Jon sat on the corner of his featherbed at Callahan’s loading his six gun as someone began pounding on the door. He snapped the cylinder shut and moved over next to the door.
“Who is it?”
“Sheriff Cook. Open up, Jon. I need to talk to you right away.”
“Are you alone?” Jon demanded.
“Yes. Open up.”
“All right, Cook, but listen to what I’m tellin’ you. I am going to open the door, and I want you to show me your hands first and then come in very slowly. Any quick moves, and I’ll blow your damn head off. You understand?”
“Calm down,” Cook replied as he reached for the handle.
“Don’t get smart, Cook. Just do what I say!” Jon snarled as he leaned back against the wall.
The sheriff came through the doorway hands first. Jon looked through the crack in the door and out to the hallway. There was no one else out in the hall.
“Come on in,” he ordered.
The cautious sheriff came slowly in the room nervously looking around for Jon. Jon poked him in the side with his gun. “Move over a little,” he ordered as he quickly closed and locked the door. The sheriff took a couple of steps toward the center of the room.
“And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Sheriff? With all the trouble that’s brewin’ around here, I thought maybe you found a reason to leave town or somethin’,” Jon said sarcastically.
Cook scowled. “You’ve already killed one man, Stoudenmire. We don’t need any more killins’ around here. The folks are gettin’ nervous.”
“No more killins’, huh? Why don’t you tell that to that sidewinder that was waiting upstairs at the Dead End a little while ago?” Jon said angrily. “I guess it’s only murder around here when people try to defend themselves. Anything involving George Stanton never seems to be outside of the law around your little hellhole.”
Cook glared at Jon. “You’re trouble, Stoudenmire,” he growled. “You shot a man in cold blood at the Dead End Saloon. People are nervous. Seems like our town’s been turned upside down ever since you arrived. We don’t need your kind in El Cabrera, Jon. I’ll be keeping an eye on you, partner.”
“Go right ahead, Sheriff. I shot Injun Joe in self defense, and everyone knows it.”
“Just watch your step,” Cook barked.
Jon grinned at the pompous sheriff as he unlocked the door and ushered him out of the room. Jon knew that deep down the sheriff realized that he was in over his head with this situation. This visit was just to impress Stanton. When push came to shove, Cook would stay out of the way.
Jon splashed water on his face from the white porcelain pan next to his bed and patted dry. Now that Cook knew where he was, he was afraid he might get a surprise visit from Stanton’s boys; he wanted to be out of the room.
He stepped out and peeked over the railing; Maggie wasn’t there. He felt relieved as he hurried down the stairs.
Suddenly a head popped up from behind the counter. “Why, good evening, Jon. Looks like you’re in a big hurry.”
Startled, Jon’s pace slowed dramatically. “Oh...uh, why hello, Maggie. Didn’t see ya over there. How are you today?” Maggie looked lovely as usual—her yellow calico dress left little to the imagination as she leaned over the counter.
She smiled warmly at Jon. “Please be careful. I hear things are getting a little dangerous out there.”
“Well thank ya, ma’am. A fella just can’t be too careful.” Jon tipped his hat as he stepped out the door. Sure wish there was a back door to this place, he thought as he hurried out to the street.
It was a warm clear day in El Cabrera. The soft breezes from the nearby ocean felt good on Jon’s face as he ambled toward the Dead End. There were smiles and nods from the townsfolk; Jon could feel the town coalescing behind him in this fight. The steps creaked as he hopped up to the boardwalk and walked in the Dead End to kill a little time. The earlier visit from Sheriff Cook had upset him. He was ready for Barton. The sooner the better.
“Back so soon?” Jake joked.
“I got a visit from our fine sheriff a while ago. He knows where I’m stayin’. I thought it best I get out of there.”
Jake looked at Jon. “I just got a visitor myself,” he said.
“Oh yeah?”
“It was one of Stanton’s boys. He told me to give you a message from George. Barton won’t be coming down to face you—they think it’s a setup. He said he’ll deal with you in his own time, on his own terms.”
“What?” Jon slammed his fist on the bar; his face contorted with rage. “That no good bastard’s got another thing comin’!”
“What are you gonna do?”
“I know Barton didn’t buy into Stanton’s little plan—his reputation is at stake. I need to get a message directly to Barton. I think I can goad him into a fight.”
Jake poured Jon another shot.
“I need a favor, Jake. I need you to go down to Stanton’s and tell Barton to quit hidin’ and come out and fight me like a man. Be sure Barton hears the message. He’s a lot of things, but he’s no coward.”
“Will you pay to bury me?” Jake asked half-jokingly.
“It’s me they want—they won’t hurt you. Besides, everybody likes you, Jake.” The corner of Jon’s mouth pushed up to a grin as he lifted the small glass, sloshed the whiskey around and downed the shot.
Jake quickly untied his apron and hung it on the hook behind the bar as he prepared to go down to Stanton’s place and deliver Jon’s message.
“Take it easy on ‘em Jake,” Jon grinned at the anxious tender.
Jake sneered at Jon, “See you in a few,” he said as he stepped out from behind the bar.
- - - - -
Jake was having second thoughts as he walked toward Stanton’s place. These were violent men. What if they didn’t like what he had to say and took it out on him? How do I get myself in these messes? he thought.
The guard at the front gate shouted at him as Jake approached Stanton’s compound. “What ya need, Jake?”
“I got a message for Barton.”
The guard jumped down and pushed the heavy metal gate open. He grabbed Jake firmly by the arm and escorted him up to the porch. “Wait here. He’s out back shootin’. I’ll see if I can get him,” he said gruffly.
The front door swung open suddenly as Pedro hurried out. When he saw Jake, his pace slowed. “Uh…hello, Señor Jake,” he said, tipping his sombrero.
Jake nodded at the friendly Pedro as he watched him hop off of the porch and push through the gate.
Jake glanced to his left as Barton and the sentry walked out from behind a large avocado tree at the corner of the house. Barton, wearing blue denim and a black vest, looked thick and strong as he stepped up to the porch. Jake had seen him a few times around town, but never up close. Dark, empty eyes and a perpetual smirk caused by a small scar on the corner of his mouth made him look very daunting. He was agitated as he walked up to Jake.
“Let’s have it, Jake. What’s this big message from my friend, Jon Stoudenmire?”
Jake hesitated, taken aback by Barton’s powerful presence.
“I ain’t got all night.” The surly gunslinger grew impatient.
“Okay, Dave, here’s what the man said. He said that you should quit hidin’ and come out in the street and fight him like a man.” Jake winced as he waited for Barton’s response.
“So he wants me to quit hidin’, huh?” Barton said angrily. “Well, tell your friend Mr. Stoudenmire that I know a trick when I see one! He’s tryin’ to bait me into chargin’ down there so he can gun me down,” Barton said spitefully. “It ain’t gonna work, Jake! You tell him that—it ain’t gonna work!”
Barton was talking big, but Jake sensed that he didn’t like what he was doing either. Jake could tell that he would much rather fight Jon face to face out in the street. Stanton’s plan was making him look like a fool.
Suddenly the anxious Jake did something he hadn’t planned on. It was just a hunch, but he felt it was right; he took a chance and called the bad man out.
“Dave, I know it’s not like you to hide from a fight.” Jake scanned his face, an inquisitive stare was his only reaction. Jake went on, “That’s not your style. I know you want this fight. You’re the best. You’re just trying to keep George happy.”
Barton got quiet and stared at the ground, flipping his shoestring tie over and over again with his finger. Jake knew that he had struck a chord with the bad man. Barton was one tough hombre, and he didn’t like people thinking he was running from a fight.
Finally he spoke. “You’re right, this ain’t my style. You go tell Jon that I’ll be out in the street straight away. And be sure and tell him that he didn’t trick me—I knew what he was tryin’ to do. I’m just tired of his big mouth. Tell him he’ll get his fight.”
Suddenly, the front door burst open, almost knocking Jake down. An angry Stanton charged out of the house. “What the hell’s going on?” he screamed.
Barton’s eyes shot toward Stanton. “I’ll tell ya what’s goin’ on out here, George! Stoudenmire just called me out, and I’m goin’ down to face him straight away. And don’t try to stop me!” The surly gunman spit on the ground.
Surprisingly, Stanton paused for a minute and then smiled at the gunman. “That’s fine, Dave,” he said. “You’re right—I think it’s time we dealt with this Stoudenmire fella. Just be sure you get the job done. I want him dead.” His broad face broke into a malicious smile.
Barton turned toward Jake. “Go give Stoudenmire my message.”
George turned and nodded at the sentry, who hurried over and opened the gate. Jake pushed past the unfriendly guard and walked rapidly down the street toward the Dead End.
When he arrived at the saloon, Jon was leaning on the end of the bar talking to one of the girls. Slightly out of breath, Jake hurried over to Jon to deliver Barton’s message. The bar girl smiled at Jon and walked away.
“Just calm down here, partner, and tell me what you found out,” Jon said, a little surprised by Jake’s rapid entry.
“I…uh gave Barton your message, and at first, he was angry because he said you were trying to trick him into coming out into the open. Then we talked for a while, and I convinced him to come out and fight you face to face.”
“Ya convinced him, huh? Well I’ll be, that’s really something!” Jon said, slapping the friendly barkeep on the back. “Good for you!”
Suddenly Jon’s expression darkened. “When’s the low-life comin’?”
“Straight away. He said he was coming down straight away!”
“Good.”
“You got what you wanted, Jon, a showdown.”
Jon could feel his mood changing; the fight would soon be on. And now it would all be out in the open where Jon had a chance. Stanton would probably send backup with Barton—Jon had to be ready for that. He could feel the darkness coming. He downed the shot and set the glass calmly on the bar.
“One more,” he said.
Jake poured the drink. “Godspeed, my friend,” he said quietly.
- - - - -
The bartender’s visit was actually a relief to Dave Barton. He had hated every minute of waiting at Stanton’s house; he felt like a coward. Now he was relishing the opportunity to do what he did best—kill someone. He couldn’t wait to tie his guns down and head out to the street to face Jon one on one. He looked over at George. “I’m glad you changed your mind, Stanton, or I might have had to kill two men today instead of one. Why the change of heart? It ain’t like you.”
“I got my reasons, Barton—just get the job done,” the mogul grunted.
“Don’t worry, George. This will be easy.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. I hear the man’s one tough son-of-a-bitch. Injun Joe didn’t last very long, so you better not underestimate him.”
“Joe was a coward. He was no match for Stoudenmire. He was out of his league.” Barton glared at Stanton as he hopped off of the porch and headed for town.
- - - - -
Jon spun the cylinders on his six guns; they were fully loaded. He straightened his tie, tipped his hat down and stepped out onto the street. Steely calm, his senses were on high alert. He felt no fear, only contempt for Dave Barton. A tortured childhood had prepared him well for this fight. The thought of losing never entered his mind. He loved the horror of these violent exchanges and relished the fact that he had been put in this position. When the lead started flying and the smell of gun smoke filled the air, he would be at his very best. Jon pushed the swinging doors open and surveyed the scene outside. He jumped off of the wooden boardwalk and stepped out to the street. He was calm, nerves steady as he waited for yet another bloody battle to begin.
- - - - -
Barton squinted into the setting sun as he stepped out of Stanton’s courtyard and began walking toward town. Up ahead, people were scurrying to find a good place to watch the coming clash. They were looking for storefronts to enter or alleyways to duck into. Within a matter of minutes, the folks had settled in, and the street fell silent. A few birds chirping and loose boards clapping in the wind were the only sounds to be heard. As he reached the outskirts of town, Barton was unaware that two of Stanton’s boys had fallen in behind him. He stopped and scanned the street ahead; his eyes narrowed when he located Jon standing outside of the Dead End Saloon.
- - - - -
Jon zeroed in on the location of the trailing henchmen. He spit on the ground as he stepped out to confront Barton. After a few steps, he turned to face his adversary, careful not to make any unnecessary moves that might spook the cold-hearted gunman before he had his say. He pulled up and spoke calmly. “Evenin’, Dave.”
Barton sneered, unfazed by the big gunman’s friendly address. “You shoulda left town when you had the chance, Jon. You could’ve avoided all this.”
“I appreciate your concern, Dave, but I wouldn’t have missed this for anything.”
Beads of sweat were forming on Barton’s forehead. “You’re a stupid man, Jon. You got no dog in this fight, and now you’re going to die. It’s a shame.”
Jon looked into Barton’s cruel empty eyes. “A while back I watched you kill a snake in the alley by the hardware store, Dave,” he snarled. “Now it’s my turn to kill a snake.” Jon grinned at the nasty gunman.
The snake comment infuriated Barton. He couldn’t control himself any longer; he went for his gun.
Jon drew with lightning speed and began firing, yellow flames shot from the barrel. Barton’s body blew backwards as the hot lead blasted into his midsection. There were loud groans and screams from the bystanders. Barton’s gun fired harmlessly into the air.
“You got me, you son-of-a-bitch drifter!” Barton groaned as his muscular body bounced backwards on the hard street. His back arched, and then his body fell motionless on the ground. Smoke drifted up from the bullet holes in his chest as blood poured onto the dusty street.
Certain of the kill, Jon scanned the street for the other men. The man to his left had vanished; the man on the right was running toward a water trough, gun drawn.
A sudden breeze blew away the thick smoke from his earlier gunfire, giving him an unexpected clear shot. He cocked and fired. The man screamed and grabbed his chest, staggered forward, and braced himself against the trough. Jon, filled with rage, approached quickly through the smoke. The man tried to right himself for a shot; there were two more blasts from Jon’s guns. Red spread through the water in the trough as he flew backward into his watery grave.
Jon stood in the center of the street. His smoking six guns hung at his side as he surveyed the bloody scene. Another war, another fight was over; two men had died, and once again he was still standing. His heart beat rapidly. He felt isolated and alone. He heard a distant “hiya,” and turned to see an angry Stanton taking the whip to his helpless charger as he hastened back to his fortress. A door opened at Callahan’s. Maggie stepped out on the boardwalk and stared unflinchingly at Jon. Tears welled in the warrior’s eyes; his heart was heavy, his soul diminished by yet another dance with death.