Return of the Gun Read online

“Let’s go inside, gentlemen.” The marshal pushed the door open. Jon helped Harger down and led him inside.

  Jon ducked under the doorway of the small adobe building, pushing a grumbling Harger ahead of him. He looked around; there were two cells and a couple of desks, a black pot belly stove and a supply room. Pens and paper sat on both desks; from this he figured Brown must have at least a part-time deputy. The sound of a man snoring drifted out of one of the cells. The other one was empty.

  “Put him right there in that empty cell, Jon,” Brown ordered.

  “Say hi to your new home, Harger,” Jon said as he grabbed the skinny robber by the cuffs and led him across the room.

  Harger stumbled to the door and glanced in the small enclosure. “I been in better jails than this,” he grumbled.

  “Quit your bellyaching!” the marshal barked. “The food’s good and the tarantulas only come out at night.”

  Jon grinned; he was starting to like the friendly lawman.

  The marshal slammed the iron door shut and locked it. The key chain rattled as he tossed it on the peg and then ducked behind his desk.

  “The bank’s closed for the day, Jon, so I’ll go down first thing in the mornin’ and get your reward money. In the meantime, I’ll run the horses down to the stables and make sure they get some good grooming. There’s a hotel just down the street a ways if you’re lookin’ for a room.”

  “Thanks, Marshal. I guess you’re just kinda takin’ care of everything.”

  “It’s my pleasure, Sheriff,” he replied as he slid a tattered log book out of the desk drawer. He opened it as he glanced up at Jon. “My deputy will be in after a while to spell me. How ‘bout I meet ya down at the Oasis Saloon for dinner in about an hour? It’s right across from the hotel.”

  “It will be a pleasure, Marshal.” Jon slid his pocket watch out of his vest pocket and checked the time. “See ya at seven.”

  The marshal nodded as he dipped the pen in the ink well and logged the prisoner’s name in the frayed book.

  Jon quickly exited the jail and jumped down next to Babe. He untied his saddlebags and tossed them over his shoulder. He patted her on the hindquarters and started down the busy street toward the hotel.

  “Sheriff Stoudenmire!” Marshal Brown shouted from the doorway, pen in hand.

  Jon stopped and turned in the street. “Yeah, Ned?”

  “The hotel clerk’s name is Elijah. Tell him the room’s on me.”

  “Much obliged,” Jon said as he resumed his trek to the hotel. He felt the stares of some of the locals as he made his way down the dusty street. Another indicator that his reputation had preceded him, it was becoming a familiar dance but not one he appreciated. Soon the faded sign atop the three-story hotel building was in sight; he hopped up on the wooden boardwalk and stepped inside.

  “Howdy, stranger.” A smiling clerk looked up from the front desk and greeted Jon as he ambled in.

  “Howdy.” Jon scanned the lobby. A few guests were talking quietly on two large leather sofas located just to the left of the desk; otherwise, it was empty. He turned back to the clerk. “I’d guess you’re Elijah?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m Elijah, and you’re Mr.—?”

  “Stoudenmire,” Jon said as he approached the desk.

  The diminutive desk clerk paused for a moment and looked over the top of the small round glasses hanging on the end of his narrow nose.

  “Is that Jon Stoudenmire?” he asked politely.

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “From down Arizona way?”

  “Why do you ask?” Jon replied quickly, annoyed by the continuing questioning from the inquisitive clerk.

  “I’ve just heard about you, that’s all,” the clerk replied in a wheedling voice.

  “Is that so? And just what have you heard?” Jon wanted to know just what people were saying about him.

  “Rumor is you rode into a mining town out in the Arizona desert and single-handedly took on a whole rat’s nest full of hired guns. They say you’re no one to trifle with when you get riled up. Some say you might have killed upwards of a dozen men.” The clerk’s eyes blinked rapidly as he peeked over his glasses at Jon.

  “Don’t believe everything you hear, Elijah. I had plenty of help, and I sure didn’t kill twelve men. But you’re right about one thing, Elijah.”

  “What’s that?” The nosey clerk replied.

  “I do get riled at times, and right now I’m damned tired and wanting a room in the worst way. You understand?”

  “Why…uh, yes sir, I do… your room is coming right up.” The clerk quickly grabbed a key from the wooden slot. “Room 210, just at the top of the stairs.”

  Jon frowned as he glanced up at the rooms. “Got anything with a view of the street?”

  “Yes, yes, we do, Mr. Stoudenmire. Let’s see, room 230 is open.” The clerk poked the first key back in the slot, grabbed the key for 230 and laid it on the counter.

  “Marshal Brown said he’d take care of the room,” Jon said as he snatched up the key and headed for the stairs.

  “No problem, Mr. Stoudenmire. I’ll take it up with him.” The clerk smiled broadly.

  Jon hurried up to his room to clean up a little. He tossed his saddlebags on the featherbed and splashed water on his hot face from a nearby pan. He grabbed a towel off of the bedpost, patted dry, untied his saddlebag and carefully pulled out a gray silk shirt. He slipped on the shirt, splashed some cologne on his cheeks and headed for the Oasis Saloon. Still dry from his trip, a couple of shots of whiskey sounded real good right now.

  Jon dodged a couple of potholes in the heavily traveled street, jumped up on the boardwalk and pushed slowly through the swinging doors of the saloon. He looked around; the folks looked peaceable enough. A man in a plaid vest pounded out “Turkey in the Straw” on the upright piano as Jon walked slowly toward the end of the long oak bar. The roulette wheels, faro tables, and poker games were at full throttle as he leaned against the bar. “Shot of Early Times, please,” Jon said quietly.

  “Comin’ right up,” the bartender replied. “My name’s Jess Landis. Welcome to the Oasis.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Jess. I’m Jon.”

  The bartender gave Jon a friendly nod. “Staying in town long?”

  “Naw, I’m just passin’ through. I’ll be trekkin’ on toward California in the morning.”

  Jon felt a bump on his arm as one of the whores in the bar pushed in next to him. She smelled of cheap perfume and laudanum. Swashes of rouge on her pale cheeks couldn’t hide her dark, tired eyes. Her round, well-shaped bosom was precariously close to falling out of the top of her white cotton dress as she leaned toward Jon. Her face looked young—too young. “Buy a girl a drink?” she smiled awkwardly, batting her long eyelashes.

  “Set her up, Jess.”

  “Usual?” Jess asked.

  “What else?” she asked in a voice too glib to be confident.

  Jess quickly poured a glass of Merlot and set it on the bar. She smiled at Jon as she lifted the glass to her thin lips. “Where ya from, honey?” She took a sip and gently pushed her knee against Jon’s thigh.

  “I’m from a lot of places, darlin’. How about—”

  Suddenly, the wine glass crashed on the bar as the whore screamed and jumped back. Jon’s back went stiff as the cold metal of a gun barrel pressed hard against his skull. There were more screams; chairs scattered across the floor as the patrons scurried out of the way. The piano stopped. The saloon went stone quiet.

  “Remember me, Stoudenmire?” A strong hand grabbed Jon’s chin and pulled it around as the gun pressed hard against the back of his head.

  Jon’s anger grew as he looked into the face of the bearded man. His eyes shot up and down, trying desperately to figure out who he was. Nothing looked familiar until he looked at those eyes—those black, wicked eyes he had seen years earlier in that saloon in Cheyenne, Wyoming.

  “Will Sledge. Remember me? Your worst nightmare just came true.” The ini
quitous man laughed as his bony fingers slid roughly off Jon’s chin. He grabbed the handkerchief on Jon’s neck and yanked hard.

  Jon was livid as the handkerchief cut into his neck. As he gasped for breath, he thought back to that day in Cheyenne. Sledge and a companion had come there to seek revenge against Jon for beating his older brother nearly to death a couple of years earlier in a buffalo camp in the Dakota Territory. After threatening Jon in a local saloon, the two men were quickly disarmed by an alert local sheriff. Wanting some closure, Jon goaded them into a fistfight, two against one out in the street. It was a brutal affair with Jon administering quite a beating to both men. Humiliated in front of the whole town, the badly beaten Sledge vowed revenge.

  “I never gave up lookin’ for you, Stoudenmire, but I was always just one step behind. Then I ran into some trouble down Abilene way. I choked a man to death and they gave me five to ten in a Kansas prison. I spent a lotta time in jail—all I could think about was finding you and killing you. My brother never recovered from the beatin’ you gave him in the Dakota Territory. He died a few years later. You beat him unmerciful, you never gave him a chance. He was the only family I had, and you took him away from me. Now you’re gonna die!”

  A portly, unshaven man standing just behind Sledge cracked a wicked smile.

  Jon glanced to his left as the bartender Jess moved carefully along the bar. He reached down ever so easily and pulled up a sawed off shotgun and laid it carefully on the bar.

  “The man’s not armed, mister,” Jess said calmly. The hammer clicked on the shotgun. “Pull your gun down nice and easy and put it back in its holster. And tell your friend there to keep real still. One false move out of either one of you, and I’ll blow your damn heads off.”

  Jon could tell this young barkeep meant business and so could Sledge.

  “Keep still, Red,” Sledge commanded his stubby partner. Then a nasty grin broke out on his face. “Don’t worry bartender, I wasn’t planning on shootin’ him in here anyway. I want a fair fight.” He pulled the gun away from Jon’s head, let loose of the bandanna and stepped back. He dropped his gun in his holster.

  Jon turned slowly around; he stared angrily at his old nemesis. “I vowed I’d never carry again, Sledge. But for you, I’m gonna make an exception. You need killin’.” There were groans from the crowd as Sledge knocked a table aside, giving the men more room for their showdown.

  “Give him a gun, Red,” Sledge hollered.

  His partner pulled an extra six gun from his sash, set it on the bar next to Jon and quickly stepped back.

  “Pick it up, Stoudenmire,” Will ordered.

  “I’m not stupid, Sledge. If I touch that gun, you’ll blast me to the heavens,” Jon said calmly. “Fight me like a man, Will, face to face out in the street.”

  Sledge paused and cackled, an ugly shrill little laugh. “I don’t care where I kill ya, Stoudenmire. Street’s fine.” The cruel man sneered at Jon as he stepped backwards through the swinging doors, pushing Red behind him.

  Jon yanked out his Bowie knife and dropped it on the bar. He grabbed the six gun and stuffed it in his sash as he tipped his hat down and walked outside. “I should have killed that bastard when I had the chance,” he mumbled.

  Spurs jingled as the patrons hurried toward the door to watch the fight. Jess eased the hammer down on the shotgun and set it back under the bar.

  Jon scanned the street as he pushed through the batwing doors. Sledge stopped in the middle of the rutted road and turned toward Jon. The sun was quickly setting below the tops of the wood frame buildings. With the building blocking the glare from the sun, Jon would have a clear shot. Suddenly, he heard a familiar voice.

  “Evenin’, Jon.”

  Surprised, Jon spun to face Marshal Brown, just arriving for dinner.

  “What’s going on here?” Brown asked.

  “Sorry, Ned. I ran into a little problem.” He nodded toward the menacing Sledge standing feet apart, hands poised above guns in the middle of the street. “Didn’t mean to bring trouble to your town, Marshal.”

  “Why don’t we all sit down and—?”

  Jon interrupted the marshal. “Ned, this man’s been trailin’ me for years. He doesn’t want to talk. If I don’t take him out here, I’m gonna be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life.”

  The two were interrupted by Will’s gravelly voice. “What’s the hold up, Stoudenmire—you gettin’ cold feet?”

  Jon glanced back at the marshal. The marshal grimaced. “Go ahead and take the son-of-a-bitch, Jon. I’ll watch your backside.”

  Jon ambled slowly to the center of the street. He yanked the gun out one last time and spun the cylinder to be sure it was fully loaded, a ceremony he performed without fail before every shootout. Then he tucked the gun back in the sash for a crossover draw. He opened and shut his hands, trying to relax his fingers as he turned to face the determined Sledge. Unafraid, Jon lived for these moments, mano e mano, out in the street with a nasty killer. He wanted Will Sledge dead in the worst way.

  “Can you see me okay, Jon? I know you’re gettin’ kind of old.” A hoarse laugh followed as the nasty critter smirked at Jon.

  “I’m plenty close enough, Sledge,” Jon growled.

  “Got a bead on ’im, Red,” Sledge yelled at his partner, trying to distract Jon.

  “Stay out of this, Red,” Marshal Brown bellowed.

  “Ain’t my fight.” Red raised his hands and stepped backwards.

  “That’s okay, Marshal. I can kill two snakes as easy as one!” Jon barked.

  The snake comment enraged Sledge. His skinny hand dropped down as he went for his gun.

  Jon drew like a flash, cocked the hammer and pressed hard on the trigger. Yellow flames shot out from the barrel; smoke filled the air. He fired two more quick shots. The crowd screamed as Jon’s bullets blasted into Sledge’s chest. Wide-eyed, he blew backward, skidded on the dusty street and fell still. His head dropped to the side as blood oozed from the smoking bullet holes in the center of his chest. The shocked crowd was numb as Marshal Brown rushed out to the street, gun drawn. He swung it toward Red.

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” he shouted.

  Red pushed his hands even higher at the marshal’s command.

  Jon ran toward Sledge’s lifeless body, six gun smoking. He looked down at the fallen man, his face red with anger. For a horrifying moment as he gazed at Sledge’s lifeless face, he saw his own father’s narrow evil face instead—the same face that had terrified him as a boy. A firm slap on the back brought him out of the excruciating trance.

  “Great shooting, Jon!” Marshal Brown exclaimed.

  Eyes glazed over with anger, Jon tried to compose himself. “Th…thanks, Marshal.”

  “Take the body down to the coroner’s office,” Marshal Brown shouted at his fast approaching deputy.

  Sledge’s shaken partner mounted up and turned to ride out of town. “Here!” Jon shouted as he tossed him the Peacemaker. Red caught the warm gun in midair, stuck it back in his holster and spurred his steed forward to the edge of town.

  The marshal looked back at Jon. “Are you okay, Jon?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be fine,” Jon said quietly.

  “How about a drink?”

  “Sounds good.”

  The two men turned and walked toward the Oasis. They pushed through the doors and Marshal Brown nodded to the right. “Over there.” He pointed to a table in the corner of the room, slightly elevated and bordered by a shiny gold banister. “That’s kind of my little slice of heaven.” The marshal smiled. “Jess made it for me and my deputies. He likes to have the law around here as much as possible.”

  As the two men ambled over to Ned’s special table, Jon thought of the promise he had made to his true love Elizabeth, back in the Arizona Territory. Contemplating marriage and tired of all of the violence, he had promised the lovely saloon owner that his gun fighting days were behind him. Jon’s thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the approaching ba
rkeep as the two men stepped up on the red carpet and sat down.

  “Whiskey?” Jess asked.

  “Sounds good,” the marshal replied. Jon nodded his approval.

  “Let me know when you want to order dinner.” Jess said as the two thick glasses banged against the tabletop. The bartender splashed in the whiskey and hurried back to the bar.

  Jon pushed his hat back on his forehead, reached inside his vest pocket and pulled out a Havana. “Smoke?” he offered as he lifted it toward the marshal.

  “No thanks, Jon. I’m tryin’ to quit,” he laughed.

  “Do you mind?”

  “No, no. Please, go right ahead.”

  “Thanks.” Jon lit up, took a hard drag and exhaled.

  “That Sledge fella seemed like a real bad sort,” Brown said.

  “Yeah, he was a bad hombre all right, and he needed killin’. It’s just…” Jon hesitated.

  “Just what?” The curious marshal leaned forward.

  “Well, it’s just that I made a promise never to fight again to a very special someone back in Arizona.” Jon’s brow furrowed as he watched the brown liquid swirl in his glass.

  Brown looked sympathetically toward Jon. “Is that why you’re not packin’ and all?”

  Jon frowned. “Sure enough is.”

  “A noble gesture indeed, my friend,” the marshal replied, “but it seems a little risky for a man of your reputation. It only stands to reason that there are going to be a few more Will Sledges out there.”

  Jon grimaced. “I guess so, Ned. I’m just hopin’ that when I get over those mountains that most of the bad stuff will stay behind me.”

  “Well, let’s hope so, my friend,” said the marshal, lifting his glass. “Here’s to you and that pretty girl back in Arizona!” The two men downed their shots.

  “You ridin’ out in the morning?” Ned asked.

  “I’m plannin’ on it, Marshal.”

  “It’s been a pleasure gettin’ to know ya, Jon!”

  “Same to ya, Ned.” Jon smiled warmly. “And since you got my room, it’s my turn to fork over for dinner.”

  “I give up Sheriff.” The marshal playfully raised his hands above his head.