of Hatfield’s, Tom Austin and Joe Gault hurried over to meet him. Jason answered their question before they asked. “Lost their trail when it got dark,” he said. “I’ll be goin’ out again in the mornin’.”

  The look on Tom’s face was unmistakable, even in the dark. He had obviously hoped for better news. “You want me to ride with you?” he asked.

  “Nope,” Jason replied. “I’ll most likely be gone for a spell, and the town shouldn’t be without a sheriff for that long.” He smiled then. “Besides, you ain’t got no jurisdiction outside the city limits.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Tom said. “I should stay here.”

  “I ain’t got no jurisdiction,” Joe Gault volunteered. “I could go with you.”

  “I appreciate it, Joe, but you’re really the only man here the sheriff can count on to help keep the peace. I don’t think you have to worry about those two ever comin’ back to Paradise Valley, but I know Tom would feel better havin’ you close.” He started up the steps to the store, but stopped to add, “If you ever run into a whole lot of trouble, you can always call on Patty Witcher.”

  “I reckon,” Tom said with a chuckle.

  Walking into the store, Jason was obliged to turn sideways to slip by Fred Hatfield and Garland Wheeler, who were trying to repair Fred’s front door. They, in turn, asked the same question that Tom and Joe had. Jason explained, then told Fred what he wanted to do about outfitting himself for a long chase. “You help yourself to whatever you need,” Fred insisted. “It won’t cost you a dime. I owe you that. We all owe you that.”

  “Much obliged,” Jason said, “but I can pay when I get back. I just need credit until I do. The truth of the matter is that your friends and neighbors are the folks that ran Cantrell and his crew outta town.”