It was a near one hundred percent turnout for the meeting, the word having been spread throughout the surrounding countryside, and the saloon was soon crowded. The bar was open, even given the grave business that was to be discussed. When she thought it was time to close the bar and get the meeting under way, Patty Witcher announced it.
“Well, now, hold on, Patty,” Garland Wheeler objected. “Some of us got here a little late. We don’t live as close to town as you and Bob. It wouldn’t hurt to leave the bar open a while longer so the rest of us can catch up.”
“I reckon that’s up to Gus,” Patty replied, “but it’s closed to my husband.” Bob looked about him sheepishly as a chorus of other wives chimed in to give Patty support.
“Patty’s right.” Dr. Taylor spoke up. “Let’s get down to business.”
“Last call,” Gus announced reluctantly. After Wheeler and a couple of the others poured one more, the meeting got started.
Roseanna sat with Lena in a corner of the room while Fred Hatfield acted as chairman. More than a few of those attending were horrified to learn for the first time of the murderous attack the town had suffered—their farms were remote enough that they were unaware of the mayhem that Mace Cantrell had rained down upon Raymond Pryor’s perfect town. As far as Raymond Pryor’s death, it was like a strike from Lucifer himself and cause for concern for everyone. Pryor had been the patron for all their prosperity in this new country.
Lena nudged Roseanna and nodded toward the door when the last family arrived late. “You’d think he wouldn’t have the nerve to show his face here tonight,” she said. Roseanna recognized Oscar Perkins and his wife. Several heads turned in their direction as they quietly tried to find a place in the back of the room. Most of the heads turned immediately afterward toward Tom Austin, seated beside Fred Hatfield at the front of the room, holding his crutch, one arm still in a sling. Although there were a few grumbling comments among the gathering of neighbors, no one said anything directly to the former sheriff. Hatfield chose to ignore him and opened the meeting to discussion.
There were some in the crowd who questioned the future of the town without the benevolence of Raymond Pryor. Hatfield and Gus Hopkins argued in favor of continuing the project that Pryor had started. All of the townsfolk supported the idea. Joe Gault and Arnold Poss spoke in favor of holding on to what many of them had sacrificed to build. “I don’t know about the rest of you,” Fred Hatfield said, “but I’m too damn old to pick up, go somewhere else, and start over.” In the end, however, it was the vote of the farmers who had cleared ground, planted their crops, and sought to make a living from the soil that was the deciding factor. As Patty Witcher succinctly pointed out, “We need the damn town. Where else is anybody gonna get supplies?”
“We owe it to Raymond Pryor to stick it out,” Dr. Taylor commented.
At evening’s end, as the wagons and teams rattled out of town to return to the homesteads, it was with general agreement that Paradise was critical to all involved, and worth the effort to breathe life back into. A low rumbling of thunder suggested the possibility of a storm in the offing. Some might remember it in the days ahead and feel it had been an omen for the deadly tempest that was about to descend upon the innocent town in the form of five desperate outlaws.
Chapter 11
The afternoon that followed the town meeting saw a line of thunderstorms drift across the valley, bringing a noisy display of lightning and thunder but little rain until the clouds opened up a couple of hours before dark. Five riders, their rain slickers pulled tight around their collars, sat slumped in the saddle, cursing the downpour. The plan had been to avoid the town since the townsfolk knew Mace Cantrell and might start shooting on sight. As the hours passed with no relief from the rain, however, their discomfort caused them to reconsider going straight to Pryor’s ranch and the cattle. “I’ll tell you what’s the truth.” Booker finally spoke, saying what the others were already thinking. “There’s nothin’ that wouldn’t fix me up like a place to get a drink of likker and a roof over my head.”
“Amen to that,” One Eye responded. “I’m so damned wet, I think I’m startin’ to grow some gills.”
“Paradise ain’t more’n a mile or so if you follow the river,” Mace said. “That’s the only place you’re gonna find a drink and a dry place to drink it. But, like I said, they damn sure know me and I ain’t likely to get a welcome.”
“I say to hell with ’em.” Stump spoke up. “What are they gonna do about it if they do know Cantrell?” He turned to direct his comments directly to Mace. “Accordin’ to what you told us, there ain’t nobody but one man that’s liable to cause any trouble, anyway.”
“And you said you’re wantin’ to find him,” One Eye reminded Mace. “Maybe you’ll get your chance tonight, and then we won’t have to worry about him no more.”
“Hell, we need to pull any teeth that town’s got left, anyway,” Booker said, his mind already made up. “I’m goin’ to get me a drink.”
“I reckon we might as well,” Mace said, aware that Booker had presumed to speak for the five of them. It was a habit he didn’t intend to put up with on a permanent basis.
Most nights Gus didn’t see many customers in the saloon, and on a stormy night like this he didn’t expect to see more than one or two. For that reason, he was surprised when a noisy group of five pushed through the front door. Shaking the rain from their slickers and hats, they stomped across the floor to the bar. “Whiskey!” One Eye shouted in gleeful expectation.
Catching the urgency, Gus reached for a bottle, only to freeze when he looked at the man at the end of the bar. “Cantrell,” he uttered in disbelief.
While Gus was still frozen with his hand clutching the whiskey bottle, Mace whipped out his pistol and stuck the barrel up in Gus’ face. “Yeah, I’m back, and you make one move for that shotgun under the counter and I’ll split your skull for you.”
Almost in a state of shock, Gus could do little more than nod his understanding of the threat. He felt a cold shock run the length of his spine when he took a harder look at the four who had come with Cantrell. He had been lucky to escape with his life when Cantrell visited the town before, and he was wondering now if his luck would hold out again.
“Don’t shoot him till he pours us a drink,” Stump joked.
“You gonna cause us a problem?” Booker asked, staring directly into Gus’ eyes.
“No, sir,” Gus replied nervously.
“Good. Maybe you’ll live a lot longer that way,” Booker replied.
“Where is he?” Mace demanded. “That big son of a bitch?”
There was no question who he referred to, but Gus replied. “Jason Storm? He ain’t here. He left here, lookin’ for you.”
This caught Booker’s immediate attention as well as that of his three companions. He whirled to face Cantrell, who was still holding his gun on Gus. “Jason Storm?” he demanded. “Is that the man you’ve been talkin’ about?”
Unaware of the significance of it, Cantrell shrugged indifferently. “Hell, I don’t know his name. I just know I need to see his ass over the sights of my pistol.”
Booker looked back at Gus for confirmation. “Jason Storm,” he pronounced. “Is that the man that shot Cantrell’s partners?”
“Yes, sir, that’s his name.”
The other four all stared at a confused Mace Cantrell while Booker enlightened him. “Jason Storm is a U.S. deputy marshal over in Cheyenne, and a hell-raisin’ son of a bitch. He’s the reason we ain’t been doin’ business in that territory.”
Still unaware of the ex-deputy marshal’s reputation, Mace shrugged and said, “I mighta figured him for a lawman, but that don’t make no difference. In fact, it’s all the more reason to shoot the son of a bitch.”
“It ain’t that easy,” One Eye chimed in. “He’s filled up many a graveyard right by hisself.”
Cantrell paused but a moment before boasting, “Well, I ain’t afraid of him, and I aim to put the ba
stard in the ground if I run into him again.”
“Good,” Booker replied with a hint of sarcasm. “I’ll be damn glad when you do.” He tossed his drink down and motioned for Gus to refill his glass. “I expect we’d best get along and do what we came here for.”
“Tonight?” Jimmy Peterson questioned. “Hell, there ain’t much we can do with them cows in this rain.”
“Shut your mouth!” Booker quickly silenced his young partner, then whispered under his breath, “Ain’t no use tellin’ everybody where we’re headin’.” He cocked his head sharply to see if Gus had heard the remark. Gus gave no indication that he had. “Drink up, boys. We’ve still got a piece to go tonight.”
Booker’s three men all tossed their whiskeys down and prepared to leave. Mace hesitated, still thinking over what had just been said, and the revelation about Jason Storm. He recalled the last image he had seen of the big lawman. It had been enough to cause him to fear for his life, even abandon his own brother. It was a thought he found hard to endure, and he knew the only way he could rid his mind of the nagging guilt was to see Jason Storm dead. With four other guns around him, he was more determined than ever to settle with the lawman.
“Is somebody gonna pay for the drinks?” Gus managed to summon the courage to ask when they started for the door.
“Put it on my bill,” Booker called out and chuckled as he went out the door.
Gus stood there staring at the empty doorway as if he had just been visited by a ghost. It was only for a moment, however, for as soon as he heard their horses pulling away from the hitching rail, he rushed to the store next door to give Fred Hatfield the bad news. “He’s back!” he bellowed as he burst into the store.
“Who’s back?” Hatfield responded. “What are you so all-fired excited about, Gus?”
“That killer, that Cantrell bastard!” Gus exclaimed. “He was just in the saloon a few minutes ago, and he’s got four more with him.”
“Lord a’mercy,” Hatfield muttered, feeling as if his heart had stopped beating for a moment. He had been certain—everyone had been certain—that they had seen the last of Mace Cantrell. The town wasn’t ready yet to defend itself. It was still healing from Cantrell’s initial visit. Caught in a moment of panic, he didn’t know what to do. “You say he’s got some more men with him?”
“Four,” Gus replied, “and they’re a meaner-lookin’ bunch than the first ones.”
“Are they still in the saloon?”
“No. They just stayed long enough for Cantrell to put a pistol in my face. They’re goin’ out to Pryor’s place to steal our cattle.”
“They told you that?”
“No,” Gus replied, his eyes still big with fearful excitement. “I overheard one of ’em talkin’ about cattle. I played like I didn’t hear him, but somebody needs to warn Joe Gault and Dr. Taylor’s boy.”
Lena came in from the back room in time to hear the news. She paused in the doorway, clutching the doorjamb for support. “Fred, go down to the stables and tell Tom Austin to get out to the ranch as quick as he can,” she said, seeing that her husband was at a loss as to what he should do. “I’ll close the store and see you back at the house.”
“What can Tom do?” Fred replied. “He’s still limpin’ around on one foot.”
“Tom’s all we’ve got,” Lena came back impatiently. “He can ride. He’s got to try to warn Joe and Mike that those murderers are coming to rustle the cattle.”
“Maybe we oughta just let ’em have the damn cows. Then maybe they’ll be on their way and leave us be,” Gus said.
“Or they’ll be back here to destroy the town,” Lena responded. “But this time we’re gonna stand and protect what’s ours. Go on and get Tom started. I’ll be at the house. Roseanna and I can rustle up some food to hold us for a while if they come back and try to rob us again. This time there’ll be three of us with shotguns.”
Influenced by his wife’s calm approach to the threat, Fred tried to think rationally about the situation in which they again found themselves. The first time, they had abandoned their store and hidden in the house until Jason Storm took the situation in hand. Fred wasn’t proud of his failure to stand his ground. They had suffered quite a loss in stolen merchandise and damaged goods as a result. He could not afford to let that happen again. He turned to Gus. “Lena’s right. We’re not gonna let those hoodlums just walk right in and take whatever the hell they want.”
“That may be the thing for you to do,” Gus said. “You’re talkin’ about three guns to protect your store, but there ain’t nobody but me in the saloon. There ain’t no way I can hold out against five of ’em if they’re of a mind to come into my place. Hell, they could burn down the town, like they did at Mr. Pryor’s ranch. And there ain’t no sense in sendin’ Tom to warn Joe Gault. Them fellers has already got a big start on him. They’ll be there before Tom can warn anybody.”
Fred glanced at his wife. “He’s right, Lena. There ain’t no sense in Tom ridin’ out there. The best thing for him to do is get the word out to everybody in town to be ready for those outlaws if they come back to raid the place.”
“I wish Jason Storm was here,” Lena said fretfully. “He’d know what to do.”
“Well, he ain’t,” Gus said. “And I’ll tell you somethin’ else that might surprise you. Jason Storm was a U.S. deputy marshal down in Wyoming Territory.”
His statement did, indeed, surprise them both, especially Lena, who had already judged him to be of the same ilk as the outlaws he had fought. “Well, that by God explains a lot of things, don’t it?” Fred replied. “How do you know he was a marshal?”
“Them fellers with Cantrell,” Gus answered, “they knew the name—said he was a hell-raisin’ lawman that ran them outta Wyomin’.” He waited for a few minutes while Fred and Lena digested that bit of news, then said, “I’ll go tell Tom what’s goin’ on.” He paused. “You know, maybe they ain’t even plannin’ on coming back here—maybe they’ll just take the cattle and go.”
“They’ll be back here,” Lena stated with no uncertainty. “They’ll figure there ain’t nothing to stop them. I’ll go get Roseanna. We’d best stay in the store tonight in case they do come back.”
They parted then, Gus to look for Tom Austin, Fred with Lena to get Roseanna. The one common thought in all three minds, aside from cold fear, was what an asinine dream they had shared to build a successful town. There was no chance without effective law enforcement capability. There was a serious concern for Joe Gault and Mike Taylor, knowing the trouble heading their way, but they felt helpless to do anything about it.
It was too big a job for one man and a boy of fourteen, but Joe Gault and Mike had labored diligently to try to gather most of Raymond Pryor’s herd in one spot. The rain, while making their chore uncomfortable, was actually a help, for the cattle were more inclined to stay together in the narrow valley just north of the burnt-out ruins of Pryor’s ranch. They had no notion of moving the herd themselves. Their work over the last few days had been to try to round up as many strays as possible, so they could get an accurate estimate of the total number. Joe planned to ride north to the Double-B in a day or so. If things went as planned, maybe he could sell the herd and turn the job over to the Double-B hands. “I ain’t been in the cattle business but four days,” he remarked, “and that’s four more days than I wanted.”
Mike laughed, ignoring the rain that continued to spatter upon the wide brim of his hat when he reached out from under the slicker that he had fashioned into a tent. “I reckon it’s gonna take me four more days to ever dry out again.”
“Damn, it’s as black as the inside of a boot,” Joe commented, looking toward the ridge that formed the east side of the valley. “But I reckon that’s better than all that lightning that passed over a few hours ago. At least the cattle don’t seem to be as nervous as they were.” He reached up to try to fix a corner of his slicker that had formed a pocket of water. “I expect they’re quiet enough so we can take tu
rns ridin’ night herd, and maybe we can get a little sleep.”
“I ain’t really sleepy yet,” Mike volunteered. “I’ll take the first watch if it’s okay with you.”
“Hell, I don’t care one way or the other,” Joe replied. “If you wanna go first, I’ll take a little nap, and you can wake me up in a couple of hours.”
That settled, Mike pulled his slicker off the laurel branches that had served as the supports for his temporary tent and started for his horse, leaving Joe Gault to catch a few hours’ sleep.
“Mr. Gault,” Mike repeated urgently, his voice low as he nudged the sleeping man on the shoulder. It had only been an hour, but Joe was deep in slumber and reluctant to leave it. “Mr. Gault, wake up!”
Finally, with a grunt of displeasure, Gault struggled to return to consciousness. “What?” he muttered. “What is it?” Then becoming fully awake, he sat up to find Mike kneeling before him.
“There’s a bunch of riders down by the old bunkhouse, and it looks like they’re settin’ up a camp under the trees.”
“What?” Joe responded, still groggy from sleep. “Riders? Who—how many riders?”
“I counted five,” Mike replied.
“Now, who in the hell . . . ?” Joe stammered as he scrambled out of his blanket and followed Mike to a knob in the ridge overlooking the valley below. Already, the flames from a campfire could be seen flickering through the pine trees that stood near the burnt timbers of the bunkhouse. It had stopped raining, but Joe’s focus was on the figures moving about the campfire. It was too dark to identify anyone. It would have been difficult at that distance even in daylight. But it was safe to assume that the riders were there for no other purpose than to steal the cattle.
“What are we gonna do?” Mike asked anxiously.
“I don’t know,” Joe replied. “You say you counted five of ’em?” It was impossible to see the number in the dark stand of trees.
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