Return of the Gun - R. B. Conroy

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screwed up all right—I shoulda killed ya a while ago when I had the chance.” Jon grinned at the scowling Harger. Jon unstrapped his saddlebag and pulled out bacon, grits, coffee, a cast iron skillet, and a small metal coffeepot. It wasn’t long before the scent of fried bacon, grits and fresh coffee filled the air.

      Jon grabbed a metal spoon and scraped some bacon and grits onto a tin plate and handed it to Harger. He filled his own plate, crossed his legs and sat down by the fire. The two hungry men ate quietly, wasting no time in cleaning their plates.

      After dinner, Jon led the robber over and cuffed him to a tree. He gathered up the utensils and dishes, quickly washed them in the river and stuffed them back in his saddlebag. He unstrapped his bedroll and spread it on the cold ground. The eerie sounds of the great horned owl filled the air as he crawled under the blanket and got ready for a night’s sleep.

      “Better get some shuteye, Harger—we got a big day tomorrow,” Jon barked.

      Harger grumbled as his head disappeared under the blanket.

      Jon lay wide-eyed, staring up at the starry night, unable to find sleep. His thoughts took him back to his childhood. The chilling voice of his father calling him a coward after a beating by a much older boy raced through his mind. Still trying to prove his father wrong, the cruel admonishment drove him forward with great fury and brutality in times of battle. But his loving mother’s urgings always to be kind to others confused and tormented him. Tough on the outside, Jon bemoaned such violent incidents, and he always would. It was part and parcel of being Jon Stoudenmire—a notorious gunman and deeply conflicted man. After tossing and turning for what seemed an eternity, his eyes finally fell shut as he drifted off to sleep on the cold desert floor.

      - - - - -

      “Wake up,” Jon shouted as he kicked Harger’s boots. “We gotta get goin’.”

      Harger grimaced. His dirty fingers rubbed his crusty eyes. “What about breakfast?” he carped.

      “What about it?” Jon asked.

      “Ain’t we havin’ breakfast?”

      “This isn’t some fancy hotel, Harger. Besides, we don’t have time. Here, eat this,” Jon said as he tossed the man a strip of jerky.

      Harger bit off a chew as the men gathered up their gear, quickly mounted up and rode off toward Skeleton Pass, a long day’s ride through the hot desert.

      Chapter 2

      It was about sundown when the men reached the outskirts of Skeleton’s Pass. Jon paused on a rocky knoll overlooking the bustling outpost, an important watering hole along the Gila trail to California. He glanced back at his long-faced prisoner.

      “Ever been here before, Harger?”

      “I’ve passed through a couple of times.”

      “They got a hotel here?”

      “Yeah. It’s at the other end of town.”

      “Let’s ride on in,” Jon ordered. “It’s gettin’ on toward sundown and I wanna be sure to get a room for the night. You’ll be stayin’ at the county jail.”

      Harger frowned.

      Jon surveyed the popular settlement as they passed through the outskirts of town. He saw a blacksmith’s shop, stable, bank, telegraph office, stage depot, small general store, saloon, jail, assorted other businesses and the hotel. As they rode on in, the riderless horse garnered a few stares from the curious townsfolk. Suddenly, Jon pulled hard on Babe’s reins; the big steed came to a stop in front of the county jail. The front door swung open. A tall man wearing a badge stepped out on the boardwalk and greeted them.

      “Evenin’, fellas.”

      “Evenin’,” Jon replied as he quickly dismounted and wrapped the leather straps around the hitching post.

      The man stepped off of the boardwalk and extended his hand. “Marshal Ned Brown,” he said, smiling.

      Jon reached forward for a quick shake. “Jon Stoudenmire, Marshal. Pleased to meet ya.”

      The marshal’s faced broke into a big smile. “Well, I’ll be damned. The famous Sheriff Stoudenmire, right here in Skeleton Pass. May I ask what brings a man like you to our little corner of the world?”

      Red-faced, Jon quietly replied, “Just passin’ through on my way to California.”

      “Looks like ya had a little trouble along the way.” The sheriff glanced at the empty horse and the cuffed man.

      “Yeah. I stopped to water yesterday and this fella here and his friend were hidin’ in the rocks near the river. First thing I knew, they were tryin’ to bushwhack me.”

      “Hmmm, is that so? What’s the lowlife’s name?” Brown asked.

      “Wes Harger,” Jon replied. “You probably heard of him.”

      “Hmmm…yes…yes, I think I have. Didn’t he shoot that stagecoach driver down Texas way?”

      “Sure enough did, from point blank.”

      The marshal frowned. “Looks like you lost one,” he said as he nodded at the empty horse. “I’m sure you’re not using that beautiful buckskin for a pack horse.”

      “You’re right about that. This varmint’s partner came at me from the rocks near the river with pistol in hand, so I introduced him to my Bowie knife. We gave him a proper burial next to the river yesterday. Harger here probably knows his name.” Jon eyes shot toward Harger.

      “Slim Jernigan,” Harger grunted.

      “‘Nother bad one,” the marshal replied. “Ya did us all a favor puttin’ him in the ground.”

      “Yeah, that’s what I figured.”

      “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

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