Return of the Gun

by R. B. Conroy

  “Frowning, he said not very good. He said he was closing up and that he had opened a small saloon down on Center Street. And then to my surprise, he asked me to join him for a game of stud that night.”

  “Tell me it ain’t true, cus! You and Doc Holliday in a card game!”

  “Yeah, I was pretty much shocked all right. I told him I had a few things to do, and I would join him later.

  “He nodded and laid his hand on my shoulder as we walked out the front door. He locked the door and strolled toward the center of town. Still tryin’ to absorb the whole affair, I just stood for a minute and watched him walk away. This bad man, legendary killer of the West, turned out to be a likeable, well-spoken man.”

  “That’s really somethin’,” Cliff exclaimed.

  “Yeah, but it didn’t take long for me to see the other side of Doc Holliday.”

  “Oh yeah? What happened?”

  “Well, after I ran all my errands, I headed on down to Center Street and Doc’s place for that game of stud. I moseyed on in. He saw me right away and motioned me over to his table. He had a chair waitin’ on me. He introduced me to the other players and then proceeded to deal. One of the players was a local gunman named Mike Gordon. He was joking and laughing with the other fellows. He seemed to be pretty popular. Doc seemed annoyed by him. I nodded at everyone and took my seat.”

  “In a card game with the Doc. That’s somethin’.” Cliff shook his head. “Could he play?”

  “Yeah, he knew his cards all right, but he acted different than he did in his office. He seemed nervous and kinda edgy, and his eyes had a dark look to ’em. He was drinking quite a bit and not near as friendly. I guess a skinny rich kid from Valdosta, Georgia, had to be on his guard all the time.

  “I played for a few hours, lost a little and called it a day. Doc stood up to say goodbye to me. I told him I was leavin’ for California in the morning, and he wished me safe passage. He put his poker face back on and rejoined the game.

  “The next morning, I got up early and headed down to the livery stable to pick up Babe. I stopped by the hardware store and picked up some supplies and then started to ride out. As I rode down Center Street, gunfire and screaming erupted inside Doc’s saloon. As I got closer, I saw Doc come staggering out of the swinging doors with his six guns a smokin’. He stumbled off the boardwalk and almost ran into me. Surprised, he looked up at me with bloodshot eyes. He smiled a little when he saw it was me and lowered the gun. I’ll tell ya, Cliff, I’ll never forget the look on his face that morning for as long as I live. It wasn’t anger or hatred—it was remorse and sadness on his face.”

  “Ya think he felt bad about shooting that hombre?”

  “Sure seemed like it,” Jon replied. “I asked how it happened, and he told me Gordon had accused him of cheating and went for his gun. Doc beat him to the punch and blasted him three times at close range. He said it was an awful sight. He literally blew his guts out. He knew the town would be after him, so he ran out of the saloon. Haggard and tired, Doc smelled of whiskey, stale cigars, and cologne.

  “Then he turned and started walking real fast toward his horse. I reined around and rode next to him.

  I leaned down and asked him where he was headin’.

  “He said the word ‘Dodge’ quietly so nobody would hear. I nodded as he dropped his guns in their holsters and quickly mounted up. I felt honored that he trusted me enough to tell me where he was goin’.

  “As he mounted up, I jumped down and grabbed a pouch of water off Babe and tossed it over his horse’s hindquarters. Then I quickly stuffed some flour and bacon into his saddlebags.

  “He said ‘Bless you, my friend,’ as he spun around and rode off toward Dodge.

  “Several people came running out of the saloon waving their six guns. Like I said, Gordon was a popular guy. The local folks were more than a little bit upset by his killing.”

  “Why’d they wait so long to come after him?” Cliff queried.

  “Gordon was more than likely the only gunman in there. The rest of them were probably just normal folks. They really didn’t want any part of Doc Holliday.

  “One of the men asked me if I knew where Doc went, and I didn’t say anything. The man just stared at me for a minute and then looked up and down the street. Doc had left town on one of the finest quarter horses I’ve ever seen. Even in his drunken state, he was a fine horseman. There’s no way they would ever catch him. Several others rushed out to the street, waving their guns and shouting, but none gave chase. It was all for show. Disheartened by the loss of their friend, they dropped their guns in their holsters and walked back in the saloon. One of the men shouted ‘Good riddance’ over his shoulder.

  “I quickly rode back to the general store, picked up another bag of water and other supplies and headed out for California again.”

  “That’s one whale of a story, Jon.”

  Jon sat back in his chair. “Yeah, he’s quite a guy. After only a short time with him, I can see why Wyatt liked him so much. There was somethin’ about him, an honesty or somethin’ most people never see.”

  “I bet Gordon didn’t see it,” Cliff quipped.

  “Guess not,” Jon replied.

  “I hear Doc had a big shootout down Tombstone way not too long ago.”

  “Yeah, I heard about that,” Jon replied. “I guess some cowboys got shot up pretty bad.”

  Jon has really changed, Cliff thought. Since he last saw him, Jon had become a hardened gunman. Just the kind of man that he and the others miners needed to take on George Stanton and his gang of hired guns. Cliff had a hunch.

  “If you don’t mind, Jon, I would like to take a couple a minutes and tell you a little bit about what’s going on around here.”

  Jon smiled. “You were patient enough during my story, cus. Go ahead.”

  “Well, as you may know, this town is pretty well dependent on the nearby gold mines for its survival.”

  Jon nodded.

  “The original vein on the side of a nearby mountain was discovered and mined by a man named George Stanton. Everything was going just great for Mr. Stanton in the beginning. In fact, it went so well that he was thinking of expanding and looking for gold in some nearby areas. Only problem was, he was a little short of capital to fund these new ventures. To improve his cash flow, he came up with a scheme to advertise out East. He offered the folks out East a chance to come here to California and buy into one of the small veins that splintered off his main vein with the chance of striking it rich. Each person or family would acquire a stake in a smaller vein near the main load and whatever gold was found would belong to them. Meanwhile, Stanton could take their cash and use it for further expansion and development in some of the promising areas just south of here. It would also expand his power and influence locally.

  “Sounded good enough. The only problem was that it wasn’t long before the large vein started to burn out. At the same time, several of the new prospectors were making lots of money on their stakes, and George didn’t like it. He had spent most of his money exploring for new veins in nearby foothills. These efforts had gone bust, and his cash reserves were beginning to dwindle. He was becoming desperate for cash. So he came up with a plan to buy the miners out at double what they had paid for their claims, but nobody was biting. Many of them were in the process of getting rich, and naturally, they weren’t about to sell. Their reluctance made George furious, and it wasn’t long before some hired guns were beginning to show up in town. If someone refused to sell, he would soon get a visit from one of Stanton’s new guns. It was getting ugly, and people were beginning to get frightened. And now he was offering them just fifty cents on the dollar.”

  Big Jon fell back in his chair and looked over at Cliff. “Are they threatening you?”

  “Well, I had a visit the other evening from a gentleman named Dave Barton. Know the name?”

  “Sure do. He’s about the meanest snake this side of the Pecos River, and he won’t hesitate a minute to gun yo
u down if the money’s right.”

  “Sounds like a great fellow.” Cliff had a worrisome look on his face.

  “One of the worst, and I have to say this, that George Stanton of yours didn’t go halfway when he brought in Barton. He’s one of the nastiest sons-a-guns I’ve ever known. He was the enforcer for a local cattle baron in Ellsworth, Kansas, back when I was ridin’ shotgun on a local stagecoach line. A lot of small ranchers and squatters were starting to move into the area, and Barton’s boss didn’t like it. He turned Dave loose on the poor unsuspecting louts, and it got ugly. It wasn’t long before several ranchers and squatters turned up dead. Everyone in town knew who did it, but because Barton’s boss owned the local sheriff, nothin’ was ever done about it. It will take a strong man to deal with a man like Barton. Is there anybody like that around here in law enforcement?”

  “We have a county sheriff. But he was George’s right hand man before he became sheriff.”

  “Well, I guess you can forget about him,” Jon said. “Just for the record, Cliff, who is this fine sheriff?”

  “Dan Cook. Not a bad fellow, but he is scared to death of George.”

  “Sounds like just about everyone around here is afraid of this Stanton fella,” Jon replied as he downed another shot.

  “Yeah. They are.”

  “Doesn’t sound good, Cliff. Looks like you got a real problem on your hands.”

  Jon was trying to distance himself from the situation; he didn’t want any part of this mess. With his reputation, the next thing he knew Cliff would be asking for his help. He had to call an early end to the evening before he got drawn into something.

  “I hate to say it, Cliff, but I’m just plain tuckered out, and I better get me some rest. I gotta big day ahead of me tomorrow and need to get some serious shuteye.”

  Undeterred, Cliff pushed on. “Jon, me and the other prospectors could sure use a man like you around here. We’re facing hired killers here, and most of the miners are just average folks—family people—just like those folks in Las Vegas. They have no idea how to deal with such people.”

  “Sorry to hear about your problems, Cliff, I truly am, but I can’t help ya. I got enough problems of my own without borrowin’ any. This saddle bum is heading on to Vinegar Bend in the morning to build a cabin and settle down. I wish you luck,” he said as he pushed his chair back and stood to leave. “Evenin’,” he said quietly, not able to look his cousin in the eye.

  “Good night, Jon, and I understand what you’re saying, partner. This is our fight. Don’t blame ya a bit,” Cliff said somberly, burnt a little by his lack of success.

  Jon smiled, wheeled around and wove his way through the crowded saloon to the door. He felt troubled as he walked down the street to the hotel. He knew he had left dinner a little abruptly, but he just couldn’t let himself fall into the same old trap. His friend and cousin was in trouble and needed help, and it tugged at him. The same thing happened at his last stop in Logan’s Crossing, and a bloody orgy resulted with several people ending up dead. He couldn’t let that happen again. Not if he could help it.

  Chapter 6

  Jon slept in the next morning; after a quick bath and a late breakfast at the local café, he hurried down to the stables.

  The big wooden door at the stables squeaked as Jon pulled it open. “Anybody here?” he asked.

  “Hold your britches on! I’ll be right with ya,” a voice shouted out from one of the stalls. “

  As Jon walked over to Babe’s stall and gently stroked her neck, he could hear the stablehand hurrying toward him. He stopped and looked at Jon, apparently annoyed that Jon had taken the liberty to enter Babe’s stall.

  “How’s she doing, Mr.—?” Jon asked as he backed out of the stall.

  “The name’s Hank Clark, and she’s doing just fine, but she’s still a little tired. Another day’s rest and grooming would do her a lot of good, Mr.—”

  “Stoudenmire, Jon Stoudenmire. And you’re the boss, Hank. Whatever you say. She was plenty tuckered when we got to town yesterday.”

  Hank nodded and watched as Jon ambled out of the stable area.

  Jon tipped his hat to the wary hand and headed down Main Street to see about getting a few supplies. The weathered steps to the general store sunk a little as he stepped up. Suddenly he ducked to his left as a six gun blasted away nearby. Instinctively, he jumped down to the street, drew his six gun and spun to confront the fire. At the same time, the shooter turned toward Jon’s menacing six gun. “Easy, partner, easy now, draw down, just shootin’ an old nasty rattler here in the alley beside the store. Meant no harm.” It was a familiar but unpleasant voice.

  “No harm done, Barton, but something tells me it wasn’t an accident.” Jon eased his Colt slowly back into its holster.

  “Oh it was, Jon. If I had wanted to kill you, we wouldn’t be standing here talking about it. Just wanted to shoot this varmint before he harmed somebody.” Barton leaned down, hooked the dead snake on his gun barrel and pointed it at Jon.

  “Well, I guess we all owe you a debt of gratitude for saving our lives from this little critter,” Jon said sarcastically. “What’s a man like you doin’ way out here in these parts anyway, Barton?”

  “I was going to ask you the same thing, Jon. I hear you been spendin’ a lot of time with Cliff Stone.”

  “Word gets around plenty fast.”

  “Yeah it does, Jon, and I’m listening real close to everything I hear lately,” Barton said threateningly.

  Jon’s brow furrowed. “You’re wasting your time with me, Barton. I’m just passin’ through.”

  “That’s good, Stoudenmire. That might save us both a little grief,” the surly gunhand replied as he ambled over and tossed the snake out in the desert. “What’s goin’ on in El Cabrera is none of your affair anyhow, Stoudenmire,” he barked as he mounted up. “If you stick around, you’ll have me to deal with.” Before Jon could answer, he reined his steed around and rode quickly out of town.

  Jon was furious as he watched Barton ride off on his painted sorrel. That man could use a lesson or two, he thought as he spit defiantly on the dusty street. But the truth was, as much as he despised him, Barton was a dangerous man. A stocky muscular man, he was quick and fearless with a gun and seemed to always be itching for a fight. Might be better to stick to his plan and let someone else deal with Dave Barton.

  Chapter 7

  The sun was getting intense as Jon stepped around the many potholes on the way to the Dead End Saloon for lunch. It was a typical day; gunfire could be heard out on the street, followed by the predictable whooping and hollering. This low mountain mining town attracted all sorts of bad actors, and he wanted no part of it. A short time later, he reached the saloon and pushed through the swinging doors. After a quick look around, he ambled over to the end of the bar and ordered a shot of Early Times. As Jake splashed whiskey in the thick glass, Jon’s thoughts took him back to the first time he had laid eyes on his vineyard.

  He’d never forget it. He was standing on a hillside looking down over the beautiful valley below. It was stunning, row after row of lush green vines being pulled downward by shiny bunches of deep purple grapes covered with dew and glistening in the morning sun. What a paradise, he thought. I’ll be there soon, Good Lord willin’.

  “Are you all right?” Lou Stanton’s voice nudged Jon back to reality.

  “Why, yes, I sure am, Lou. Just daydreamin’ a little, I guess,” a slightly red-faced Jon replied.

  Lou laughed out loud. “I guess we all do that once in a while. Are you heading out today?”

  “Well, I was plannin’ on it, but I guess my horse needs another day of rest and grooming. I’ve been ridin’ her pretty hard lately.”

  The dapper saloon owner smiled.

  “Tell me something, Lou. Have you got any card players in this town? I got a whole bunch of time to kill, and I sure wouldn’t mind a game of five card stud right now.”

  “Well, guess what Mr.—”

>   Jon interrupted. “It’s Jon Stoudenmire, but call me Jon, please!”

  “Well guess what, Jon, this may be your lucky day,” Lou said. “Attorney Fred Smith, president of the town board, closes his office every day for a couple of hours just before lunch and deals a few hands. He always plays with the sheriff and two or three other board members. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you joined them. They should be here any time.”

  “The president of the town board and Sheriff Cook, that’s really somethin’,” Jon said humbly. “Do they play stud?”

  “Yes. Here they come now. Looks like there’s…uh, just three of them,” said Lou, standing on his tip toes so he could see over the batwing doors. “I’m sure they’ll need a player now.”

  The three local leaders were talking and laughing as they entered the saloon for their daily game of stud.

  “Good morning Fred,” Lou said enthusiastically.

  “Mornin’, Lou! And how’s the wealthiest saloon owner this side of the Rocky Mountains doing on this fine day?”

  “Wealthy, my foot!” Lou chuckled.

  Fred smiled and glanced over at Jon and nodded hello.

  Lou noticed the acknowledgement and spoke up. “I would like you fellas to meet Jon Stoudenmire. He’s just in from Arizona.”

  “How are you, Jon? Nice to meet you,” Fred said as he reached forward for a shake. “This gentleman here is Dan Cook, our local sheriff. And this ugly critter over here is Bill Zollars. He’s on the town board.”

  “Mornin’, Fred, nice to meet ya. My pleasure, Sheriff Cook. How ya doin’, Bill?” Jon said as he shook each man’s hand.