Return of the Gun

by R. B. Conroy

  “Can you find that clearing again?” Jon shot back.

  “I think so. Ya just follow the stream until ya see a large oak tree hangin’ out over the water. The path through the woods is just on the other side of that ugly oak tree. Once we find that path you just follow it to the clearing.”

  “Lead the way,” Jon ordered.

  Cliff’s painted sorrel leapt forward to the front of the group; the others fell in behind. The men rode hard and fast to the edge of town and down the same trail they were on the day before. Water splashed as the men charged into the stream and raced through the shallow water. Still leading, Cliff suddenly pulled up.

  “There it is,” he shouted.

  The men looked ahead. “You’re right, partner—that’s one ugly tree,” Sloan exclaimed.

  Cliff ducked under a long, gnarly limb hanging out over the water and climbed up the steep bank on the other side. He glanced down at the hoof prints as he plunged into the dark woods; the others were in close pursuit. After winding their way through the thick, dense forest for over an hour, Cliff reined up. Jon pulled up next to him.

  “Might help to take a look at these tracks.” Cliff nodded toward the path.

  It was a wide part of the trail and full of tracks. Jon carefully dismounted, still favoring his injured right leg. He leaned over and limped back and forth, examining the numerous hoof prints on the trail.

  “There are two sets of tracks that are always together—looks like one of the men is leading a horse. You boys must have killed one of them. I think this horse is carrying a dead body.” Jon stepped across the dusty trail. “There are blood spots over here, away from the others. Looks like one of the other men could be badly hurt or dead.” He glanced up at Ned. “You boys hit a couple of ’em all right. Good work.”

  Ned shook his head. “Two down and four to go.”

  “Let’s ride,” Cliff admonished. “I think we’re getting close.”

  Pushing the thick brush to the side, the men charged on. A short distance ahead they dropped down into a small ravine. They struggled up the steep bank on the other side and bolted forward. All of a sudden Cliff’s hand shot up. “Gather ‘round,” he said. The others watched as he pulled back on the leafy limbs of a black maple hanging in front of him for a better view.

  The men moved up around Cliff and gawked at the scene below.

  “Nice place,” Jon whispered as he motioned for the others to lean in. “Can’t see anybody around. Looks deserted down there right now. But it could be a trick—they could have hidden their horses in case somebody showed up, so we gotta be careful. It’s wide open between here and the cabin.” Jon quickly examined the periphery of the clearing. “And I can’t see another entry into this dale anywhere.” He drew his Colt. “Pull iron, men. We’re going in. Spread out behind me as soon as we hit the basin.”

  Jon’s big palomino jumped down the hill and sprang into the opening. Six gun held high, Jon glanced left and right as the men spread out behind him. Mud splattered up from the grassy basin as the men raced forward. Jon and Cliff charged straight for the cabin; the others fanned out and headed for the other buildings. Jon grabbed his leg and grimaced in pain as he dismounted and hit the ground. The two men burst forward; Cliff kicked open the wooden door. Jon pushed past him and charged in, hammer cocked. He kicked a couple of chairs to the side and scanned the room. Beads of sweat dripped from his forehead. His leg was throbbing. He nodded at the two open doors at the other end of the room. Cliff hurried over, pistol in hand, and quickly examined the rooms.

  “They’re both empty,” he shouted.

  Jon walked around the kitchen area. “The cabinet doors are open, and the flour and most of the canned goods are gone. Looks like they left in a hurry. Let’s go outside.” Sloan was just approaching the cabin.

  “The gate was open, and all of the horses and the buck wagon are gone from the corral. Looks like they hightailed it outta here,” Sloan said.

  “They probably buried their dead somewhere around here and took off. Delgado’s well on his way to Mexico by now.” Jon shook his head. “Not sure where in the hell Johnson went.”

  “Buck’s no dummy. Six horses leave a lot of tracks. He probably wanted to get as far away from here as he could,” Malone groused.

  Jon frowned as he spit on the ground. “I’d love to go after those snakes. I want a piece of Delgado in the worst way, but they’ve got a day’s head start on us, and we got us a bigger fish to fry right now.”

  “You’re right, Jon, but it ain’t gonna be easy,” Cliff said. “Stanton’s got an alibi. Attorney Smith came down to Doc’s this morning to check on you and told us that he heard that Stanton and his boys were down at the Dead End last night, and they never left.”

  “Hmmm…that George is no dummy,” Jon replied. “Let’s go have a drink and figure out how to smoke that snake out of his hole.” Jon spun around, mounted up and raced back across the grassy vale toward El Cabrera.

  - - - - -

  The men garnered a few stares from curious townsfolk as they rode slowly into town. Tired and hot, they tied down and hopped up the steps in front of the Dead End. Ned pushed through the swinging doors, leading the way. It got suddenly quiet inside the bawdy saloon; the gamblers stopped and watched as the hard men strolled in. There were gasps as Jon came into view. With a tuft of black hair protruding from the bandages on his forehead, he limped slightly as he walked to his favorite corner table. Jon bumped several chairs out of the way, pushed to the back of the table and sat down. The others joined him. Jake hurried over to take their orders.

  “What’s everybody starin’ at?” an uneasy Jon asked.

  “Hell, the rumor is that you’re dead! Pedro was in earlier, telling everybody that you got bushwhacked by some strangers on the edge of town. No big deal, for thunder’s sake!” Jake bawled.

  “Well, I’m not dead, so will you please tell everyone to quit starin’ at me?”

  “I’ll try, Jon, but it’s not going to be easy. It’s like we’ve all just seen a ghost or something. By the way, I’m kinda glad Pedro was wrong!” The bartender beamed.

  “Kinda?” Jon hollered; a big grin broke out on his face.

  The other boys laughed heartily.

  Red-faced, Jake turned to address the crowd. “Jon’s alive as you can plainly see, so let the man drink in peace!” The surprised patrons shook their heads, muffled voices could be heard throughout the saloon. A few of the gamblers raised their beer mugs toward the popular men. The spinning sounds of the roulette wheel and shouts from the faro dealers soon filled the air.

  Back at the table, Jake was taking orders. “Okay, fellas, are you having the usual?”

  “Yep, but give Jon a double shot,” Cliff ordered.

  “Ya took the words right out of my mouth, cus.” Jon’s brow furrowed as he made eye contact with each of the men. “I don’t know how to thank you boys for savin’ me and then waitin’ up all night and all.”

  “You owe us big time,” Cliff joked, not wanting things to get too sentimental.

  “That’s for sure,” Jon laughed. His expression changed as he began to talk of Stanton and the boys. “We got us a couple of big problems, fellas. Stanton’s got an alibi, and he’s got the sheriff in his back pocket.”

  “Well, maybe not anymore.” Malone jumped in the conversation.

  Surprised by the sudden announcement, Jon glanced left at the former lawman.

  “I been meaning to tell ya, but…uh, we’ve been so busy and such. I just…”

  “It’s okay, Jack. Just spit it out,” Jon growled.

  “Well, one of the boys out at the mines came up to me yesterday with some interesting information. He said one of the miners saw Dave Barton shoot old Curly Harmon in the back of the head the other day. Says he’s ready to spill the beans.”

  “You don’t say!”

  “Yeah, and there’s one more thing. He says there was a man with Dave, and he was wearin’ a badge. Says it was Sheriff Cook.�
��

  “Well, I’ll be, if that don’t beat all!” Jon laughed out loud.

  “Yeah, and I went and talked to the miner myself. He said he was sorry he didn’t come forth sooner, but he was afraid for his family. Says his family packed up and went back to Missouri, so now he’s ready to talk. His name’s Cal Joiner.”

  “Best news I heard in a while, Jack. Lunch is on me!” Jon raised his glass to the others. There were smiles all around as the men downed their shots.

  - - - - -

  “Who is it?” Stanton barked, annoyed at being interrupted by the loud knock on his office door.

  “It’s me, Cook!”

  “Door’s open. Come on in.”

  The heavy oak door swung open, and Cook rushed in. “He’s alive, George, he’s alive!”

  “He’s what?” George screamed, his face flushed with anger. George was beside himself; Cook was confirming his worst fears. The man he so loathed and despised was still alive.

  “He just walked into the Dead End with Stone, Malone, and Sloan. I slipped out and rode down here to tell ya. He’s got a bandage on his head, but he’s alive and kickin’.”

  “Damn! And I just gave Johnson a thousand dollars.” George pushed back from the desk, jumped up and began pacing. “That’s just dandy. Stoudenmire’s going to be madder than a hornet now, and he’ll be coming after me. You can bet your house on that. We have to do something.”

  “Yeah, I know, but what?” Cook replied.

  George frowned. “Hell, you’re the law around here, Cook. Think of something!”

  “I can’t arrest a man for being shot, George!” Cook shouted.

  George stormed over to the jumpy sheriff. Their faces were only inches apart. “I pay you very well, Sheriff Cook, and you’re in this mess around here up to your eyeballs. So for your own sake you better think of something, pronto!” George glared angrily.

  Cook’s head dropped to the side; he stepped back. “Okay, okay, George. Just calm down a little.”

  “You heard me!”

  Cook walked over to the window on the east wall. He pulled back the curtain as if looking outside, while actually he was buying time. Giving himself a chance to think.

  “Well?” George yelled.

  Cook sighed as he turned away from the window. “Stoudenmire’s shot down two men in cold blood, and there’s been nothin’ but trouble ever since he arrived in El Cabrera. I will inform him that I consider him a menace to our fine community and that I want him out of town by sundown. If he refuses, I will arrest him for disturbing the peace and refusing the order of an officer of the court. It will never hold up in court, but he can’t make bail until the district judge arrives in two weeks. So he’ll be out of your hair.”

  “Hmmm…sounds good. That way he either leaves town or we got him in jail.” George rubbed his chin. “Then I can bring in some more guns, chase off Stone and the others and we’re back in business.”

  A nervous grin broke out on Cook’s face.

  George dropped down in the soft leather chair. “Good plan, Sheriff, good plan. Now go find Stoudenmire and give him the news, pronto.”

  Not anxious to implement his new plan, a reluctant Cook turned and hurried out.

  Chapter 23

  “Well, look who’s here!” Cliff glanced toward the front door at the Dead End; his fork clanked as he tossed it on the empty dish.

  The batwing door fell shut. Sheriff Cook walked in and slowly wound his way across the room toward the men’s table.

  “Howdy, Sheriff,” Jon said. “To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?”

  “We got us a problem, Jon,” Cook said, hands on his six guns.

  Jon’s mood darkened quickly. “What’s that, Sheriff?”

  The cocky lawman regurgitated the script he’d been practicing on the way to the saloon. “Seems like ever since you came to town there’s been nothing but killings and trouble around here, Jon. People don’t feel safe anymore. It’s my job as sheriff to make sure our town is safe from a menace like you.” A sly grin broke out on his face. “I want you out of town by sundown today, or I’ll throw you in jail for disturbing the peace and refusing the order of an officer of the court.” Cook smirked as he waited for Jon’s answer.

  Jon’s brow furrowed. He pushed his chair back and slowly stood. “You’re right, Cook. The people don’t feel safe around here anymore. They don’t feel safe because they got a crooked law enforcement officer—and guess what.”

  Cook’s eyebrows raised.

  “Jack here tells me there’s a witness to Curly Harmon’s murder, and he’s ready to spill the beans. Says he saw Barton kill poor old Curly. He says there was a man with Barton who wore a badge—says it was you.”

  “You’re just makin’ that up, Stoudenmire. You’re bluffin’.” Beads of sweat formed on Cook’s forehead.

  “Tell him what the man said, Jack.”

  Malone’s eyes narrowed to a scowl as he looked at the sheriff. “He said that Curly was glad to see ya, laughin’ and shakin’ your hand and all. Then when he bent down to pick up his shovel, Dave drew his gun and let the poor bastard have it right in the back of the head. After he fell, he shot him again to be sure he was dead. He says you were with Barton, and he’s ready to tell all.”

  “Looks like cold-blooded murder to me, Sheriff. I’m sure the district judge in Santa Cruz would love to hear about this.” Jon grinned at the shocked lawman.

  Face flushed, Cook’s eyes darted around the table at the stoic faces of the other men.

  “Now take your hands off those guns, Sheriff, nice and easy. One false move, and I’ll blow your damn fool head off,” Jon snarled.

  Cook dropped his shaking hands to his side.

  Jon lunged forward, grabbed Cook’s shoestring tie with his good right arm and yanked him against the table. “You’re implicated in more than just Curly’s murder, Sheriff. Cliff and Ned both saw your friends Buck Johnson and Paco Delgado try to bushwhack me yesterday. You’re in this ugly mess up to your scrawny neck. Stanton ordered you and Barton to go out and kill Curly, didn’t he?”

  Cook gasped for breath as Jon pulled tighter on the tie. “Y…y…yes, Stanton told us to g…get rid of Curly,” he stuttered.

  “Listen close, Sheriff, ‘cause I ain’t gonna say it twice. I want you outta here. If I ever see you in this town again, I’ll personally blast you into the next county. You got it?” The room was thick with tension as the powerful gunman spoke.

  “Y…yes,” Cook said meekly.

  “Now take your belt off nice and easy,” Jon ordered.

  Sweating profusely, Cook carefully untied his gun belt and pulled it off. Jon slid around the table and charged toward the door, bumping chairs to the side as he dragged Cook by his tie. Jon’s shoulder banged into the swinging doors as he dragged the gagging lawman out to his horse. “Get on!” Jon shouted as he let loose of the noose. Cook rubbed his neck and grimaced in pain as he started to mount up. “Uggh!” he moaned as Jon kicked him hard on his backside. Humiliated in front of the shocked townsfolk, he mounted up and galloped toward the outskirts of town, never once looking back.

  Jon stood watching, his eyes black with rage. Cliff and the other boys stood on the boardwalk. Suddenly, a dark-skinned man darted off of the boardwalk near the bathhouse.

  “It’s Pedro!” Sloan shouted.

  Jon drew as he spun to his left. He cocked his Colt, pointed it skyward and squeezed the trigger. Pedro stopped dead in his tracks; smoke spewed from Jon’s six gun.

  “Don’t move til I have my say, Pedro!” Jon bellowed. “Tell Stanton I’ll meet him at sundown tomorrow here in the street. Man to man, and tell him if he doesn’t show, he’s even more of a coward than I think he is!” Jon shouted. The gathering crowd groaned at the prospect of yet another bloody showdown.

  Pedro jumped abroad his clay and spurred her toward Stanton’s compound.

  Jon’s expression softened as he glanced over at his compadres standing tall on the boardwal
k. “See you boys inside just before sundown tomorrow.” He dropped the smoking six gun in the holster and limped toward Callahan’s.

  His leg aching, Jon walked through the door to the boardinghouse. Katie’s curly head popped up from behind the counter. “Howdy, Jon. You okay?”

  “I’m fine, thank ya, Katie.”

  “I heard you got shot up pretty good. You sure you’re all right?” the precocious new owner asked.

  “Yeah. I think I just need a little rest, that’s all.” Jon tipped his hat and started up the stairs. He walked slowly down the hall and shuffled into his room. He dropped down in the wooden chair next to the bed. His left arm was aching, his ribs hurt and his leg was throbbing. Weak from his wounds, Jon lamented the coming fight with the powerful Stanton, a crack shot. Although not a gunslinger by nature, he knew Stanton wouldn’t back down after Jon’s public challenge—his pride wouldn’t let him.

  The die had been cast. Jon knew that either he or George Stanton would die in twenty-four hours. He leaned over, grabbed the wooden knob on the small dressing table and slid it open. He reached inside and felt around for the faded and worn Bible he had noticed earlier in his stay. He snatched it from the drawer; the thin pages flapped over as he pushed aggressively through its tattered contents. Jon had gone away from the Bible as he grew older, and he wasn’t sure why. But somehow now, in a weakened state, his life hanging in the balance, he once again felt the urge to revisit the ancient book.

  As a small boy, Jon had hopped up on his mother’s lap in front of the fire every night after a long day in the Indiana wheat fields. He remembered how she had hugged him tightly and read softly from the Bible, a welcome respite after the almost daily beatings from his father. For some reason, even as a small boy, a verse in Romans had jumped out at him. As he grew up, it helped define the guiding principles of his life; he truly believed that God had commanded this verse to him. The pages turned more slowly. The last crinkled page fell over. His thick finger slid down the page and suddenly stopped. He struggled to read the tiny print in the limited light from the nearby window. A beam of light suddenly broke through the clouds and fell across the weathered book. A tear rolled down his cheek as he read the haunting verse in Romans 15:13: “Greater love has no man than this, that a man be willing to lay down his life for his friends.”