Whipping the reins back and forth desperately on his horse’s withers, Cantrell wasn’t sure which way he was going. It didn’t matter. What mattered was getting away from Jason Storm. He ran the weary animal on through the night until he was forced to dismount and walk for a couple of hours. As soon as the horse showed signs of recovery, he leaped on its back again. At first light, there was no sign of the big lawman behind him, but there was little doubt in his mind that he had not lost him.
It was not until the sun began to filter through the trees that he gave thought to the fact that the river was on his left, and it should be on his right. He was backtracking, but in his present state of emergency, he didn’t care. By the time the sun topped the trees on the opposite bank behind him, he realized that he was almost back to the ferry crossing. Constantly looking over his shoulder, he finally saw what he dreaded—horse and rider gaining on him. He beat his faltering horse savagely.
“Rider comin’, Lieutenant!”
Lieutenant Philip Parker looked in the direction pointed out by the private to discover a man riding bareback at break-neck speed along the rough riverbank. After a moment, the private sang out, “There’s another’n. Looks like he’s either chasin’ the first one, or they’re both runnin’ like hell from somebody else.”
Parker turned to the soldier by his side. “Head him off, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant replied, and stepped up in the saddle. “Beasley, Shannon, let’s go!” They were away at once to intercept Cantrell.
So intent was the fleeing outlaw on the man chasing him that he didn’t see the three soldiers riding up from the ferry landing until he was almost upon them. Alarmed at first, he quickly saw them as an opportunity to save his life. He pulled the grateful horse to a stop and said, “I’m glad to see you boys. That man chasin’ me is tryin’ to kill me.” He followed them willingly back to the shack, his weary horse stumbling with fatigue. He remained in the saddle while the soldiers dismounted and the sergeant reported to the lieutenant.
Able to identify the second rider now, Parker recognized the man who had brought Johnny Duncan to the doctor. He turned and took a good look at Cantrell and decided that this must be the man Jason intended to apprehend. “What’s your name, mister?” the lieutenant asked.
“Johnson,” Cantrell answered, “and I thank you boys for savin’ me from that son of a bitch.”
Parker stared into Cantrell’s eyes in an effort to determine the truth of his answer. Then he decided. “Sergeant, put a guard on him till we get the true story on this.”
“Wait a minute,” Cantrell protested. “You arrestin’ me? He’s the man you need to be arrestin’,” he said, pointing at Jason as he reined Biscuit back and approached the patrol at a lope. “You can’t hold me, anyway. Hell, I’m a civilian. You ain’t got no jurisdiction over me. I ain’t done nothin’, anyway.”
“I’ve got jurisdiction,” Parker replied calmly. “But I didn’t say you were under arrest. We’re just going to detain you for a while till we find out what’s going on.” He turned away then to await Jason.
“Well, Mister Storm, I believe,” Parker said when Jason pulled up before them. “I see you didn’t take my advice to let the army handle this.”
“Lieutenant,” Jason said in greeting the young officer. He took a long look at the sullen face of Mace Cantrell before continuing. “Looks like you got the man that shot Johnny Duncan after all. It’s lucky for him that you got him first. You can add the murders of those two poor souls inside the shack yonder, I expect.”
“I ain’t ever been in that shack!” Cantrell blurted.
“Sergeant, shut him up,” Parker ordered. Cantrell dutifully kept his mouth shut when the sergeant threatened to ram the butt of his carbine against his jaw. Turning back to Jason, Parker said, “I’ve no doubt I’ve got the man that shot Johnny Duncan, so I’m going to advise you again that you’re through with it. It’s the army’s problem now.”
“What are you gonna’ do with him?” Jason asked.
“We’ll take him back to the guardhouse and give him a fair trial, but it doesn’t look like there’ll be any question about his guilt.” He paused to send a bored glance in Cantrell’s direction. “Then I expect we’ll hang him. We’ll bury Wilburn and Gladys Yeats, then start back to the post.” He turned then to his sergeant. “Baker, relieve Mr. Cantrell . . .” He paused to glance at Jason. “Cantrell, right?” When Jason nodded, he continued. “Relieve Mr. Cantrell there of his weapon and tie his hands behind his back.” He looked at Cantrell and ordered, “Get down off of that horse.”
“You ain’t got no evidence agin me,” Cantrell protested, but his protest was ignored, causing him to spit his anger at the private approaching him. “You damn blue-bellies.” He tried to draw his horse back, but the soldier grabbed his bridle and held the horse firm. In a desperate attempt to escape, Cantrell drew his pistol and shot the young soldier. He then kicked his already exhausted horse into a gallop, bolting through the detail before anyone had a chance to stop him.
In the chaos that developed at that moment, Parker was shouting orders to go after him and his men were scrambling to get mounted while some went to the aid of their wounded comrade. Still in the saddle, Jason gave Biscuit a quick nudge of his heels, and the big buckskin immediately leaped to pursue. It was not much of a race to overtake the outlaw’s weary horse. By the time Cantrell reached the top of the rise, Jason was already bearing down on him, with the soldiers far behind. In desperation, Cantrell fired his pistol at his pursuer. The shots were wild and nowhere close to the target. Ignoring the shots, Jason pressed onward, knowing that this was to be the final showdown regardless of who survived.
Panic-stricken, Cantrell quit shooting and whipped his horse mercilessly for speed that the exhausted animal could no longer provide. The moment he had feared above all others was close at hand. He could hear the pounding of the powerful buckskin’s hooves as Jason closed the distance between them. Finished, the sorrel slowed to a walk, its steps faltering, then stopped despite Cantrell’s assault upon its withers and flanks. In one last desperate move to save himself from the relentless hunter, he jumped off the foundered horse and put his hands in the air as Jason pulled up before him.
“I’m done!” Cantrell cried. “I surrender. I’ll go with the soldiers.”
Jason remained in the saddle, studying the cold-blooded killer of so many innocent people, his hands in the air, but still holding the pistol. “Drop that .44 to the ground,” Jason said calmly, his Winchester cradled casually across his forearm.
Cantrell cast a quick glance at the gun and said, “It’s empty.”
“Is that so?” Jason replied as he heard the soldiers coming up behind him. “I ain’t sure I counted all those shots you fired at me. So maybe it’s empty, and maybe it ain’t.”
A nervous smile broke out on Cantrell’s face, and he stood motionless for a few moments before suddenly making his move. Jason’s rifle bucked once, sending a .44 slug into Cantrell’s belly before the outlaw could aim his pistol. Doubling over with the pain in his gut, he made one last attempt to kill his personal demon. He pulled the trigger, only to hear the metallic click of the hammer on an empty cylinder. He had miscounted the bullets left in his pistol, forgetting the one that had wounded the soldier. The horrific look of surprise was frozen on his face forever when Jason calmly split his forehead with an unhurried shot, making sure the ruthless murderer would never kill again.
“Damn,” Lieutenant Parker exclaimed when he pulled up alongside Jason. “So much for a trial by jury.”
“Reckon so,” Jason replied. “He didn’t give me no choice.” Jason ejected the empty shell and replaced his rifle in the saddle scabbard. “Is your man hurt bad?”
“Ah, no,” Parker replied. “Shoulder wound. I think he’ll be all right.”
“Just got himself an excuse to sit on his ass for a spell,” one of the private’s friends joked.
“Are you going to hang ar
ound here for a while?” Parker asked.
“Nope.”
“Good. I’m not sure the army would know what to do with you.” He was at a loss as to what, if anything, he should do about Jason’s taking matters into his own hands, acting as judge, jury, and executioner. But he was of the opinion that Cantrell had gotten what he rightfully deserved, and he had no desire to detain the ex-lawman.
Chapter 17
It was a long ride back to Paradise Valley, and in spite of what was waiting for him there, he took his time in returning. Biscuit had been worked pretty hard for the last few days, so Jason took it easy on the buckskin. But in addition to that, there was a lot of thinking that Jason wanted to do. He tried to recall all the things Roseanna had said that night at the Hatfields’, but found that it was difficult to do. He attributed it to the fact that he had been rendered addlebrained by the suddenness of her proposal. Maybe he had misunderstood the purpose of her proposition, and she entertained no thoughts of a real marriage, just a partnership because she needed to have somebody to take care of her. It had to be more than that, he thought. She didn’t kiss me like a business partner. He wondered what Mary Ellen would think about his union with Roseanna. He had a feeling that his late wife would have genuinely liked Roseanna as a friend. She might have felt differently about Roseanna as her successor, however. “To hell with it,” he exclaimed in frustration. “We’ll see how things stand when I get there.”
The little town of Paradise looked to be deserted when Jason crossed the river at the south end and walked Biscuit up the middle of the narrow street. The saloon was closed and dark. So was Hatfield’s store, even though it was still early evening. Raymond Pryor’s dream looked pretty sad. Eager to see Roseanna, he didn’t take the time to seek out Joe Gault or Tom Austin. Instead, he guided Biscuit between the buildings, forded the branch of the creek behind the stores, and went directly to Fred Hatfield’s house.
Fred was seated on the porch, smoking his pipe when Jason rode up in his front yard. “Jason Storm,” Fred announced slowly as if greeting someone returning from the grave. He got up from his chair, and turning his head slightly, called to his wife. “Lena, it’s Jason Storm.”
“Howdy, Fred.” Jason greeted the general store owner.
“Howdy, Jason,” Fred returned, his expression a little strange, it appeared to Jason, as if he wasn’t particularly glad to see him. “Did you get him?” Fred asked.
Jason nodded slowly. “I got him.”
“Thank God for that,” Fred said. “I’m glad to see you back in one piece.”
“Hello, Jason,” Lena said as she came out onto the porch to join them. “We’re glad to see you safe and sound.” She tried to smile, but to Jason it seemed more like a frown. He looked behind her, expecting to see Roseanna follow her out to greet him. “She’s not here,” Lena answered before Jason asked. “She’s gone.”
“Where?” Jason asked, confused by Lena’s tone.
“She didn’t say very much about what you two had talked about before you left, but she seemed happy enough. And then the other day, she packed up her things and said she decided it was time for her to go home.”
“That’s a fact, Jason,” Fred commented. “We didn’t have no clue she was leavin’. She just up and decided she was goin’. Lena tried to talk her into stayin’ till you got back, but she said she’d imposed on us too long.”
The news was disappointing as well as disturbing to Jason. His first reaction was the impulse to scold them for letting her go back alone, but he tempered his remarks slightly. “That’s a pretty isolated place out there. I wish she hadn’t gone there alone.”
“We couldn’t really tell her she had to wait for you,” Lena said.
“I guess not,” Jason said. “She’s pretty strong willed.” He shook his head when he thought about the homestead on the other side of the valley. “I wish I’d known. I passed within two miles of that place on my way here.”
“Her wagon and horses are still down at the stables,” Fred said. “She said she just wanted to take that one packhorse.”
“Well, it’s a good little ride out to that farm,” Jason said in leaving. “I’d best be gettin’ along.” Troubled by thoughts of Roseanna riding alone out to her house, he headed back through town and turned south.
It was close to midnight when Jason finally turned the buckskin onto the lane leading up to the late John Swain’s house. There was no light in the window, not surprising since it was way past time when she would have been in bed. Afraid he might frighten her, he called out her name as he rode Biscuit up to the porch. Dismounting, his heart beating rapidly in anticipation of seeing her again, he went to the door and knocked, calling her name again. There was no answer. He walked around to the side of the house and looked toward the barn. There was no horse in the corral. Determined to make sure, he tried the back door, found it unlocked, and went inside. Searching every room of the dark interior, he found nothing that could tell him if she had come home or not. Fearing the worst, he went back outside and looked around. The cow was standing in the garden, where she had obviously been since Jason had let her out when he took Roseanna to town. He thought he heard something at the lower end of the garden, so he hurried to investigate. It was Roseanna’s old sow, sleeping between the rows. There was a possibility that Roseanna had never made it back to the farm. The thought made him sick with worry. His mind was flooded with other thoughts of many different things that could have happened to her in these lonely valleys. He had to find her. There was nothing he could do but search every mile between here and town and hope to find some clue that might lead him to her. Feeling helpless and lost, he knew he could do little until it was light enough to see. He needed food and ammunition from his cabin, but he decided to stay the night there and scout the trail back to town in the morning instead of heading straight for Blind Woman Creek.
He was awake long before the sun made an appearance, having spent a fitful night thinking about what could have happened to Roseanna. As soon as it was light enough to see, he began a careful search along the track leading to the road into Paradise. There were hoofprints, most of them old, but along with those he had left the night before, he saw recent tracks leading toward the house. Concentrating on them, he followed them all the way back to the corral. Roseanna made it home! But he found no recent tracks leading back toward town. If she was here, what happened to her? He spent the rest of the day covering the forest around the little creek behind the house, looking for clues and hoping to find none that would tell him what he feared most. As the sun settled upon the western mountains, he lamented his failure to find a clue. There was only one choice, and that was to prepare for a long search. Still being practical, he knew he had to go back to his cabin to get ready for it. He didn’t want to lose any more time, so he started out right away, intending to ride through the night.
It was well past sunup when he crossed the ridge that guarded the creek and descended to the floor of the canyon. He was still thinking about where he should start his search for Roseanna when he came to an abrupt stop. His cabin was in sight now, and the thing that had caused him to haul back on the reins and pull his rifle from the scabbard was the sight of smoke coming from the chimney. “Squatters!” he muttered softly. “I’ve been gone too long.” Then he noticed that the door was open, so he approached with extreme caution, with the idea that a rifle might be sighting on him through the open doorway.
Roseanna turned to replace her broom in the corner by the fireplace. In doing so, she glanced out the door to discover the rider approaching. Feeling an instantaneous increase in her heartbeat, she moved closer to the door to get a better look. It was Jason! She hurried to the bedroom to snatch up her mirror for a quick check on her appearance. Oh, hell, she thought, looking at her hair. Nothing I can do about it now. Discarding her apron, she ran out to the front porch to meet him.
Stunned, Jason Storm could only gaze astonished at the picture before his eyes. She was lovelier than h
e had remembered and all the concerns he had had moments before were washed away by the brilliant morning sun embracing the woman waiting for him.
“Welcome home,” she said, smiling.
No one captures the freedom and excitement of the West like Charles G. West.
Read on for an excerpt from
The Blackfoot Trail
Available now in stores and at www.penguin.com
“Joe Fox!”
The call rang out again and again, echoing off the face of the rocky cliff that stood like a castle wall before the two nearly exhausted men. “Joe Fox!” Malcolm Lindstrom called again while looking about him nervously. It had been a long, hard climb up to the base of the cliff, pushing through thick forests of firs and pines that seemed to be put there by God solely for the purpose of keeping strangers from scaling the majestic peak.
“I don’t know about this,” Pete Watson complained. “It gives me a worrisome feeling.” He turned away from the wall and peered down the narrow game trail they had followed to this point, half expecting to see a Blackfoot war party emerge from the forest behind them. “Smack-dab in the heart of Blackfoot country, just the two of us, lookin’ for a man that some says don’t even exist.” He turned back to Malcolm. “How do we know this Joe Fox feller ain’t just a legend the Indians dreamed up? Hell, that feller down by the river sent us up here and he probably ain’t ever really seen him, just that the Injuns said this is where they’ve seen him.” Frowning, he scanned the dark forest behind him. “I hate to say this, but that feller mighta just been settin’ us up to get jumped by some of his Blackfoot friends. I never trusted a Frenchman, anyway.”
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