Return of the Gun. R. B. Conroy

like just about everyone around here is afraid of this Stanton fella,” Jon replied as he downed another shot.

      “Yeah. They are.”

      “Doesn’t sound good, Cliff. Looks like you got a real problem on your hands.”

      Jon was trying to distance himself from the situation; he didn’t want any part of this mess. With his reputation, the next thing he knew Cliff would be asking for his help. He had to call an early end to the evening before he got drawn into something.

      “I hate to say it, Cliff, but I’m just plain tuckered out, and I better get me some rest. I gotta big day ahead of me tomorrow and need to get some serious shuteye.”

      Undeterred, Cliff pushed on. “Jon, me and the other prospectors could sure use a man like you around here. We’re facing hired killers here, and most of the miners are just average folks—family people—just like those folks in Las Vegas. They have no idea how to deal with such people.”

      “Sorry to hear about your problems, Cliff, I truly am, but I can’t help ya. I got enough problems of my own without borrowin’ any. This saddle bum is heading on to Vinegar Bend in the morning to build a cabin and settle down. I wish you luck,” he said as he pushed his chair back and stood to leave. “Evenin’,” he said quietly, not able to look his cousin in the eye.

      “Good night, Jon, and I understand what you’re saying, partner. This is our fight. Don’t blame ya a bit,” Cliff said somberly, burnt a little by his lack of success.

      Jon smiled, wheeled around and wove his way through the crowded saloon to the door. He felt troubled as he walked down the street to the hotel. He knew he had left dinner a little abruptly, but he just couldn’t let himself fall into the same old trap. His friend and cousin was in trouble and needed help, and it tugged at him. The same thing happened at his last stop in Logan’s Crossing, and a bloody orgy resulted with several people ending up dead. He couldn’t let that happen again. Not if he could help it.

      Chapter 6

      Jon slept in the next morning; after a quick bath and a late breakfast at the local café, he hurried down to the stables.

      The big wooden door at the stables squeaked as Jon pulled it open. “Anybody here?” he asked.

      “Hold your britches on! I’ll be right with ya,” a voice shouted out from one of the stalls. “

      As Jon walked over to Babe’s stall and gently stroked her neck, he could hear the stablehand hurrying toward him. He stopped and looked at Jon, apparently annoyed that Jon had taken the liberty to enter Babe’s stall.

      “How’s she doing, Mr.—?” Jon asked as he backed out of the stall.

      “The name’s Hank Clark, and she’s doing just fine, but she’s still a little tired. Another day’s rest and grooming would do her a lot of good, Mr.—”

      “Stoudenmire, Jon Stoudenmire. And you’re the boss, Hank. Whatever you say. She was plenty tuckered when we got to town yesterday.”

      Hank nodded and watched as Jon ambled out of the stable area.

      Jon tipped his hat to the wary hand and headed down Main Street to see about getting a few supplies. The weathered steps to the general store sunk a little as he stepped up. Suddenly he ducked to his left as a six gun blasted away nearby. Instinctively, he jumped down to the street, drew his six gun and spun to confront the fire. At the same time, the shooter turned toward Jon’s menacing six gun. “Easy, partner, easy now, draw down, just shootin’ an old nasty rattler here in the alley beside the store. Meant no harm.” It was a familiar but unpleasant voice.

      “No harm done, Barton, but something tells me it wasn’t an accident.” Jon eased his Colt slowly back into its holster.