Читать книгу Return of the Gun - R. B. Conroy - Страница 6

Chapter 1

The large boulders formed a narrow path as the lone rider struggled down the rocky knoll. Glimpses of a sparkling stream flashed ahead as he wove his way through the dark passageway. Soon a sandy basin was in sight. The trail broke open as the traveler spurred his steed forward into the flowing river, swollen by a morning rain. The mare whinnied and pranced nervously in the water, then calmed and began to drink. The rider dropped off, crouched down and began to sip water from cupped hands.

“Freeze!” A voice shot out from the jagged rocks near the water’s edge.

Startled by the loud voice, the man froze. The water slowly drained through his thick fingers.

“Now put ’em up, mister, nice and easy. Any quick moves, and you’re a dead man!”

The wary journeyman stood slowly, arms raised.

“Now move away from that rifle, pronto!”

The man glanced to the right at his Winchester in the saddle holster, tempted to go for it.

Suddenly, another voice shouted from the far side. “You heard ’im! Get movin’!”

Reluctantly, the traveler moved sideways in the stream, away from his horse and rifle. His eyes darted left and right trying desperately to get a look at his tormentors. “I don’t want any trouble, fellas—just passin’ through,” he shouted. His mind was racing. Alone and vulnerable, he wanted to get these cowards before they got him.

Without warning, the robber to his left dropped down out of the rocks and bolted toward the stream. The water flew as he stomped through the shallow rivulet to the horse, yanked the saddlebag open and dug inside.

The traveler watched from the corner of his eye. “Nothin’ in there, mister. You’re wasting your time.”

“Shut him up!” the thief shouted to his cohort.

A gun hammer clicked; the victim spun right as a dark figure ran toward him from the other side, six gun in hand. Unexpectedly, the charging man slipped on the mossy bank and stumbled briefly, his arms flailing backward as he tried desperately to right himself. The savvy trekker saw his chance and yanked a Bowie knife from his waist sash and flung it hard toward the wobbly attacker.

“Uhgg!” The bandit groaned in agony as the sharp-edged blade drove deep into his chest. Wide-eyed, he grabbed the huge knife with both hands, rocking side to side in a desperate attempt to yank the dagger free. He staggered forward, moaning, his face filled with horror. He took a few more steps and then fell backwards on the muddy shore. His thick chest heaved violently and then went still with the knife’s ivory handle pointing to the heavens.

“One down,” the angry prey muttered.

“What the—?” the man by the saddlebag shouted as he watched his partner fall to the turf. Startled, he jerked up from the bag and reached for his gun. Like a flash, the knife thrower charged through the water toward the thief. The back of his hand slammed hard against the side of the varmint’s head. The powerful blow knocked the robber senseless; he bounced off of the horse and fell hard to his knees. Disoriented, his six gun fired harmlessly toward the sky as he teetered momentarily and then fell in the shallow water. The attacker grabbed the frayed collar on his cotton shirt and yanked him up to eye level.

“I been ridin’ hard all day. I’m tired, thirsty, and hot. All I needed was a couple of no good sidewinders like you two tryin’ to rob me. Makes me real mad!” he shouted. “You understand?”

The terrified robber nodded his head as blood trickled down his cheek. The victim, now aggressor, squeezed harder on his collar.

“What’s your name, mister?”

“W…Wes Harger.”

Surprised at the name, the big man’s angry face broke into a grin. “Wes Harger, ya say! Well, I’ll be damned! I thought your ugly mug looked familiar! I hung your wanted poster all over Mesquite County a while back. You’re wanted for bushwackin’ that stagecoach driver down Amarillo way. Pretty good price on your head if I remember right—’bout five hundred dollars.” He shoved the frightened scoundrel to the ground. “Stay put!” he ordered.

The slender robber dropped to the ground and rolled back on his elbows; his eyes darted up and down the man’s face. “I know who you are now. I wasn’t sure, but now I know!”

“You talk too much, Harger!”

“Yeah, you’re Sheriff Jon Stoudenmire from Arizona Territory. I know who ya are. I was passin’ through Logan’s Crossing last winter when you took out Zing Fuller at the Barbee Saloon!”

“It’s former Sheriff anyhow,” Stoudenmire barked as he slid his rifle out of the saddle holster. “Now shut up and tell me about your dead friend over there. Is he wanted for anything?”

“Naw, he just got out of the pen for beatin’ some whore to death in Las Cruces.”

“Nice fella.”

The man smirked. “That was really somethin’ the way you blew that Fuller fella away. I never seen anything like it.”

Trying to ignore the persistent road agent, Stoudenmire carefully fed cartridges into the loading port on his Winchester.

“How many men have you killed, Stoudenmire? Ten? Twenty? I could tell that he wasn’t the first,” the jumpy man pressed on.

Jon’s eyes narrowed. He pushed the last cartridge in, cocked it and spun the rifle toward the annoying scallywag. “I told you to shut up!”

“Don’t shoot!” Harger screamed, arms raised.

“I oughta, but not today.” Jon slowly released the hammer and let the gun fall to his forearm.

Harger looked puzzled.

“Ya might say this is your lucky day,” Jon barked as he walked over by the stream and yanked the bloody knife out of the dead man’s chest. He washed it in the clear water and stuck it back in his sash. He strolled over to the robber. “We’re only a day’s ride from Skeleton Pass, Harger, and your poster didn’t say dead or alive. You’re no good to me dead, so I guess I’m gonna have to take you with me. I’m a little short of ready cash anyhow—I could use the spending money.”

Jon grabbed hold of the mouthy mudsill’s shirt and yanked him to his feet. The man’s heart was pounding hard against Jon’s fist as he dragged him over to his horse. A small shovel hung just below the back of the saddle. Jon unstrapped it and handed it to the jittery scoundrel.

“Take this and get busy!” Confused, the thief stood stock still. Irritated, Jon planted his big boot on the man’s behind and shoved him toward the rocks. “There’s a good spot right over there. We got a grave to dig—get at it!”

Harger stumbled over to the rocks, dropped to his knees and quickly began carving a hole in the ground. Dirt flew as he dug feverishly in the sandy soil.

Jon reached in his vest pocket, pulled out a cigar and stuck it between his teeth. A yellow flame exploded as he struck a match across his belt buckle. He took a hard drag and exhaled; failed attempts at smoke rings broke apart in the soft desert breeze. Falling back against a nearby rock, he gazed up at the pink desert sky. Just for a moment, while admiring the cloudless sky, he could almost see the deep green vines in his beautiful vineyard blowing in the soft ocean breezes. Looks like a California sky, he thought. A contented smile broke out on his handsome face as thoughts of his distant paradise rushed through his mind. The smile quickly faded when he looked back at Harger.

“How ya coming over there?” he barked.

“I’m getting close, I reckon.”

“Hurry it up. I ain’t got all night.”

Dirt flew for a few more seconds and then stopped. Exhausted and sweating profusely, the gravedigger hurried over, grabbed the dead man under his arms, dragged him over and dropped him in the grave. The limp body folded up neatly as it fell into the narrow hole. Dust plumed up as Harger covered the grave. He dabbed sweat from his brow with a grimy handkerchief and scanned the area near the gravesite. He spotted a long stick lying by some nearby rocks. He snatched up the sturdy stick, snapped it in two and drove the shovel’s edge in the top of one half. He lifted the shovel and pounded the other piece in the split end to form a cross. Shoulders slumped from fatigue, he pounded the makeshift cross on the front of the grave with the back of the shovel and stepped back to admire his handiwork.

“Toss the shovel over here and then say a few words,” Jon ordered.

The man scowled as the shovel bounced near Jon’s feet; he was obviously not accustomed to such ceremony. He struggled for words.

“Dear…uh…uh…”

“Keep quiet!” Jon said disgustedly, “I’ll do it.” Jon pushed away from the rock and walked over next to the skinny varmint.

“Take your hat off and bow your head.”

He did as ordered.

Jon removed his hat. His chin dropped to his chest. “May the Lord have mercy on this man’s tortured soul. Amen.” Jon pulled handcuffs left over from his lawman days from his back pocket. “Put your hands together and put ’em behind your back,” he ordered. The cuffs clicked shut. He led the man over to the riverbank near a small Joshua tree and shoved him to the ground.

“Stay put,” Jon ordered as he scavenged around some nearby bushes for twigs and sticks. He tossed the sticks in a pile and struck a match. The bone dry twigs burst into flames. Jon hurriedly picked up some larger kindling and threw it on the flames.

“I’ll make us some grub and then we’ll ride out in the morning, Harger.”

The other man nodded and glanced up at the sheriff. “If I’d known it was you back there, Stoudenmire, I wouldn’t a tried to rob ya.”

“I guess I’m supposed to feel better now.”

“Well, I suppose not, but what’s a big shot sheriff like you doin’ way out here in the Sonoran Desert all by yourself anyhow? Ya musta screwed up or something!”

“Yeah, you’re right, Harger. I did screw up.”

“I knew it,” he said. A cocky smile broke out on the robber’s face.

“I screwed up all right—I shoulda killed ya a while ago when I had the chance.” Jon grinned at the scowling Harger. Jon unstrapped his saddlebag and pulled out bacon, grits, coffee, a cast iron skillet, and a small metal coffeepot. It wasn’t long before the scent of fried bacon, grits and fresh coffee filled the air.

Jon grabbed a metal spoon and scraped some bacon and grits onto a tin plate and handed it to Harger. He filled his own plate, crossed his legs and sat down by the fire. The two hungry men ate quietly, wasting no time in cleaning their plates.

After dinner, Jon led the robber over and cuffed him to a tree. He gathered up the utensils and dishes, quickly washed them in the river and stuffed them back in his saddlebag. He unstrapped his bedroll and spread it on the cold ground. The eerie sounds of the great horned owl filled the air as he crawled under the blanket and got ready for a night’s sleep.

“Better get some shuteye, Harger—we got a big day tomorrow,” Jon barked.

Harger grumbled as his head disappeared under the blanket.

Jon lay wide-eyed, staring up at the starry night, unable to find sleep. His thoughts took him back to his childhood. The chilling voice of his father calling him a coward after a beating by a much older boy raced through his mind. Still trying to prove his father wrong, the cruel admonishment drove him forward with great fury and brutality in times of battle. But his loving mother’s urgings always to be kind to others confused and tormented him. Tough on the outside, Jon bemoaned such violent incidents, and he always would. It was part and parcel of being Jon Stoudenmire—a notorious gunman and deeply conflicted man. After tossing and turning for what seemed an eternity, his eyes finally fell shut as he drifted off to sleep on the cold desert floor.

- - - - -

“Wake up,” Jon shouted as he kicked Harger’s boots. “We gotta get goin’.”

Harger grimaced. His dirty fingers rubbed his crusty eyes. “What about breakfast?” he carped.

“What about it?” Jon asked.

“Ain’t we havin’ breakfast?”

“This isn’t some fancy hotel, Harger. Besides, we don’t have time. Here, eat this,” Jon said as he tossed the man a strip of jerky.

Harger bit off a chew as the men gathered up their gear, quickly mounted up and rode off toward Skeleton Pass, a long day’s ride through the hot desert.