by R. B. Conroy
Jon whistled for Babe. She came lickety-split down the center of the creek. He collected the other horses and helped Fuller mount his steed. He carried the youngster’s body over and dropped it on the pack horse, it fell limp, arms dangling to the side. Jon mounted up, looped the pack’s leather rein around his saddle horn and headed back to town. There was just enough daylight left to make it back to town before dark.
Chapter 2
Piano music drifted out the window of the Barbee as Jon and Babe rode slowly into town. It was almost dark now. Camp, shoeing a horse by the light of a kerosene lamp, rose up when he saw Jon coming. A dejected Zing Fuller looked over and gave the young stable hand an ugly stare as he rode past on the lead horse. The dead gunman’s arms dangled to the side of the following pack.
“You okay?” Camp shouted.
“I’m fine Camp, see you at the Barbee tomorrow at the usual time,” Jon shouted.
Camp stuck his black thumb in the air and quickly went back to work. He had a stable full of horses that needed shoeing by morning.
“Sheriff’s back, one dead and one alive!” a young boy playing in the street shouted.
A few folks gathered along the side of the road to greet their returning hero. Jon sat tall in the saddle as he tipped his hat to the crowd. He rode slowly toward the jail, keeping a close eye on Fuller.
“Whoa girl!” “Whoa!” Babe’s head jerked back as they stopped in front of the jail. Deputy Morgan came running out to meet him.
“Any chance?” Ed asked, shocked by the sight of the young man’s body.
“Not a chance,” Jon replied. “How’s Malone doing?”
“Not so great, but Doc Fletcher seems to think he’ll make it okay. Lost a lot of blood, but he’s a pretty tough hombre.”
“Might have to get someone to fill in for Jack while he’s mending,” Jon replied.
“Okay Jon, looks like we’re gonna need all the help we can get round here.”
“Make sure this poor fool gets a proper burial. He’s only a kid, it’s a shame.” Jon sounded distressed as he spoke of his most recent kill.
“Sure thing Boss, you better clean up a little and get down to the Barbee. Libby’s been coming down here every twenty minutes to check on you. I’ll send one of the boys o’er to the Barbee to tell her you’re okay.”
“Thanks Ed.” Jon smiled at his loyal deputy. He tied Babe to the hitching post and hurried down to the Westwood Hotel to spiff up a little.
The floor boards creaked as Jon walked to his room at the end of the hall on the second floor. He turned the key, and the door fell open. Jon stepped in the room and quickly closed and locked the door behind him. Steam rose from a pan of hot water sitting next to the bed. They’re spoiling me, he thought, as he tossed his hat on the bed and slid his hands into the water. He splashed his sweaty face, it felt great. He grabbed the cotton towel off the brass bed rail and patted his face dry. His black leather vest and denim shirt came off. He slipped on his white silk shirt and brocade vest, slapped on some cologne and took a quick look in the mirror. “You handsome devil,” he mumbled as he grabbed his hat off the bed and hurried down to see his girl.
* * *
Libby’s eyes kept glancing at the door as she waited for her big lover. She reached under the bar and pulled up a small bottle of expensive perfume and carefully dabbed it on a few key spots on her neck. She liked being Jon’s girl, even with all the uncertainty. Why do I always fall in love with the wrong men?” she thought, as she carefully placed the perfume under the bar.
The door opened, Jon walked in slowly and stopped. He looked around the room for Libby. She smiled and waved; his face lit up with a big grin as he straightened his hat and headed for the bar.
“How’s the prettiest girl in town?” Jon said as slid up on the bar stool.
“Just fine! And how’s our big handsome local Sheriff?” Libby said enthusiastically. She carefully lifted a bottle of Early Times out of the rack, the amber liquor splashed into Jon’s glass.
“I’m doing okay,” Jon replied.
“Well I guess all my worrying was for nothing.” Libby’s pulse rate jumped as Jon’s big hand slipped around her delicate wrist.
“I’m right sorry ‘bout that Darlin’. But I can take care of myself alright; try not to worry too much.” Jon smiled and winked at the happy saloon owner. He lifted the shot glass to eye level. “Here’s to the loveliest lady this side of the Gila River.” He downed the shot of Early Times and smiled at Libby. He paused for a moment as his eyes went to the center of the empty glass as if in deep thought.
“Forgive me for worrying so much!” Libby said, interrupting his thought.
“You’re forgiven, Sweetheart,” Jon said quickly.
“Dinner?” Libby asked.
“Thought you’d never ask!”
“I had Sam set us up in the back room; it will be quieter there,” Libby said, as her face broke into a warm smile.
“Sounds good!”
Libby slid effortlessly around the end of the bar; she grabbed Jon’s hand and led him back to the separate room. The candelabra’s flames reflected off the shiny silverware as they entered their private retreat. Always the gentleman, Jon slid Libby’s chair out and waited for her to be seated. He tossed his brown felt hat on the table and sat down next to her.
Sam arrived with two glasses and a bottle of imported wine; he carefully poured the expensive wine into the delicate glasses.
“Ready to order or do you need some time?” Sam asked.
“Well if Libby doesn’t mind, I’m pretty much starvin’,” Jon replied.
“That’s fine, I’m a little hungry myself,” she replied.
Sam reached inside his apron and pulled out the green order pad.
“What’ll it be?” he asked.
“Venison parmesan over pasta for me, Sam,” Libby said softly.
“How bout a big t-bone steak with fried potatoes,” Jon said.
“Scalloped corn’s good tonight, Jon, and you need some veggies.” Sam grinned as he lectured his good friend.
“Okay Sam.” Jon laughed.
Sam hurried off to the kitchen.
Libby lifted the glass up to her lips and took a sip. “Somebody said there was gun play out there today. Is that right, Jon?’
Jon looked down at the table, he seemed distressed. “Yea, the young fella, the one who shot Jack, was kind of trigger happy,” Jon said.
“And.....” Libby said.
“And...I ah had to kill him.” Jon was upset; it was the same old feeling, but now for the first time in his life he wanted to talk about it.
“What is it, Jon? What happened?” Libby said, very concerned.
“I.....uh.....I gave him every chance to back off, but he still went for his gun! I had no choice!” Jon’s voice trailed off as he talked of killing the young man.
Libby looked intimately toward the powerful gunman. Her hand gently stroked his thick forearm. “Are you okay?” she asked.
Jon’s eyes began to well up, they glistened as he spoke. “Yea, I guess I’m just.....” his voice trailed off once again.
“You’re just what, Jon?” Libby asked. She had never seen her big, fearless lover so vulnerable before.
Jon looked over at Libby. His face filled with pain. “I’m just tired.”
“Tired of what, Jon? What are you talking about?” Libby’s eyes darted up and down Jon’s face, looking for any sign of the answer. He seemed genuinely upset; it wasn’t like him.
“Tired of all the killing, tired of living with this rage inside of me!”
“But Jon, you never killed anybody that didn’t deserve it. I don’t understand!” Libby sat up, upset and confused by the revelations coming from this tough, decent man.
“Yea, 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 fel
t 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 and nodded at the old timer, sending him on his way.
“Ed Morgan’s the name, just in from Missouri Territory and looking for a partner.” The young fella spoke confidently as he approached Jon. “Could that be you?”
“Now hold on there friend. I wasn’t really lookin’ for a partner,” a surprised Jon replied with a nervous chuckle. “I was trying to get my own outfit.”
“Well, I understand Mr…?”
“Stoudenmire, Jon Stoudenmire,” Jon
responded quickly, a little taken back by the aggressiveness of this young hunter.
“You see Jon, you got a big problem. I been checking around for quite awhile and as far as I can tell, there’s only one outfit for sale in this camp and it’s been promised to me. But I only have half the money it’s going to take to buy it, so I need a partner to cover the other half. You look honest enough to me, so are you in or out?” the young runner pushed on, barely giving Jon a chance to think.
Never one to make rash decisions, Jon was really being pushed by this young Missourian. He wanted more time, but he also wanted to get his own outfit real bad. He liked this brash young tenderfoot and decided to trust his instincts and give it a shot, but not before a little more friendly bantering. Years later, Ed would confess that even he was surprised by how forward he was that first day.
“Now just hold on there fella, I don’t even know if you can shoot straight or not. I might be tying into somebody that couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn from fifty feet. I might end up shooting all the buffs and then you’ll want to split the profits.” Jon’s eyes narrowed as he looked over at the young runner.
Without saying a word, Ed carefully lifted his .50-90 Sharp Carbine up out of its saddle holster and raised it carefully to his left forearm. Jon wondered what the heck he was doing, as he leveled the large rifle for a possible shot. Ed then took direct aim at a big sign hanging some hundred yards away, next to the Wells Fargo Tent. It seemed like an eternity before Ed gently squeezed the trigger on the beautiful rifle.
Boom! came the blast from Ed’s .50-90. All eyes turned to look at the distant sign. Splinters flew as the bullet hit the soft pine edifice. It was a long way off, but it appeared to Jon that the “e” in the Wells Fargo sign was pretty much gone.
“You still think I can’t hold up my end?” Ed said confidently, the smoke still spewing from his Sharp’s barrel.
Jon couldn’t believe his eyes. This kid can really shoot, he thought. I’d better just knock him down a notch or two. Jon, without saying a word, slid his .50-70 Carbine out of its saddle holster; lifted it up to shooting position and took careful aim at the same distant sign. A crowd had started to gather after Ed’s shot; some of the men in the camp had picked up on what was going on. They had quit doing whatever they were doing and started moving closer to where the two young men were squaring off.
