Storm in Paradise Valley

by Charles G. West

  Then he reminded himself of the merciless murders of Ben Thompson and Gus Hopkins, the massacre of Raymond Pryor and his crew—and whoever might now stand in Mace Cantrell’s way. He had been a lawman for too many years to turn his back on the job, so he decided he would follow up on one more hunch. It was a long shot, and maybe just wasted time, but he resolved to head east in the morning to see if he could pick up Cantrell’s trail. His reasoning was guesswork at best, based on how he figured the outlaw’s mind worked. From what he had learned from Gus Hopkins, he guessed that Cantrell was forced out of Helena and Butte. There were no towns north or south of Three Forks of any circumstance—and a crook like Mace Cantrell needed a town. That left east as the likely path, to the Gallatin Valley and the towns beyond, where he might plan to strike the Yellowstone.

  Jason let Biscuit set the pace as he followed a well-worn trail along the riverbank. Recalling his journey when he came up from Cheyenne early in the summer, he figured that he couldn’t be more than a mile or two from Fort Ellis. A small settlement had built up close to the fort where the Second Cavalry was billeted. If Cantrell had passed this way, it didn’t figure he would linger with the army so close at hand.

  After riding another mile, he came upon a lone log building close to the river. Although there was no sign proclaiming it, the place was obviously a trading post. Biscuit could use a little rest, he decided, and he was running low on coffee beans, so he guided the horse over to the hitching rail.

  Dismounting, he walked in the door and paused to look around the room. There were counters at opposite ends of the room—one obviously a bar—the other for dry goods purchases. But there appeared to be no one about. He walked back to the rear counter and idly looked over the shelves of sundry items while he waited for someone to appear. Still no one seemed to be minding the store. “Hello,” he called out a couple of times. “Anybody here?” He started toward a door beside the back counter, but was stopped by the sound of a voice.

  “Help me,” the voice rasped weakly. Jason turned, trying to determine where the sound had come from. The plea was repeated a second time and he realized then that it had come from behind the bar. He hurried over and found the owner of the trading post lying on his stomach, a bullet hole in his back. “Help,” Johnny Duncan repeated desperately. He didn’t know how long he had been lying there pretending to be dead, but it seemed like hours.

  “I’ll help you,” Jason said and knelt down to see if there was anything he could do. His first thought was that he was definitely onto Mace Cantrell’s trail. It looked like his work. “How bad is it?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” the gray-haired little man gasped. “Pretty bad, I think. He shot me in the back—left me for dead—I was afraid to move.”

  Jason examined the wound to see if he could determine the seriousness of it, but he could not be sure. There was a sizable puddle of blood beneath the man’s body. “Is there a doctor around here?” he asked.

  “No,” was the weak response. “One at the fort.”

  “How far’s that?”

  “Two miles.”

  “If I put you up on a horse, think you could stay on?”

  “I’ll damn shore try.”

  Jason found a horse and saddle in a small stable behind the store. After he saddled the horse, he led it around to the front of the log building. With the wounded man helping himself as much as possible, he lifted him up into the saddle and put his feet in the stirrups. Duncan sat up for only a moment before groaning and lying down on the horse’s neck. “I’ll lead your horse,” Jason said and took the reins.

  “Put that padlock on the door,” the wounded man rasped. “There might be somethin’ left the bastard didn’t steal.”

  “Right,” Jason replied.

  It was a long, rough ride for Johnny Duncan, but he made it. A sergeant saw them riding in and led them to the doctor. After an examination, the doctor determined that Johnny was a lucky man—a few inches over and the shot would have been fatal, a prognosis that Jason could identify with. While the doctor finished cleaning up the wound and dressing it, Johnny felt strong enough to tell Jason as much as he could remember about the man who assaulted him. “Tall, dark-haired feller,” Johnny said. “He made a camp down below the bluffs and hung around for a couple of days. Made out like he was gonna buy a whole lot of supplies. Then he shot me in the back.”

  It was enough to satisfy Jason that it was Cantrell. Realizing now that he was no more than two or three hours behind the murderer, instead of days, he was anxious to get on his trail.

  “Go after the bastard,” Johnny Duncan insisted. “I can get back home all right.”

  “If you’re sure,” Jason replied. Johnny assured him that he would go with him to catch Cantrell if he felt just a smidgen better. He thanked him for helping him and they shook hands.

  As he got up to leave, the doctor stopped him. “You want me to take a look at that?” he asked, pointing to the bloodstain in Jason’s shirt. “That looks like a little fresh blood.”

  Jason glanced down at his shirt. Straining to lift Johnny Duncan up on his horse had evidently pulled at the wound enough to start the bleeding again. “No,” he answered, “it’ll be all right.” He didn’t have time to waste, since he was now so close to Cantrell.

  Outside, he found a lieutenant waiting for him on the porch. “I’m Lieutenant Parker,” the officer announced. “Sergeant Grogan said you brought a man in with a gunshot wound. Mind telling me about it?”

  “That’s a fact,” Jason replied. “There ain’t much to tell, though. The man owns a store back up the river about two miles. He got robbed and shot in the back. And if you don’t mind, I’m in a hurry to get after the man that shot him.” He untied Biscuit’s reins and prepared to climb in the saddle.

  “Not so fast, mister,” Parker said. “What are you aiming to do?”

  Impatient with questions, Jason replied, “Like I said, I’m goin’ after him, and more’n likely I’ll have to shoot him.”

  “Hold on, there!” the lieutenant ordered and took hold of Biscuit’s bridle. “Keeping the peace is the army’s job. I think you’d best leave that job to me. We can’t have citizens running wild around here, shooting each other, taking the law in their own hands.”

  “I appreciate what you’re sayin’, Lieutenant, but I was a U.S. deputy marshal in Wyomin’ Territory for twenty-five years, and I’ve been chasin’ this murderer for a good while. And he’s just gettin’ farther away while we’re standin’ here jawin’. So if you’ll just turn loose of that bridle, I’ll try to make up some of the slack.”

  Still holding the bridle, Parker thought a moment before responding. “Are you currently on duty as a marshal?” When Jason admitted that he wasn’t, the lieutenant was quick to advise him that he had no authority to arrest Cantrell. “In addition, you’d be out of your jurisdiction in Montana, anyway. Best let the military take care of the problem.”

  Jason didn’t respond for a moment while he studied the young officer’s face. There was no hint of superiority in the lieutenant’s tone or facial expression. Jason decided he was just acting according to what he assumed was his responsibility. “What are you figurin’ on doin’ about the man that shot Johnny Duncan in there?” Jason asked.

  “We’ll mount a detail and go after him,” Parker replied.

  “Which way did he go?” Jason wanted to know.

  “Why, I don’t know yet,” Parker said. “I’ll have to question the wounded man.”

  “Wouldn’t hurt to try to get a description of him, too,” Jason said. He smiled patiently at the lieutenant, then said, “All right, he’s all yours, and good luck. Now if you’ll let go of my bridle, I’ll be on my way.”

  Parker released the bridle and stepped back. “Don’t worry, sir. We’ll have a detail mounted and in the field within the hour.”

  Jason swung Biscuit’s head around and nudged him with his heels. “I hope Cantrell’s considerate enough to wait for you,” he said i
n parting. He left the assembly of log buildings at an easy lope. Once away from the fort, he wasted no time in finding the common trail along the river and continued east. Cantrell was most likely concentrating on putting some distance between himself and Johnny Duncan’s trading post, but Jason was convinced that the outlaw was still intent upon following the Yellowstone instead of striking out in some other direction.

  Mace Cantrell pulled his horse up short as he topped a rise and discovered a small log shack close by the water with a tent attached to the back. It appeared to be a store of some sort, but then he looked across to the other side of the river and saw a large, flat ferry casting off from the bank. He gave a moment’s thought to the possibility of adding to his finances, but decided it in his best interest to avoid the ferry man altogether. So he gave his horse a kick and bypassed the shack. A little over a mile farther along he came upon a small creek that emptied into the river. Figuring it as good a place as any, he guided his horse about fifty yards up the narrow creek. His intention was to find a place to camp that was off the trail. His horse was fairly lathered up after being ridden hard with no rest until it finally threatened to founder. Mace was not overly concerned about pursuit because he had left Johnny Duncan dead as far as he knew. There were no witnesses who saw him. It was just good policy to put a little distance between yourself and the scene of the crime.

  He hadn’t had an opportunity to count the money he had taken from Duncan’s cash drawer, but he already knew that it was not much of a score. He needed a hell of a lot more. But there was the matter of a good supply of ammunition and food staples, not to mention the brand-new Stetson Boss of the Plains hat. With a four-and-a-half-inch crown and a four-inch brim, it was made of a better grade of felt than the old hat he’d left behind, and sold for ten dollars. That alone made the robbery and murder worthwhile. He felt well pleased with his day’s work as he settled down for the night. He chuckled when he thought about Booker, wondering if he’d ever showed up at Briny’s and then headed for Colorado hoping to catch up with him. I’ve had a bellyful of that pompous son of a bitch, he thought.

  The next morning found Cantrell relaxed and in an easier frame of mind. There was little chance that anyone was on his trail by now. There were not even any thoughts about Jason Storm to haunt his mind and cause him to constantly look over his shoulder. He took his time over a breakfast of coffee and fried bacon, using the new pot and frying pan he had taken from Johnny Duncan’s shelves. His mood triggered thoughts about the war and his time riding with Quantrill and Anderson. “Hell,” he blurted aloud, “you just rode into town, blazin’ away with the reins in your teeth and a pistol in each hand—shoot anybody that stood in your way, and take what you want.” He smiled when he remembered the satisfaction it had brought, and realized that he had been trying to duplicate the sensation ever since. To a degree, he had been successful in recalling those days during the time he had Bob Dawson, Zeke Cheney, Lacey Jenkins, Junior Sykes, and of course, Doc. Too bad about Doc, he thought, with no real sense of guilt. Seems kind of strange not having him around. His brother had always been there, ever since they were kids, but he would have only slowed him down. Wounded as bad as he was, Mace had to leave him.

  The mental picture of that day in Paradise, when the big ex-marshal methodically cut down his gang, returned now to ruin his contented mood. Sitting by his campfire on this morning, he would not acknowledge his fear of the relentless stalker. He told himself that he had run because it was the smart thing to do. The more he thought about his predicament, the angrier he became.

  Jason Storm was the cause of all his problems. “I wouldn’t be settin’ here all by myself if it wasn’t for that one damn son of a bitch,” he growled. “I shoulda hung around that town long enough to kill that bastard.” The time and distance between them served to dim his memory of the cold fear that had gripped his intestines at the sight of the formidable lawman. “By God, I’m Mace Cantrell,” he reminded the sorrel gelding peacefully nipping at some green shoots at the stream’s edge. “I’ve killed more men than you can count on your fingers and toes,” he almost shouted, but the one man he hadn’t killed still stuck in his craw. His peace of mind effectively destroyed, he poured the rest of the coffee on the fire, angrily kicked a bootful of dirt on top of that, and picked up his saddle. Feeling mean and vengeful, he followed the creek back to the river, then paused while he decided whether to continue east or to ride back west a mile or so to the ferry crossing to see if there was anything there worth taking.

  It was Jason Storm who found them, two pitiful bodies—a skinny little bald man and his gray-haired wife lying about a foot apart, the blood from their wounds combined to form one dark red pool between them. Jason stood staring down at the bodies, their eyes frozen wide in shock and terror. Looking around him then in the cramped little store at the few barrels of flour and molasses, and a few sundry items like chewing tobacco and baking powder, he wondered what they could have possibly had that was worth taking their lives.

  The sound of gunshots had led him to the ferry crossing. Curious to find the cause, he had topped the rise west of the shack and stopped to look the place over before riding down to investigate. As he had paused there, he heard the shots again and realized that they had come from across the river. Looking toward the opposite bank, he saw the origin of the shooting. A party of three men with packhorses was shooting in the air, apparently in an attempt to alert the ferryman that they desired to cross. While Jason watched from the top of the rise, they evidently gave up on the old man and rode off down the river, looking for another place to cross.

  Standing now over the bodies, he tried to estimate how long ago they had been murdered. It couldn’t have been too very long, he decided, because they were just now attracting flies. There was no doubt in his mind that this was some of Mace Cantrell’s work, and he unconsciously clenched his fists with the thought that the scene before him now was destined to be repeated again and again until the outlaw was stopped.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t get here soon enough to help you folks,” he muttered. “I hope you understand that I can’t take the time to bury you now.” Hoping to at least keep the flies off them, he looked in the tent attached to the shack and found a quilt. It was big enough to cover both bodies, so he spread it over the old couple and then got back to the business of tracking their killer.

  Under gathering storm clouds, and still a half day’s ride from Big Timber and the Boulder River, Mace Cantrell made his camp by the river in a hollowed-out gully. Unable to lose the sour disposition he started out with that morning, he grumbled about the wasted ride back to the ferry. There had been nothing of value to pay him for his trouble, and he shot the man and his wife as much for pleasure as for the elimination of witnesses.

  To add to his discontent, he saw a flash of lightning and heard the rumble of thunder that followed. A few minutes later, scattered drops of rain began a tattoo on his rain slicker, which he had hastily draped over his head. Miserable, and cursing the weather, he huddled close against the side of the gully as the rain increased to a steady shower. There was no point in trying to build a fire; he had not chosen his camp wisely and the gully offered no cover for a fire. There was nothing he could do but wait it out, so he got a bottle of whiskey from his saddlebags and warmed his innards with the fiery liquid.

  After about thirty minutes, the rain let up to a random pattern of drops, while the lightning continued its brilliant show of fireworks. Cantrell cursed the empty whiskey bottle and threw it against a rock at the edge of the water. Feeling the need to release the pressure that had suddenly built up on his bladder, he got up to relieve himself and walked to the end of the gully, where his horse was tied. While he stood urinating, a sudden flash of lightning ripped through the clouds, illuminating the riverbank above him and the ghostly image of Jason Storm. In less than an instant, it was dark again, but to Cantrell it was as real as anything could be. At first he was unable to move, and wondered whether it had bee
n his imagination after all, but in a few seconds another flash lit up the riverbank again. The apparition was still there, but this time it was aiming a rifle at him. Terrified, Cantrell bolted for his life as the rifle slug passed harmlessly behind him. There was no time to saddle his horse. He untied the reins and leaped on the sorrel’s back, kicking the startled animal into a full gallop.

  He heard the zip of a rifle slug as it passed over his head and another close behind his back. Caught in the panic of the moment, he neither knew nor cared in which direction he ran, pressing the laboring horse for more speed. Left behind on his saddle were his rifle and extra cartridges. His pistol was his only defense against the demon pursuing him.

  Behind the terrified outlaw, Jason threw one more shot into the dark void, hoping for luck. Until he’d heard what sounded like a glass bottle smashing against a rock, he wasn’t sure if he was close to Cantrell’s camp or not. When the first bright lightning flashed, it had caught both stalker and prey by surprise, and he had no time to aim properly before it was dark again. Now the outlaw was off and running again, catching Jason on foot, and his horse almost seventy-five yards behind him. Jason thought about the missed opportunity as he ran back to his horse. He didn’t know if it was intentional or not, but Cantrell had fled back to the west instead of continuing eastward.