Return of the Gun. R. B. Conroy

business and so could Sledge.

      “Keep still, Red,” Sledge commanded his stubby partner. Then a nasty grin broke out on his face. “Don’t worry bartender, I wasn’t planning on shootin’ him in here anyway. I want a fair fight.” He pulled the gun away from Jon’s head, let loose of the bandanna and stepped back. He dropped his gun in his holster.

      Jon turned slowly around; he stared angrily at his old nemesis. “I vowed I’d never carry again, Sledge. But for you, I’m gonna make an exception. You need killin’.” There were groans from the crowd as Sledge knocked a table aside, giving the men more room for their showdown.

      “Give him a gun, Red,” Sledge hollered.

      His partner pulled an extra six gun from his sash, set it on the bar next to Jon and quickly stepped back.

      “Pick it up, Stoudenmire,” Will ordered.

      “I’m not stupid, Sledge. If I touch that gun, you’ll blast me to the heavens,” Jon said calmly. “Fight me like a man, Will, face to face out in the street.”

      Sledge paused and cackled, an ugly shrill little laugh. “I don’t care where I kill ya, Stoudenmire. Street’s fine.” The cruel man sneered at Jon as he stepped backwards through the swinging doors, pushing Red behind him.

      Jon yanked out his Bowie knife and dropped it on the bar. He grabbed the six gun and stuffed it in his sash as he tipped his hat down and walked outside. “I should have killed that bastard when I had the chance,” he mumbled.

      Spurs jingled as the patrons hurried toward the door to watch the fight. Jess eased the hammer down on the shotgun and set it back under the bar.

      Jon scanned the street as he pushed through the batwing doors. Sledge stopped in the middle of the rutted road and turned toward Jon. The sun was quickly setting below the tops of the wood frame buildings. With the building blocking the glare from the sun, Jon would have a clear shot. Suddenly, he heard a familiar voice.

      “Evenin’, Jon.”

      Surprised, Jon spun to face Marshal Brown, just arriving for dinner.

      “What’s going on here?” Brown asked.

      “Sorry, Ned. I ran into a little problem.” He nodded toward the menacing Sledge standing feet apart, hands poised above guns in the middle of the street. “Didn’t mean to bring trouble to your town, Marshal.”

      “Why don’t we all sit down and—?”

      Jon interrupted the marshal. “Ned, this man’s been trailin’ me for years. He doesn’t want to talk. If I don’t take him out here, I’m gonna be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life.”

      The two were interrupted by Will’s gravelly voice. “What’s the hold up, Stoudenmire—you gettin’ cold feet?”

      Jon glanced back at the marshal. The marshal grimaced. “Go ahead and take the son-of-a-bitch, Jon. I’ll watch your backside.”

      Jon ambled slowly to the center of the street. He yanked the gun out one last time and spun the cylinder to be sure it was fully loaded, a ceremony he performed without fail before every shootout. Then he tucked the gun back in the sash for a crossover draw. He opened and shut his hands, trying to relax his fingers as he turned to face the determined Sledge. Unafraid, Jon lived for these moments, mano e mano, out in the street with a nasty killer. He wanted Will Sledge dead in the worst way.

      “Can you see me okay, Jon? I know you’re gettin’ kind of old.” A hoarse laugh followed as the nasty critter smirked at Jon.

      “I’m plenty close enough, Sledge,” Jon growled.

      “Got a bead on ’im, Red,” Sledge yelled at his partner, trying to distract Jon.

      “Stay out of this, Red,” Marshal Brown bellowed.

      “Ain’t my fight.” Red raised his hands and stepped backwards.

      “That’s okay, Marshal. I can kill two snakes as easy as one!” Jon barked.

      The snake comment enraged Sledge. His skinny hand dropped down as he went for his gun.

      Jon drew like a flash, cocked the hammer and pressed hard on the trigger. Yellow flames shot out from the barrel; smoke filled the air. He fired two more quick shots. The crowd screamed as Jon’s bullets blasted into Sledge’s chest. Wide-eyed, he blew backward, skidded on the dusty street and fell still. His head dropped to the side as blood oozed from the smoking bullet holes in the center of his chest. The shocked crowd was numb as Marshal Brown rushed out to the street, gun drawn. He swung it toward Red.

      “Don’t do anything stupid,” he shouted.

      Red pushed his hands even higher at the marshal’s command.

      Jon ran toward Sledge’s lifeless body, six gun smoking. He looked down at the fallen man, his face red with anger. For a horrifying moment as he gazed at Sledge’s lifeless face, he saw his own father’s narrow evil face instead—the same face that had terrified him as a boy. A firm slap on the back brought him out of the excruciating trance.

      “Great shooting, Jon!” Marshal Brown exclaimed.

      Eyes glazed over with anger, Jon tried to compose himself. “Th…thanks, Marshal.”

      “Take the body down to the coroner’s office,” Marshal Brown shouted at his fast approaching deputy.

      Sledge’s shaken partner mounted up and turned to ride out of town. “Here!” Jon shouted as he tossed him the Peacemaker. Red caught the warm gun in midair, stuck it back in his holster and spurred his steed forward to the edge of town.

      The marshal looked back at Jon. “Are you okay, Jon?”

      “Yeah, I’ll be fine,” Jon said quietly.

      “How about a drink?”

      “Sounds good.”

      The two men turned and walked toward the Oasis. They pushed through the doors and Marshal Brown nodded to the right. “Over there.” He pointed to a table in the corner of the room, slightly elevated and bordered by a shiny gold banister. “That’s kind of my little slice of heaven.” The marshal smiled. “Jess made it for me and my deputies. He likes to have the law around here as much as possible.”

      As the two men ambled over to Ned’s special table, Jon thought of the promise he had made to his true love Elizabeth, back in the Arizona Territory. Contemplating marriage and tired of all of the violence, he had promised the lovely saloon owner that his gun fighting days were behind him. Jon’s thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the approaching barkeep as the two men stepped up on the red carpet and sat down.

      “Whiskey?” Jess asked.

      “Sounds good,” the marshal replied. Jon nodded his approval.

      “Let me know when you want to order dinner.” Jess said as the two thick glasses banged against the tabletop. The bartender splashed in the whiskey and hurried back to the bar.

      Jon pushed his hat back on his forehead, reached inside his vest pocket and pulled out a Havana. “Smoke?” he offered as he lifted it toward the marshal.

      “No thanks, Jon. I’m tryin’ to quit,” he laughed.

      “Do you mind?”

      “No, no. Please, go right ahead.”

      “Thanks.” Jon lit up, took a hard drag and exhaled.

      “That Sledge fella seemed like a real bad sort,” Brown said.

      “Yeah, he was a bad hombre all right, and he needed killin’. It’s just…” Jon hesitated.

      “Just what?” The curious marshal leaned forward.

      “Well, it’s just that I made a promise never to fight again to a very special someone back in Arizona.” Jon’s brow furrowed as he watched the