by R. B. Conroy
“Jon here’s looking for a game,” said Lou.
“Oh, good, good, glad to have you. It would be a pleasure,” Fred said sincerely. “We play at that table right over there.” Fred pointed to a table in the corner of the room away from the other gaming tables. “It gives us a little privacy.”
“Let’s get started. I don’t have long,” the sheriff exclaimed as he glanced down at Jon’s Colts.
“Do you fellas mind if I take the chair against the wall?” Jon asked as the men approached the table.
“You got somebody hot on your trail, Jon?” Sheriff Cook asked.
“Oh no, just habit I guess,” said Jon as he moved around the table and sat down.
“No problem, Jon, but it’s only ten o’clock. Most gunslingers I know don’t get out of bed until noon. You should be safe. Ain’t that right, Fred?” the sheriff cackled.
“Well…uh, I guess so,” Fred replied nervously.
Upset by the untimely gunslinger comment, Jon glared at the sheriff as he sat down across from Jon.
“Five card stud okay with you, Jon?” Fred inquired as he began to shuffle.
“Stud’s the game. Deal ’em.” Jon carefully slipped a cigar out of his inside vest pocket.
“Mind if I smoke, gentlemen?”
They all nodded their approval as Fred dealt high card for the deal. Sheriff Cook drew an ace right away. Fred slid the deck over the green velvet tabletop to the sheriff. He gathered them up, did a quick reshuffle and pushed them right for a cut. Bill tapped on the cards indicating no cut as Sheriff Cook hastily started the first deal.
Play was quiet at first, with nobody saying much. Jon had just won a pot when the sheriff spoke up.
“You the Jon Stoudenmire that gunned down all those men down Arizona way?” the sheriff asked. His eyes stayed on his cards, never making eye contact with Jon.
The other men fidgeted nervously in their seats, disarmed by the direct question from the sheriff. It wasn’t polite to ask such a question of a stranger, especially in the middle of a friendly card game.
“The name’s Stoudenmire all right, but I didn’t gun anyone down. I was the sheriff, and I was enforcing the law against some very bad men. I’d think a man of the law like you would understand that.” Jon glared at the sheriff. “We got us a friendly game goin’ here, Sheriff. Let’s keep it that way.”
Sheriff Cook glanced over his cards at Jon. The two stared at each other for several seconds. The sheriff spoke. “We got us a peaceable town here, Mr. Stoudenmire, and we want it to stay that way.”
Jon shot back, “Well, that’s good, ’cause I’m probably the most peaceable man you’ll ever know.” Jon was staring daggers at him now, trying to keep his cool.
Unnerved by the intense stare from the famed gunman, the sheriff looked back at his cards.
“Hot damn!” Fred shouted as he dealt his up card. “I just hit an ace. Raise ya five!”
Jon collected himself and replied, “I know I’m crazy, but I’m gonna call that bet, Fred.” He threw his gold piece in the pot.
Zollars grumbled something and threw in his cards.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to fold also,” Sheriff Cook exclaimed as he tossed his cards face down on the table. “And if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have to go back to my office and meet with some ranchers about some cattle rustling that’s been going on out east of town.” Sheriff Cook pushed his chair back and stood up; he nodded as he turned and walked toward the door.
Fred flipped over his hole card, revealing aces up. “Well, that’s a heck of a note,” Fred bellowed as he watched the sheriff walk away. “I just get hot, and the sheriff hightails it outa here.”
“Beats my kings,” Jon groused.
“How about a few more hands of hold ’em, gentlemen, and then we’ll call it a day?” Fred asked as he raked in the pot.
“Sounds good to me,” Jon replied.
“Me too,” said Bill quietly.
Jon was still a little upset. His exchange with Sheriff Cook had not been a pleasant one. It was obvious to Jon that Stanton viewed him as a threat to his plans to take over the gold mines. The fine sheriff was sending him a message, but Jon wanted no part of this fight. As soon as Babe was rested, he was gonna saddle up and move on down the road.
The three men continued to play for a short time and then parted ways with a friendly handshake. Fred apologized to Jon for the sheriff’s rudeness as the three men stepped out to the busy street. Fred turned toward Jon. “We’re playing tomorrow, Jon. If you’re still in town, you’re welcome to join us.”
“Thank ya, Fred, but I hope to be headin’ out tomorrow.”
“Travel safe,” Fred said as he and Bill stepped off of the boardwalk and melted into the traffic on the busy street.
Suddenly, Jon heard two men shouting across the street near the bank. One of the men looked like Dave Barton. The other man was in the shadows of the overhang. There was a lot of shoving and finger pointing going on as a crowd began to gather. Jon jumped down from the wooden walkway and moved across the street for a better look. As Jon wove his way through the busy midday traffic, Barton yanked out his gun and clubbed the other man, knocking him to the ground.
As Jon drew closer, he saw that it was Cliff lying on the dusty road.
“This is my last offer. You got twenty-four hours to sell that property,” Barton barked as he waved the six gun above the face of the fallen man.
Cliff, still groggy from the clubbing, staggered to get to his feet to confront his tormentor.
“You go to hell, Barton. I’m not selling!” he shouted defiantly.
“Just remember what I said, Stone—twenty-four hours!”
By now, quite a crowd had gathered, playing into Barton’s hand. The more people who saw the clubbing and heard the threats, the fewer miners he would have to confront later. Barton turned to leave, almost bumping into Jon.
“You’re a pretty tough hombre against an unarmed man.” Jon pushed his chest forward, further blocking Barton’s path.
“Got no fight with you, Stoudenmire. Just step aside and let me get on down the road.”
“I’ll think about it, Dave.” Jon held still in the street. “Cliff and I go back a long way. You’re pushin’ your luck with me, Barton.”
“Fine, consider me warned. But I can kill two men as easily as one,” he said coldly as he stepped around Jon. “And I got plenty of help if necessary.”
Incensed, Jon gritted his teeth. He wanted to kill Barton right on the spot, but he couldn’t. It would only lead to more trouble and a longer stay in El Cabrera.
“Better watch your backside, Dave,” Jon said as the gunman walked toward his horse.
“You heard me,” Barton said as he mounted up and spurred his steed toward the edge of town. Jon was fuming, his hands hovering over his six guns as he watched the mouthy gunman ride away. He collected himself and hurried over to Cliff. “You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah…just a little embarrassed, I guess.”
“You were never a fightin’ man, Cliff, but you always stood up for yourself. What happened?”
“I’m not sure. I passed him on the way into town, and he must have circled around and followed me back in. He surprised me when I walked up to the bank. I didn’t have time to get my wits about me. We had words, and the next thing I knew, he was clubbing me. Next time I’ll be ready for him,” Cliff said quietly, still shaken by the beating.
“That’s good, give a varmint like him half a chance, and he’ll put you in the ground.”
Cliff frowned. “You’re right, and I’m afraid he’s got the whole town buffaloed. They all know he’s a killer, and nobody wants to die. I’m afraid Stanton is winning this battle for the goldfields. Won’t be too long before all the miners will have been chased off, and Stanton will control everything around here. All we’ll have are busted dreams and thoughts of what could have been. It just ain’t right, Jon!” The dust flew as Cliff smacked his hat hard against h
is leg. “A lot of innocent people are going to get hurt before this thing’s over,” Cliff said as he mounted up. He looked over at Jon without saying a word and rode out of town.
Cliff’s comments really tore into Jon. How could he let his own flesh and blood down at a time like this? Cliff had come out here to start a new life and now these sidewinders were trying to take it away from him. Jon was the only one who could deal with these killers, and if he left, he would be leaving his cousin to their mercy. To leave now went against every instinct in his body. But he had to go. He had to stick to his plan to get out of town, or he might end up dead. And besides, this wasn’t his fight. This was just a town he had stopped in on the way to his vineyard. He had to get a hold of himself and on his desire to put a bullet in the belly of Dave Barton and be on his way.
Jon was still upset as he gently pushed open the swinging doors at the Dead End. He made his way slowly to the end of the bar. He reached into his jeans pocket and tossed a five dollar coin on the bar. “Give me a bottle a whiskey, Jake,” he muttered.
Jake slid a full bottle out of the rack, splashed the whiskey in a glass and set the bottle in front of Jon. He hurried back to the kitchen.
Upset, Jon gulped down the shot and quickly poured another. As he stood alone at the end of the bar getting more and more intoxicated, he felt himself becoming frightened as he began to ponder the events that were unfolding around him. He had no fear of Dave Barton or George Stanton or any of his henchmen. He had faced their type many times before and rather than fear them, he had only contempt for them. What frightened Jon was how he felt inside; his hatred of injustice was pushing him toward this fight, and he didn’t like it.
Jon was shaken out of his thoughts by guns blasting out in the street. Suddenly the swinging doors burst open, and four men came charging in, laughing and shouting, guns still smoking. Table and chairs rattled as the folks quickly ducked out of the way of the aggressive intruders.
“What’s the matter with everyone?” the lead man shouted. “Let’s all drink up and have a good time.” Flames shot in the air as the swarthy little man fanned his six gun.
Jon immediately recognized the lead man as the raucous group made their way toward the bar. It was Injun Joe, a half-breed, part Apache and part white man—and one of the meanest and most wicked gunmen Jon had ever known. A veteran of the Lincoln County wars, he had made quite a reputation for himself by gunning down innocent cowboys. This must be George Stanton’s latest hire, his most recent attempt to put the fear of God in the miners.
The breed was a rather small man with a large head and thin lips that seemed always to be twisted in a grotesque smile. His long black hair, square dark face, and black eyes with bushy eyebrows added to his ominous appearance. He had an ugly deep scar that started at his left temple and ended at the side of his mouth. Jon thought he had the look of pure evil.
Still shaken by his own inner demons, Jon knew that this was a very bad time for Injun Joe to show up. Jon was in a bad mood. One wrong move or misstep by Injun Joe, and he would get a free ticket to the happy hunting grounds.
It didn’t take long for things to begin to happen. Joe glanced over and recognized Jon; his pace slowed noticeably as he made his way to the bar. Perspiring freely, he slid his guns back into his holster as he and the other men lined up at the bar. The sight of Big Jon seemed to unnerve him.
Jon felt hot, dirty, drunk and angry as he looked over at the nasty crew lined up along the bar. The tension in the room was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Obviously intimidated by Jon, Injun Joe was stone quiet. Jon finally broke the ice.
“What brings you to town, Joe—lookin’ for somebody to shoot in the back?” he said coolly.
Jon went on, not letting Joe answer. “I hope you’re just passin’ through, ’cause if you’re workin’ for George Stanton, you and I got a big problem, and I’m in no mood for problems right now!”
Sweat from Injun Joe’s face dripped on the bar; his hands were trembling. The other men didn’t move. They were more than likely just hired mine workers and would back off pretty quickly if trouble started. Jon knew if push came to shove, it would be him against Joe.
“Got no fight with you, Jon,” Joe said nervously. “Best you leave matters to those people involved and get on down the road.”
“Listen to me, you yellow-bellied son-of-a-bitch. Don’t you ever try to tell me what to do. And I do have a dog in this fight,” Jon said. Unable to control his anger any longer, he began to fill with rage. “My cousin is being forced out of his mine and I don’t like it.” Jon was almost shouting now; the liquor was taking effect.
Jon started moving slowly out from behind the end of the bar. As expected, the other three men backed away from the bar and hurried out the door. They obviously wanted no part in this fight. The door banged back and forth as other folks fled the saloon. Jake the bartender dropped onto the wood floor behind the bar.
“I wasn’t trying to tell you what to do, Jon,” Injun Joe said calmly. He continued to look straight ahead; any movement in either direction would cause Jon to draw, and he didn’t want that. “We go back a long way, Jon. I just wanted to be sure you knew what was coming down around here. No insult meant,” Joe pleaded.
Just then the doors swung open, and Lou hurried in from a visit to the bank. He stopped dead in his tracks as he saw the looming confrontation between the two gunmen. Eyes wide, he scanned the room. He spoke very calmly, not wanting to rile anyone.
“What’s going on here, Jon? Have we got a problem?”
Jon turned slightly toward Lou.
“Everything is—”
Suddenly, like a frightened animal, Injun Joe saw his chance to make his move. He jumped back from the bar, grabbled for his revolver and shot wildly in the direction of Jon. Watching the nasty bugger out of the corner of his eye, Jon drew and blasted away. The deafening sound of exploding gunpowder reverberated throughout the saloon as Jon poured three shots into Joe’s midsection. His thick body reeled backward against the bar.
“I hope you burn in hell, Stoudenmire!” Joe screamed as his gun fired harmlessly into the floor of the saloon. He staggered around helplessly and then fell hard to the wood floor face down. With one last violent spasm, his body flipped over onto its back. The bad man had an ugly look on his dark face as he gurgled up blood and then fell silent.
Jon stood staring down at the fallen man. “Shoulda stayed in New Mexico, Joe.” He whispered as he turned to walk away.
Badly shaken by the gory scene, Lou Stanton approached Jon.
“You know this isn’t the end of this, don’t you?” Lou said as he drew closer to Jon.
“Yeah, I’m sure it isn’t. Your brother George is not going to be happy about me killin’ one of his hired guns.”
“I wasn’t referring to my brother. I’m sure he’s not—”
“Save your breath, Lou. When I accused Joe of working for George, he didn’t deny it, so that’s good enough for me.”
“You best be certain, Jon. That’s a strong accusation you’re making.”
“I know it is. Maybe you’d better start asking your brother a few questions.”
Lou frowned as Jon excused himself and stepped outside.
The street was buzzing with activity. People were rushing toward the Dead End to see what was going on. One of the interested parties was Sheriff Dan Cook, just back from the rancher’s meeting. The aggressive sheriff elbowed his way through the gathering crowd and confronted Jon as he was exiting the Dead End.
“Looks like we’ve had some trouble here, Mr. Stoudenmire,” the sheriff said, blocking Jon’s path.
“That’s right, Sheriff! You’ll find Injun Joe in there in a pool of blood. It was self defense. Lou Stanton and several others saw the whole thing.”
“I don’t know what happened in there, Jon, but it looks like you just killed a man, and I need to do an investigation. I want you in town for a day or so until I can get this thing sorted out.”
> “No problem, Dan. I’m startin’ to kinda like this town. I was planning on stickin’ around for a while anyway,” Jon said calmly as he pushed by the sheriff and headed to the hotel.
Unnerved by the violent shootout, Jon avoided making eye contact with the curious townsfolk as he walked to Callahan’s Boardinghouse. Exhausted, he stepped into the hotel and climbed the stairs to the second floor. He walked into his room, tossed his guns on the featherbed and dropped in the soft chair next to the bed.
There was a sudden knock on the door.
“Who is it?” he barked as he jumped up and grabbed his six gun.
“It’s me, Cliff. Let me in.”
Jon tossed his gun on the bed and hurried over to open the door. “Come on in.”
Cliff looked concerned. “You all right?” he asked as he scanned Jon from head to toe.
“Yeah…yeah, I’m fine. Sit down.” Jon offered Cliff a chair and sat down on the edge of the bed. “I thought you left town, Cliff.”
“I did. But just a few miles out of town, I remembered that I hadn’t finished my errands. I guess the knock on my head confused me a little. So I headed back to town. A short time later, I heard gunfire. I asked some cowpoke on the edge of town what was goin’ on, and he told me a big stranger had just shot up the Dead End Saloon. I figured it might be you, so I hightailed down the street to the saloon. Someone in the crowd told me you were down at Callahan’s, so here I am. What the heck happened down there?”
“Well, it wasn’t pretty. After we parted ways, I moseyed on down to the Dead End for a drink. I’d just sat down when a heartless killer named Injun Joe came bustin’ in the door, guns a blazin’. He’s a mean nasty varmint from Lincoln County, New Mexico. After my run in with Barton, I was in a real foul mood, so he and I locked horns right away. I asked him if he was one of Stanton’s hires, and he got quiet. That was good enough for me, so I called him out. He got nervous and went for his gun. I let him have it pretty good.” Jon’s voice was trailing off as he spoke of the gory scene. “Sheriff Cook showed up and ordered me to stay in town until he finishes his investigation. I gave Cook a piece of my mind and headed on down here.”