Return of the Gun - R. B. Conroy

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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.

      The flickering light of the kerosene lamp danced over the faces of the two tough men as they drank and broke bread together. The room darkened as they spoke of mutual acquaintances and past adventures. It was in the wee hours of the morning when Jon reluctantly bid farewell to his new friend and retired to his room at the Far End Hotel.

      He staggered as he climbed up to the boardwalk and shoved through the partially open door of the Far End. The banister creaked as the big man pulled himself up the stairs and wobbled down the hall to his room. He fumbled for the key, stuck it in the slot, and the door fell open. The dull light from the street lamps spilled through the milky window frame and formed yellow squares on the floor. The back of his foot banged the door shut as he stumbled over and fell on the soft bed. Conflicted by his broken promise to Elizabeth, he stared blankly at the ceiling. Drunk and tired, he soon fell fast asleep.

      - - - - -

       “Hiya! Hiya! Get movin’, you damn stubborn mules,” the loud voice bellowed from the street below, waking Jon from a deep sleep. It was late morning; the weary gunhand had overslept. He rolled out of bed and quickly washed up. He gathered up his things, hurried downstairs and hustled over to the livery stable.

      As Jon approached the stables, he could see Babe prancing nervously out front as the stable hand ran a dandy brush through her coat. She was groomed, fed and ready to go. Jon flipped a ten dollar gold piece to the hand and mounted up to leave. He was surprised when he heard the marshal’s voice.

      “Mornin’, Jon.”

      “Mornin’, Ned.” Jon smiled, happy to see the fast-approaching marshal.

      “Looks like ya overslept a little, big guy.”

      “Yeah—seems this fella kept me up past my bedtime last night.” Both men smiled.

      The marshal reached into his shirt pocket and yanked out a wad of cash. He peeled off several bills and handed them to Jon. “Here’s your five hundred dollar reward and fifty dollars for the extra horse you brought in yesterday.”

      “‘Preciate it,” said Jon as he stuffed the cash inside his vest pocket.

      “Be careful Jon—the Paiutes have been going off the reservation lately. For some reason, they’re pretty riled up. They’ve left more than a few scalps out in the desert.”

      “Thanks for the warning.” Jon paused as he glanced over at the marshal. “I sure hope our trails cross again, partner.”

      “Back at ya, buddy,” the marshal replied warmly.

      Anxious to make up for lost time, Jon spun around and rode toward the general store to grab some supplies. He pulled up and hurried inside. After stuffing his saddlebags full of flour, bacon, beans, and beef jerky, he settled up. The owner tossed the money in the register, the money drawer banged shut as Jon hurried out the side door toward the well. The excess water drained off the heavy pouches as he struggled to the front and tossed them over Babe’s hindquarters. The big steed reared up on her hind legs and leapt forward toward the desert. Jon’s long, difficult journey through California had resumed.

      Chapter 3

      The cool wind felt good against Jon’s dry, parched skin. The exhausting ride over the mountains and up the California coast was nearing its end as he pushed several miles inland on the final leg of the trip. Evening was falling as he wove his way along a low mountain pass. He would soon be arriving at El Cabrera, a mining town just a short distance from his vineyard. All he needed was a little grub and a good night’s sleep; he would ride on to his winery in the morning.

      “Whoa, girl, whoa!” Jon pulled gently on the reins. The mare’s ears pricked up as the sounds of music and loud voices blared out to the countryside from the bawdy town. An occasional gunshot echoed up the ridge. Marshal Brown had warned Jon that El Cabrera had become a wild and lawless town since the discovery of gold some years ago.

      “Let’s go, girl.” Jon prodded his weary steed down the trail toward the bustling mining town. As he reached the final incline toward the rowdy outpost, more gunshots rang out, giving Jon pause. Alarmed, he pulled up and reflected on his recent brushes with death—the bloody fight with the robbers near the stream, the incident at the saloon in Skeleton’s Pass. He could almost feel the cool barrel of Will Sledge’s six gun pressing against his skull. If not for the bartender’s quick action, Sledge would have shot him close up. Then there was the ominous warning from Marshal Brown that there would be more Will Sledges out there. Also, his growing reputation made him a special target for every young gunslinger trying to make a name for himself. But it wasn’t the danger that troubled him the most; it was the vow he had made to Elizabeth. It was a vow he took seriously, but recent events were causing him to revisit that pledge. What good was such a vow if he ended up dead? He knew it would be terribly dangerous for a man of his reputation in El Cabrera. The thought of some coward putting a bullet in his belly while he stood unarmed and helpless was more than he could bear.

      Tormented, the famed gunman grimaced as he dismounted, unstrapped his saddlebag and dug inside for the leather pouch. Heart pounding, he reached inside and took out a heavily worn gun belt holding two ivory handled Colts. He quickly stuffed the leather pouch back in the saddlebag. He was stoic as he pulled back his black duster and slid the gun belt around his waist. He pushed the nose of the belt through the buckle and yanked it tight. “Forgive me, Libby,” he whispered as he mounted up and spurred Babe forward to El Cabrera, his trusty Colts once again bouncing at his side.

      Piano music poured from the window of the local saloon as Jon rode into town. Loud voices blurted out from inside the bawdy bar. “Sounds like the boys are havin’ a good time,” Jon whispered.

      Suddenly the doors of the saloon flung open, and a young man flew out of the door and tumbled onto the dusty street near Jon. Babe reared; the cowboy rolled just out of range of her giant hooves as they crashed to the ground. Wide-eyed, the youngster hopped to his feet.

      “You go to hell—I’m not selling out!” His face flushed red as he shouted toward the saloon. The rocking saloon doors banged open again; three men came charging out toward their victim. The terrified youngster was soon surrounded; the men were shouting insults and shoving him.

      “You got a big mouth, Sonny. Now let’s see what else you got!” A skinny cowboy with a thick scar above his right eye grabbed the youngster by the collar.

      Jon could feel himself becoming more and more upset as he watched the ugly scene unfold in front of him. The veteran gun hand was tired from a long day’s ride, he was in no mood for bullies. He felt he could stay silent no longer.

      “Let ’im go!” Jon barked.

      Startled by the sound of the stranger’s voice, the scarred man spun around in the street. His black, beady eyes glared at Jon. “This ain’t none of your affair, partner. Just butt out!”

      “Three

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