Storm in Paradise Valley by Charles G. West

Author:Charles G. West
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2010-11-08T05:00:00+00:00

“We gotta rest these horses,” Booker said as they approached a small stream that wound like a snake across a treeless valley. They had been pushing the animals pretty hard for most of the morning and some of the horses were beginning to show the effects. “What’s the all-fired hurry, anyway?” he asked Cantrell. “You said them cattle is scattered all over hell and back. They ain’t likely to wander far.”

Cantrell squirmed nervously in the saddle. “I ain’t worried about those damn cows,” he replied. “There’s somethin’ else I wanna settle.”

One Eye grinned. “That jasper that chased you outta town?” Cantrell didn’t answer, but One Eye read his expression. “I believe he kinda got under your skin a little bit. Whaddaya think, Stump?”

The short, stocky man pulled his horse up alongside One Eye. “I believe he musta,” he said with a grin. “Ol’ Mace has got blood in his eye. Reminds me of that time in Sawyer’s Town when that feller shot Mace’s horse.” Cantrell only grunted in response. Stump continued. “You remember, Booker, that feller at the gristmill—took a shot at Mace with a shotgun, missed Mace but peppered his horse’s ass good.” He paused to chuckle over the incident. “Mace came off that horse, legs and arms flyin’. That feller took off runnin’, and Mace right after him.”

They all enjoyed a laugh, except for Mace. He remembered the incident well, and Stump was right, he had been furious. He had to shoot the man in the leg in order to catch him, but he was not content to simply kill him. He closed his eyes while he recalled the brutal satisfaction he felt while beating the helpless man to death with the shotgun he had fired at him. He looked around him then at the four men he had rejoined, and he felt invincible again. Then the image of Jason Storm came to his mind’s eye and the picture kindled a slow rage that would not be quelled until he saw the man dead. Jason Storm had been the cause of Cantrell’s one moment of fear, the thought of which brought a sick feeling to the pit of Mace’s stomach.

Picking a spot where a thin stand of willows was making a valiant effort to procreate, they dismounted and let the horses drink. Booker sat down near the bank of the stream and pulled a plug of tobacco from his pocket. Using his pocketknife, he cut off a chew and offered the plug to Mace. He studied Mace carefully while he helped himself to the tobacco. “This feller, this walkin’ dead man you’re itchin’ to settle up with—who the hell is he? You say he ain’t the sheriff of that little town?”

“I told you,” Cantrell replied gruffly, “I don’t know who he is. He said he was just passin’ through—came in the saloon to get a drink and then I thought he went on his way. But the son of a bitch sneaked back in the general store and shot two of my men.

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