by R. B. Conroy
Camp tossed a saddle on a rail as Jon approached.
“Morning Camp!”
A surprised Camp looked up. “Mornin’, Jon.”
“You got a big Palomino in there?” Jon asked.
“Sure enough do Sheriff.” Camp smiled broadly as he stepped over and shook Jon’s hand.
“You may not have heard,” Jon said.
“Well probably not, I was out shoein’ all day yesterday,” Camp replied. “What’s up?”
“I resigned as sheriff yesterday. I’m leaving town this morning if Babe’s ready.”
“Babe’s fine, I... ah groomed her real good last night,” he mumbled, clearly shocked by the news of his mentor’s departure.
“Thank you, Camp,” Jon replied.
“I guess you’ll be goin’ to California, to that vineyard,” Camp said almost inaudibly, visibly shaken. Camp popped the latch open on Babe’s stall; he stepped in and threw a blanket on the excited steed. He lifted Jon’ saddle and sat it gently on the blanket, yanked the straps tight and led her out. He looked down at the ground, apparently so upset by Jon’s departure that he couldn’t look his hero in the eyes.
Jon walked over and tossed the water and saddle bags over Babe’s hindquarters. Then he laid both his big hands on Camp’s slumping shoulders. “My fighting days are over, Camp. I put my Colts away.”
Camp glanced down at Jon’s empty waist. “You what!” he barked. “You took your guns off!” Camp’s eyes were wide with amazement. “What’s the matter with you, Jon? Have you gone chicken or something?” Camp tried to pull away; Jon grabbed tightly on his shoulders.
“Now just hold on there,” Jon said firmly, scolding the young gunman. “My guns have caused me nothing but pain and sorrow and those guns of yours will do the same to you. I’m forty years old Camp, and it’s a miracle I’m alive. Most every gunman I’ve ever known is already dead. I should have hung my guns up long ago, but my pride wouldn’t let me.”
“You’re an old man and you’re giving up,” an angry Camp shouted. “That’s the way I see it!”
Jon was shocked by the hurtful remarks from the youngster. His hands slid off Camp’s shoulders; he frowned. “It’s no use. Camp, there’s nothing I can say. You’re just like I was when I was your age. You think you’re too tough to be killed, you won’t listen!” Jon’s eyes softened as he looked back at his loyal friend. “You’re a brave man, Camp Wilson, and I’m proud to call you friend. I hope someday you’ll understand.”
Camp’s head dropped. He kicked the dirt with his foot.
“I’m sorry, Jon! I’m truly sorry!”
Jon smiled warmly at the young gunman.
“It’s just that....I...uh.. I just can’t believe you’re leaving and that you’re not packin’ and all!” Camp said quietly, still looking down.
“I guess I kinda shocked you!” Jon said sincerely.
“Just about everybody around here knows how I feel about you Jon. They know how I look up to ya and all. I feel like somebody just punched me in the gut!” Camp said softly.
Jon grinned at his somber friend. “I understand, but just remember, you’re welcome at my vineyard any time.”
Camp looked up at Jon. “Well I guess that’s what I’ll have to do; I guess I’ll just have to cross those mountains.”
“I hope so,” Jon said as he gently punched his young mentor on the chin.
“You can count on it Jon,” Camp said as he gave Jon a quick, hard embrace and then stepped quickly back.
“Bout noon time today my heart’s gonna start achin’ for our daily game of stud. I’m really gonna miss ya buddy,” Jon said as he mounted up. A single tear rolled down the tough young stable owner’s cheek as Jon reined Babe around and rode slowly away.
The sun was just breaking into the morning sky as Jon rode toward the outskirts of town. There were smiles and nods from the few townspeople who were out and about as Jon headed for the desert and his long journey to California. Jon tipped his hat and spurred Babe forward to a canter. He was leaving Logan’s Crossing as he had arrived: alone!
Several miles down the trail at a high point, Jon reined up and turned around for a last look at the distant town. The wood frame buildings looked dark and isolated against the desert sky; a strong feeling of melancholy fell over him. The emotions of the past year raced through his mind once again: the pain, the violence, his love for Libby. What a hell of a year! he thought, as he reined Babe around and rode on toward his vineyard paradise, gradually disappearing into the lush desert landscape.
Unbeknownst to him, the devil that he so loathed and despised; still lie hiding deep in his heart.
About the Author
Armed with a vivid imagination and a love for the gun fighting days of the old west, R B Conroy developed and conceived his main character Jon Stoudenmire. The resulting story is a unique and compelling tale about a charming and violent gunman in the turbulent days of America’s early west. As Devil Rising goes to press, R B is hard at work on the sequel. He lives in Leesburg, Indiana with his wife Cheryl.
Other books by R B Conroy
Return of the Gun
In My Father’s Image
Deadly Game
