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

but it’s still killing! It gets to you after awhile. That fella today was just a boy, barely eighteen years old Libby! His face keeps running through my mind. His eyes were pleading with me not to shoot, but I blasted ’em anyway. I felt no remorse, only anger and rage at what he had done to Malone. I wanted him dead; all I could think about was killing him. There’s something inside of me Libby; it’s like there’s a devil or something deep down in my heart!” His rugged face was full of remorse.

      Libby jumped up and rushed over and laid her soft body against his muscular back, her cheek pushed against his shoulder. Upset herself, she wanted very much to comfort her shaken man.

      “I love you Jon, you’re a good man!”

      Jon, sensing the distress he was causing Libby, stood and put his arm around her waist and pulled her warm body next to his. He held her tightly, gently caressing her.

      “I’m sorry I upset you Libby,” he said tenderly. He pulled her closer and tighter. Spurred on by the passion of the moment, they continued to embrace. “I love ya baby, you know that,” Jon whispered softly in her ear as he gently stroked her lovely auburn hair.

      Libby slowly pulled back and looked up at Jon. She slipped her hands gently around his face; she held him tightly. “Now, you listen to me Jon Stoudenmire! I understand about the killing, it must be an awful feeling to have to kill someone! But you were given this anger for a reason. Your anger has helped so many people in so many ways. I know how upset you can get Jon, I’ve seen it. But you use your fierceness in the right way - to help others. No decent person need ever fear you.”

      “Thank you, Libby,” Jon said softly. “It’s just....”

      Libby interrupted, still anxious to sooth his pain. “I’m sorry dear, but you’ve beat yourself up enough for one evening. Sam just signaled me that dinner is ready. What do you say?”

      “Okay baby.” Jon yanked the red handkerchief from around his neck and gently dried the tears on Libby’s face.

      “I love you,” Libby said softly.

      “I love you too darlin’!”

      Chapter 3

      “And may the Lord bless his tortured soul. Amen!” A warm breeze blew across the barren hilltop as Jon, Ed, and Pastor Toms performed a brief burial ceremony for the young gun killed by Jon the day before. Ed kneeled down and pounded a cross in the dirt above the grave. The name Dusty Fry was crudely painted on the small wooden edifice.

      “Thank you Pastor Toms,” Jon said. “I appreciate it.”

      “You’re welcome Jon; it’s a shame. Such a young man,” the elderly Pastor replied as he shook his head.

      “Yea, I wish I could ...”

      The Pastor interrupted, “I know you do, Jon. But the boy had no kin and you helped send him off. It was a fine gesture, Sheriff.”

      Jon nodded. The Pastor climbed in his buggy, the leather cracked, “Gitty up!” he shouted, and the buggy jerked forward toward town.

      “I’ve got to be going Jon, I promised Will Banks I’d help him round up some strays,” Ed said as he dropped the hammer in the saddle bag. “You okay?”

      “I’ll be fine; see you later at the jail.” Jon smiled at his old friend. Ed’s leg flew up over his Buckskin; he tipped his hat and rode off to the Banks Ranch.

      Jon’s heart was heavy as he stood and watched his friend ride away. Alone with his thoughts, the memories of past gunfights and the sounds of death flooded through his mind. The screams, the pain, the violence; it was a recurring theme. He yearned for the simpler days, when he was a younger man. His mind wandered back twenty years ago when he and Ed Morgan first met on the plains of North Dakota. He thought of the whys and wherefores of his life, and how life’s bumpy road had led him to where he was now. As he mounted Babe for the trip back to town, he thought back to that first day in the buffalo camp.

      * * *

      The bay’s nostrils had flared as she reared up and almost bucked Jon off. “Whoa girl! Whoa!” he tried to calm his frightened steed. The horrible stench of rotting buffalo carcasses piled on the edge of the compound had spooked the jittery horse as they rode into camp. Just twenty-one and fresh from a year long stay in Dodge City, Jon was young and restless and looking for a new adventure. A couple of old timers had told him that buffalo hunting camps in the Red River Valley would be a good bet for a young man like Jon. Fearless and a crack shot, Jon packed up his belongings in Dodge City and headed out to the Dakota Territory, determined to make a go of it as a buffalo hunter.

      Jon remembered reining his horse around toward a large tent where several men were standing in line. Others were eagerly exiting the tent and counting their take for the day. Most of them were heading for the saloon tent, some fifty feet away. It won’t be long before those boys will either drink their money away or lose it in a poker game, Jon thought. What a shame. Jon was no fool when it came to money. As he moved into the camp, he saw a group of runners talking loudly and playing poker around a campfire. The old timers in Dodge told Jon to use the name runner, not hunter, while in camp - only green horns used the name hunter. Always proud, Jon didn’t want to be branded a green horn, even if he was new to the fine art of buffalo hunting. Suddenly a fight broke out between two of the runners in the card game. Jon stopped for a second to watch as the two ruffians slugged away.

      “Don’t you ever try that again, you lowlife!” one of the men shouted as he leaped out of his seat and dove toward the other player. Money and poker chips were flying everywhere as the two ruffians rolled around on the ground kicking and punching.

      Then suddenly, as quickly as it had started, the fight ended. One of the men jumped up, dusted off his jeans and headed back to the game. The other man shouted something at the retreating pugilist and then followed suit. It was just like nothing had ever happened. Both were laughing and joking as they picked up their chips and got back to poker.

      Quite a rambunctious group, Jon had thought, I should fit right in here. Jon could down a drink and deal a hand with the best of them, but he always knew where to draw the line. Growing up on a farm in Indiana, his Pa had taught him early on the value of a dollar.

      Anxious to get over to the mess tent and get some grub, Jon first had some business to take care of. The old timers in Dodge City had told him the only way to make money in the buffalo camp was to avoid the middle man and get your own outfit. An outfit consisted of two wagons, one large and one small, with metal frame boxes. It took metal frames to withstand the great weight of the buffalo carcasses. The large wagon required twelve mules to haul the dead buffalo back to camp; the smaller wagon required six mules and was used around the camp for lesser loads. A couple of horses, the usual bedrolls, cooking utensils and a tent completed the outfit. A typical setup would cost about two thousand dollars, a lot of money for a man as young as Jon. But Jon was no ordinary young man. Through a combination of hard work and well-honed gambling skills, he had been able to save almost five thousand dollars during his stay in Dodge City - a small fortune.

      Jon’s horse was prancing nervously. Finally Jon got up the nerve and blurted out at one of the departing hunters, “Pardon me sir, but do you happen to know of anyone who is looking to sell their outfit?” The old runner frowned as he looked up from counting his cash.

      “Kind of’ young to be lookin’ to get your own outfit, ain’t ya fella?” the old timer barked, his skin dark and cracked from all those long days in the hot sun.

      “Could be, but I really don’t think so,” Jon shot back.

      “I don’t either,” remarked a young man just leaving the tent. “You look plenty old enough to me.”

      “Well thank you, and to whom do I owe this pleasure?” Jon immediately liked the friendly young man who had jumped into the conversation and was anxious to learn more about him. Jon smiled