Jon slept in the next morning; after a quick bath and a late breakfast at the local café, he hurried down to the stables.
The big wooden door at the stables squeaked as Jon pulled it open. “Anybody here?” he asked.
“Hold your britches on! I’ll be right with ya,” a voice shouted out from one of the stalls. “
As Jon walked over to Babe’s stall and gently stroked her neck, he could hear the stablehand hurrying toward him. He stopped and looked at Jon, apparently annoyed that Jon had taken the liberty to enter Babe’s stall.
“How’s she doing, Mr.—?” Jon asked as he backed out of the stall.
“The name’s Hank Clark, and she’s doing just fine, but she’s still a little tired. Another day’s rest and grooming would do her a lot of good, Mr.—”
“Stoudenmire, Jon Stoudenmire. And you’re the boss, Hank. Whatever you say. She was plenty tuckered when we got to town yesterday.”
Hank nodded and watched as Jon ambled out of the stable area.
Jon tipped his hat to the wary hand and headed down Main Street to see about getting a few supplies. The weathered steps to the general store sunk a little as he stepped up. Suddenly he ducked to his left as a six gun blasted away nearby. Instinctively, he jumped down to the street, drew his six gun and spun to confront the fire. At the same time, the shooter turned toward Jon’s menacing six gun. “Easy, partner, easy now, draw down, just shootin’ an old nasty rattler here in the alley beside the store. Meant no harm.” It was a familiar but unpleasant voice.
“No harm done, Barton, but something tells me it wasn’t an accident.” Jon eased his Colt slowly back into its holster.
“Oh it was, Jon. If I had wanted to kill you, we wouldn’t be standing here talking about it. Just wanted to shoot this varmint before he harmed somebody.” Barton leaned down, hooked the dead snake on his gun barrel and pointed it at Jon.
“Well, I guess we all owe you a debt of gratitude for saving our lives from this little critter,” Jon said sarcastically. “What’s a man like you doin’ way out here in these parts anyway, Barton?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing, Jon. I hear you been spendin’ a lot of time with Cliff Stone.”
“Word gets around plenty fast.”
“Yeah it does, Jon, and I’m listening real close to everything I hear lately,” Barton said threateningly.
Jon’s brow furrowed. “You’re wasting your time with me, Barton. I’m just passin’ through.”
“That’s good, Stoudenmire. That might save us both a little grief,” the surly gunhand replied as he ambled over and tossed the snake out in the desert. “What’s goin’ on in El Cabrera is none of your affair anyhow, Stoudenmire,” he barked as he mounted up. “If you stick around, you’ll have me to deal with.” Before Jon could answer, he reined his steed around and rode quickly out of town.
Jon was furious as he watched Barton ride off on his painted sorrel. That man could use a lesson or two, he thought as he spit defiantly on the dusty street. But the truth was, as much as he despised him, Barton was a dangerous man. A stocky muscular man, he was quick and fearless with a gun and seemed to always be itching for a fight. Might be better to stick to his plan and let someone else deal with Dave Barton.