Return of the Gun. R. B. Conroy

quickly exited the jail and jumped down next to Babe. He untied his saddlebags and tossed them over his shoulder. He patted her on the hindquarters and started down the busy street toward the hotel.

      “Sheriff Stoudenmire!” Marshal Brown shouted from the doorway, pen in hand.

      Jon stopped and turned in the street. “Yeah, Ned?”

      “The hotel clerk’s name is Elijah. Tell him the room’s on me.”

      “Much obliged,” Jon said as he resumed his trek to the hotel. He felt the stares of some of the locals as he made his way down the dusty street. Another indicator that his reputation had preceded him, it was becoming a familiar dance but not one he appreciated. Soon the faded sign atop the three-story hotel building was in sight; he hopped up on the wooden boardwalk and stepped inside.

      “Howdy, stranger.” A smiling clerk looked up from the front desk and greeted Jon as he ambled in.

      “Howdy.” Jon scanned the lobby. A few guests were talking quietly on two large leather sofas located just to the left of the desk; otherwise, it was empty. He turned back to the clerk. “I’d guess you’re Elijah?”

      “Yes, yes, I’m Elijah, and you’re Mr.—?”

      “Stoudenmire,” Jon said as he approached the desk.

      The diminutive desk clerk paused for a moment and looked over the top of the small round glasses hanging on the end of his narrow nose.

      “Is that Jon Stoudenmire?” he asked politely.

      “Yes, that’s right.”

      “From down Arizona way?”

      “Why do you ask?” Jon replied quickly, annoyed by the continuing questioning from the inquisitive clerk.

      “I’ve just heard about you, that’s all,” the clerk replied in a wheedling voice.

      “Is that so? And just what have you heard?” Jon wanted to know just what people were saying about him.

      “Rumor is you rode into a mining town out in the Arizona desert and single-handedly took on a whole rat’s nest full of hired guns. They say you’re no one to trifle with when you get riled up. Some say you might have killed upwards of a dozen men.” The clerk’s eyes blinked rapidly as he peeked over his glasses at Jon.

      “Don’t believe everything you hear, Elijah. I had plenty of help, and I sure didn’t kill twelve men. But you’re right about one thing, Elijah.”

      “What’s that?” The nosey clerk replied.

      “I do get riled at times, and right now I’m damned tired and wanting a room in the worst way. You understand?”

      “Why…uh, yes sir, I do… your room is coming right up.” The clerk quickly grabbed a key from the wooden slot. “Room 210, just at the top of the stairs.”

      Jon frowned as he glanced up at the rooms. “Got anything with a view of the street?”

      “Yes, yes, we do, Mr. Stoudenmire. Let’s see, room 230 is open.” The clerk poked the first key back in the slot, grabbed the key for 230 and laid it on the counter.

      “Marshal Brown said he’d take care of the room,” Jon said as he snatched up the key and headed for the stairs.

      “No problem, Mr. Stoudenmire. I’ll take it up with him.” The clerk smiled broadly.

      Jon hurried up to his room to clean up a little. He tossed his saddlebags on the featherbed and splashed water on his hot face from a nearby pan. He grabbed a towel off of the bedpost, patted dry, untied his saddlebag and carefully pulled out a gray silk shirt. He slipped on the shirt, splashed some cologne on his cheeks and headed for the Oasis Saloon. Still dry from his trip, a couple of shots of whiskey sounded real good right now.

      Jon dodged a couple of potholes in the heavily traveled street, jumped up on the boardwalk and pushed slowly through the swinging doors of the saloon. He looked around; the folks looked peaceable enough. A man in a plaid vest pounded out “Turkey in the Straw” on the upright piano as Jon walked slowly toward the end of the long oak bar. The roulette wheels, faro tables, and poker games were at full throttle as he leaned against the bar. “Shot of Early Times, please,” Jon said quietly.

      “Comin’ right up,” the bartender replied. “My name’s Jess Landis. Welcome to the Oasis.”

      “Pleasure to meet you, Jess. I’m Jon.”

      The bartender gave Jon a friendly nod. “Staying in town long?”

      “Naw, I’m just passin’ through. I’ll be trekkin’ on toward California in the morning.”

      Jon felt a bump on his arm as one of the whores in the bar pushed in next to him. She smelled of cheap perfume and laudanum. Swashes of rouge on her pale cheeks couldn’t hide her dark, tired eyes. Her round, well-shaped bosom was precariously close to falling out of the top of her white cotton dress as she leaned toward Jon. Her face looked young—too young. “Buy a girl a drink?” she smiled awkwardly, batting her long eyelashes.

      “Set her up, Jess.”

      “Usual?” Jess asked.

      “What else?” she asked in a voice too glib to be confident.

      Jess quickly poured a glass of Merlot and set it on the bar. She smiled at Jon as she lifted the glass to her thin lips. “Where ya from, honey?” She took a sip and gently pushed her knee against Jon’s thigh.

      “I’m from a lot of places, darlin’. How about—”

      Suddenly, the wine glass crashed on the bar as the whore screamed and jumped back. Jon’s back went stiff as the cold metal of a gun barrel pressed hard against his skull. There were more screams; chairs scattered across the floor as the patrons scurried out of the way. The piano stopped. The saloon went stone quiet.

      “Remember me, Stoudenmire?” A strong hand grabbed Jon’s chin and pulled it around as the gun pressed hard against the back of his head.

      Jon’s anger grew as he looked into the face of the bearded man. His eyes shot up and down, trying desperately to figure out who he was. Nothing looked familiar until he looked at those eyes—those black, wicked eyes he had seen years earlier in that saloon in Cheyenne, Wyoming.

      “Will Sledge. Remember me? Your worst nightmare just came true.” The iniquitous man laughed as his bony fingers slid roughly off Jon’s chin. He grabbed the handkerchief on Jon’s neck and yanked hard.

      Jon was livid as the handkerchief cut into his neck. As he gasped for breath, he thought back to that day in Cheyenne. Sledge and a companion had come there to seek revenge against Jon for beating his older brother nearly to death a couple of years earlier in a buffalo camp in the Dakota Territory. After threatening Jon in a local saloon, the two men were quickly disarmed by an alert local sheriff. Wanting some closure, Jon goaded them into a fistfight, two against one out in the street. It was a brutal affair with Jon administering quite a beating to both men. Humiliated in front of the whole town, the badly beaten Sledge vowed revenge.

      “I never gave up lookin’ for you, Stoudenmire, but I was always just one step behind. Then I ran into some trouble down Abilene way. I choked a man to death and they gave me five to ten in a Kansas prison. I spent a lotta time in jail—all I could think about was finding you and killing you. My brother never recovered from the beatin’ you gave him in the Dakota Territory. He died a few years later. You beat him unmerciful, you never gave him a chance. He was the only family I had, and you took him away from me. Now you’re gonna die!”

      A portly, unshaven man standing just behind Sledge cracked a wicked smile.

      Jon glanced to his left as the bartender Jess moved carefully along the bar. He reached down ever so easily and pulled up a sawed off shotgun and laid it carefully on the bar.

      “The man’s not armed, mister,” Jess said calmly. The hammer clicked