Devil Rising: The Heart of a Gunman. R. B. Conroy

his boot firmly against the first rock, reached up and grabbed hold of a protruding root. He leaned back and pulled to see if the root would hold his weight. Nothing broke loose so he decided to go for it. He fell back again and pulled hard on the root. With a mighty effort, he yanked himself up to the next rock. Another root became visible on a higher rock. Jon grabbed hold of it and pulled as hard as he could again. His body flew up and out of the dark creek bed. He rolled to a stop on the ground above the creek. He quickly scanned the area to get his bearings. Jon spotted some large rocks approximately forty yards away near the water, close to the area where he had heard the young man’s voice. He moved toward them, careful not to alarm the trigger happy youngster. Jon stopped and listened for any sounds. Not hearing any, he moved quickly and quietly over to the base of the rocks. Jon dropped down on one knee and leaned against the large rock. His head jerked back as something flew by his face.

      “Phftt.” A small cloud of dust plumed up as a brownish fluid hit the ground next to him. The nasty varmint had hocked one over the rock near Jon, exposing his location.

      Jon leaned against the stony surface and slid quietly around to the back of the rock. The kid was busy watching the creek, his back to Jon. Jon continued to inch his way around the large rock to a crevice leading up to the top. He pushed his back against one side of the crevice and his feet against the other, and then slowly scooted up the hard surface. When he finally reached the top, he quietly rolled over to a kneeling position and leaned forward far enough to see the young scallywag staring at the stream below, clueless that he was being watched. He reached in his shirt pocket, pulled out the chaw and ripped off a big chunk.

      Jon looked down at the varmint for a second and then broke the silence. He spoke very calmly and very quietly, not wanting to alarm him.

      “I got a dead bead on you partner, just stay real calm and listen carefully.” The young fellow froze. Jon continued, “Pick up that rifle lying in front of you and throw it over that rock on your left side.” The nervous youngster did as Jon asked. Jon went on. “Now carefully slide that six gun out of your holster with two fingers and throw it over the same rock.” The jittery shootist reached down with two fingers to lift his gun and then it happened. At the last minute, he opened his hand, grabbed the gun and yanked it from the holster. He quickly rolled to the right and moved up to his feet; wide eyed, he lifted his gun for a shot. Before he could right himself, Jon squeezed off two shots. The bullets blasted into the frightened youngster’s gut; he reeled backward.

      “I’m hit, damn it, I’m hit good!” he screamed. His body fell with a thud to the ground, jerked a couple of times and fell still.

      “That’s for shooting Malone,” Jon said quietly, his six guns smoking. He jumped down from the large rock and kicked the boy over on his back. The young man’s arms flopped to the side, his head fell sideways; blood trickled from his mouth. Jon grimaced; he looked so young up close.

      Jon was angry and conflicted as he quickly climbed down from the rock and moved around the formations toward the creek. Always hard on the outside, he bemoaned the killing of the young man. He was just a youngster, I could have winged him! a voice screamed inside Jon’s head as he hurried down to the creek toward the older man. There were two chest high rocks near the creek; Jon quickly ran and ducked down behind them. His gun was still warm as he popped two fresh bullets into the empty chambers.

      Jon, certain that the other man had heard the shots, had to be careful. He figured the cagey gun hand would lay low and wait in ambush. This one’s going to be tougher, he thought. He felt agitated and at a disadvantage. More than likely, the other varmint had taken a position back in the rocks. If he rushed him, Jon would be an easy mark. He thought about waiting him out. At most he figured the wily poke had a couple of strips of jerky, possibly a small canteen of water. That stuff wouldn’t last long. Eventually the nasty bugger would have to try and get to his pack horse. Jon had plenty of supplies and water and could hold out much longer. When the cagey gun came out for food or water, he could let him have it. A good plan, but there was one problem - Jon was very anxious to get back to town and see Miss Libby. The thought of hanging around these rocks for a few days was unacceptable. He had to figure something out.

      * * *

      Beads of sweat formed on Fuller’s forehead as he lay still contemplating his next move. He had heard all about Sheriff Stoudenmire and his legendary anger. He was more than a little concerned about facing big Jon. An experienced gunman, he wasn’t as fast as Jon and he knew it. He was startled as a deep voice bellowed into the rocks. “Can you hear me up there, Mister?” Jon hollered.

      “Yea, yea, I can hear ya.” Fuller tried to sound tough.

      “Your partner’s not around any more. He’s lying up there in the rocks with two bullet holes in his belly,” Jon said forcefully. “I’m the law around here. My name’s Jon Stoudenmire and you’re under arrest. I want you to throw your guns out by the creek and come out with your hands up. One false move and I’ll use you for target practice. Do you understand?” Jon said menacingly.

      “I hear you Sheriff, but how do I know you won’t kill me anyway?” he replied. Fuller felt very isolated in this desolate spot so far from town. Jon could kill him and then tell everyone that it was self defense. He also knew that Malone was a friend of Jon’s and that Jon could get furious when you messed with his friends. Fuller was still undecided when Jon shouted back at him.

      “You’re right Mister; you don’t know what I’ll do for sure. Make your call!”

      Fuller was starting to worry; he was damned if did and damned if he didn’t. He yanked his red plaid handkerchief from around his neck and wiped the sweat from his brow. He tapped the barrel of his Uberti on the palm of his hand. After a few agonizing minutes, he spoke up.

      “Okay Sheriff, okay. I’m coming out with my hands up. Don’t shoot!” the nervous man pleaded. His rifle and six gun flew out of the rocks and landed on the creek bank where Jon could see them. Fuller stood up and walked slowly out from between the huge rocks, hands in the air. His brow was sweaty; his heart was pounding hard as he came into full view of the big lawman.

      “Don’t worry; I never kill an unarmed man. Not even a snake like you,” Jon said. Both of his pearl handled Colts were drawn and pointed straight ahead as he stepped out and moved up to the edge of the creek.

      “Move on down here where I can get a good look at you,” Jon ordered.

      Fuller walked toward the creek; he stopped at the edge of the water near his discarded six gun.

      “Kick that gun in the creek and then come over here.”

      The water rippled as the shiny six gun slid into the creek. Fuller grimaced as his leg went into the icy water. His red leather boots sank into the mud under the water as he struggled to the other side. He was shivering as he continued to slosh across the narrow brook. Cold and scared, he reached the other side and looked up at the big lawman. Jon’s muscular two hundred pounds and six foot plus frame looked huge; his blue eyes looked dark and menacing as he squinted into the slices of sun that filtered through the trees.

      “Now you listen to me you ugly snake,” Jon said angrily. “You’re alive for one reason and one reason only. I heard you and your friend talking and I know you didn’t shoot Malone. If I thought you did, you’d be dead already. You understand?” Jon said threateningly as he yanked Zing’s hands behind him and cuffed him.

      “Yea, I understand,” Fuller grumped.

      “Now we’re going to ride back to town and find you a nice warm cell. And I’m hoping and praying that between here and town, you try something, so I can let you have it,” Jon snorted; he seemed disappointed that he hadn’t been able to kill the Fuller sooner.

      “Don’t worry Sheriff, I ain’t stupid,” Fuller said as his lips turned into a nasty grin.

      Jon whistled for Babe. She came lickety-split down the center of the creek. He collected the other horses and helped Fuller mount his steed. He carried the youngster’s body over and dropped it on the pack horse, it fell limp, arms dangling to the side.