“Well, look who’s here!” Cliff glanced toward the front door at the Dead End; his fork clanked as he tossed it on the empty dish.
The batwing door fell shut. Sheriff Cook walked in and slowly wound his way across the room toward the men’s table.
“Howdy, Sheriff,” Jon said. “To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?”
“We got us a problem, Jon,” Cook said, hands on his six guns.
Jon’s mood darkened quickly. “What’s that, Sheriff?”
The cocky lawman regurgitated the script he’d been practicing on the way to the saloon. “Seems like ever since you came to town there’s been nothing but killings and trouble around here, Jon. People don’t feel safe anymore. It’s my job as sheriff to make sure our town is safe from a menace like you.” A sly grin broke out on his face. “I want you out of town by sundown today, or I’ll throw you in jail for disturbing the peace and refusing the order of an officer of the court.” Cook smirked as he waited for Jon’s answer.
Jon’s brow furrowed. He pushed his chair back and slowly stood. “You’re right, Cook. The people don’t feel safe around here anymore. They don’t feel safe because they got a crooked law enforcement officer—and guess what.”
Cook’s eyebrows raised.
“Jack here tells me there’s a witness to Curly Harmon’s murder, and he’s ready to spill the beans. Says he saw Barton kill poor old Curly. He says there was a man with Barton who wore a badge—says it was you.”
“You’re just makin’ that up, Stoudenmire. You’re bluffin’.” Beads of sweat formed on Cook’s forehead.
“Tell him what the man said, Jack.”
Malone’s eyes narrowed to a scowl as he looked at the sheriff. “He said that Curly was glad to see ya, laughin’ and shakin’ your hand and all. Then when he bent down to pick up his shovel, Dave drew his gun and let the poor bastard have it right in the back of the head. After he fell, he shot him again to be sure he was dead. He says you were with Barton, and he’s ready to tell all.”
“Looks like cold-blooded murder to me, Sheriff. I’m sure the district judge in Santa Cruz would love to hear about this.” Jon grinned at the shocked lawman.
Face flushed, Cook’s eyes darted around the table at the stoic faces of the other men.
“Now take your hands off those guns, Sheriff, nice and easy. One false move, and I’ll blow your damn fool head off,” Jon snarled.
Cook dropped his shaking hands to his side.
Jon lunged forward, grabbed Cook’s shoestring tie with his good right arm and yanked him against the table. “You’re implicated in more than just Curly’s murder, Sheriff. Cliff and Ned both saw your friends Buck Johnson and Paco Delgado try to bushwhack me yesterday. You’re in this ugly mess up to your scrawny neck. Stanton ordered you and Barton to go out and kill Curly, didn’t he?”
Cook gasped for breath as Jon pulled tighter on the tie. “Y…y…yes, Stanton told us to g…get rid of Curly,” he stuttered.
“Listen close, Sheriff, ‘cause I ain’t gonna say it twice. I want you outta here. If I ever see you in this town again, I’ll personally blast you into the next county. You got it?” The room was thick with tension as the powerful gunman spoke.
“Y…yes,” Cook said meekly.
“Now take your belt off nice and easy,” Jon ordered.
Sweating profusely, Cook carefully untied his gun belt and pulled it off. Jon slid around the table and charged toward the door, bumping chairs to the side as he dragged Cook by his tie. Jon’s shoulder banged into the swinging doors as he dragged the gagging lawman out to his horse. “Get on!” Jon shouted as he let loose of the noose. Cook rubbed his neck and grimaced in pain as he started to mount up. “Uggh!” he moaned as Jon kicked him hard on his backside. Humiliated in front of the shocked townsfolk, he mounted up and galloped toward the outskirts of town, never once looking back.
Jon stood watching, his eyes black with rage. Cliff and the other boys stood on the boardwalk. Suddenly, a dark-skinned man darted off of the boardwalk near the bathhouse.
“It’s Pedro!” Sloan shouted.
Jon drew as he spun to his left. He cocked his Colt, pointed it skyward and squeezed the trigger. Pedro stopped dead in his tracks; smoke spewed from Jon’s six gun.
“Don’t move til I have my say, Pedro!” Jon bellowed. “Tell Stanton I’ll meet him at sundown tomorrow here in the street. Man to man, and tell him if he doesn’t show, he’s even more of a coward than I think he is!” Jon shouted. The gathering crowd groaned at the prospect of yet another bloody showdown.
Pedro jumped abroad his clay and spurred her toward Stanton’s compound.
Jon’s expression softened as he glanced over at his compadres standing tall on the boardwalk. “See you boys inside just before sundown tomorrow.” He dropped the smoking six gun in the holster and limped toward Callahan’s.
His leg aching, Jon walked through the door to the boardinghouse. Katie’s curly head popped up from behind the counter. “Howdy, Jon. You okay?”
“I’m fine, thank ya, Katie.”
“I heard you got shot up pretty good. You sure you’re all right?” the precocious new owner asked.
“Yeah. I think I just need a little rest, that’s all.” Jon tipped his hat and started up the stairs. He walked slowly down the hall and shuffled into his room. He dropped down in the wooden chair next to the bed. His left arm was aching, his ribs hurt and his leg was throbbing. Weak from his wounds, Jon lamented the coming fight with the powerful Stanton, a crack shot. Although not a gunslinger by nature, he knew Stanton wouldn’t back down after Jon’s public challenge—his pride wouldn’t let him.
The die had been cast. Jon knew that either he or George Stanton would die in twenty-four hours. He leaned over, grabbed the wooden knob on the small dressing table and slid it open. He reached inside and felt around for the faded and worn Bible he had noticed earlier in his stay. He snatched it from the drawer; the thin pages flapped over as he pushed aggressively through its tattered contents. Jon had gone away from the Bible as he grew older, and he wasn’t sure why. But somehow now, in a weakened state, his life hanging in the balance, he once again felt the urge to revisit the ancient book.
As a small boy, Jon had hopped up on his mother’s lap in front of the fire every night after a long day in the Indiana wheat fields. He remembered how she had hugged him tightly and read softly from the Bible, a welcome respite after the almost daily beatings from his father. For some reason, even as a small boy, a verse in Romans had jumped out at him. As he grew up, it helped define the guiding principles of his life; he truly believed that God had commanded this verse to him. The pages turned more slowly. The last crinkled page fell over. His thick finger slid down the page and suddenly stopped. He struggled to read the tiny print in the limited light from the nearby window. A beam of light suddenly broke through the clouds and fell across the weathered book. A tear rolled down his cheek as he read the haunting verse in Romans 15:13: “Greater love has no man than this, that a man be willing to lay down his life for his friends.”
Jon gently closed the Bible and dropped it back in the drawer. The time was coming when he would, as the powerful verse implored, once again put his life on the line for his friends. Alone with his thoughts, the searing emotions of a conflicted life flooded through his mind as he sat bruised and battered in the small boardinghouse on the edge of California. A few tears rolled down his face. His red eyes looked heavenward as he whispered, “Grant me strength Lord as I try to make the good fight.” He exhaled deeply. His head gently bumped against the wall as sleep overcame him.
Exhausted, Jon slept through the next day. It was evening when he finally awoke; he yawned and glanced through the window at the evening sun. He rubbed sleep from his eyes and stood slowly, aching all over. His good right hand struggled with the snaps on his borrowed denim shirt; he pulled his shirt off and washed up. He grabbed his belt and pulled it open. The bloody jeans dropped to the floor. He stepped out of his jeans, yanked the belt free and tossed them on the bed. A quick examination of his chest and leg wounds, showed no signs of bleeding. Next he pulled a good pair of jeans from his saddlebag on the bedpost. Pain shot up his leg as he lifted it into the jeans and pushed it through. He put his other leg in and pulled the jeans to waist level. He slipped on a clean shirt and tucked it in and snapped his jeans shut. He grabbed his gun belt, buckled up and tied down.
Suddenly, a rock tapped against the window. Jon stepped over and glanced down at the street. Ned Sloan’s square face was grinning from ear to ear as he and the other boys looked up at Jon. Jon leaned down, pushed the window up and shouted, “Come on up. I’m decent.” The men disappeared under the canopy. Jon stepped over and unlocked the door; it fell slightly open. A short time later, he could hear footsteps in the hall. The men hurried in.
“How ya doin?” Cliff asked as he spun a chair around and dropped down, facing Jon.
“I’m sore all over. Feel like somebody’s been smackin’ me with a sledge hammer all night. Otherwise, not too bad.”
The boys chuckled nervously.
“Any news out on the street?” Jon asked.
“Not much. Stanton’s been quiet. I’ve had one of the boys from out at the mines watchin’ his place.”
“And?”
“Nobody’s left that compound all day,” Cliff replied.
“Good.” Jon spun the cylinders on his six guns to be sure they were fully loaded.
“There was one other bit of news,” Sloan added.
Jon looked toward the giant man.
“Town Board President Fred Smith watched you chase Cook outa town yesterday. He approached us shortly after you came back here and said he was glad Cook was gone. Said Cook was not the man he thought he was when he and the other board members hired him. He asked us if we knew of anyone with experience who could act as temporary sheriff until they could find another one. Cliff and I both looked at Malone.”
Malone grinned. As he pulled back his leather vest, a badge appeared.
“Congrats, Sheriff!” Jon reached forward for a shake. “It’s gonna help a lot havin’ the law on our side.”
Suddenly the men heard shouting and loud voices on the street. They stepped near the window and surveyed the scene below. Women held tightly to their children’s hands as they scurried out of the way; the curious children’s necks craned toward the end of town.
Jon grabbed his hat. “Let’s go, boys. Sounds like they’re comin’!”
The landing shook as the four big men hurried down the hall and hurtled down the stairs. Limping, Jon pushed through the door as the men rushed out for their showdown with the dangerous Stanton and his gang.
Jon’s leg was throbbing. “Shouldn’t have done those stairs so fast,” he mumbled.
“I wondered about that.” Cliff grinned at his good friend.
“It’s them.” Ned pointed to the edge of town.
Jon squinted into the sun as the men approached. Stanton led the parade—he appeared different, shedding his cotton pants and silk shirt in favor of a blue denim shirt and jeans. Pedro marched alongside in a brown poncho and large sombrero; a long pistol hung at his side. Armed, the other four men fanned out behind them. They looked imposing as they marched in formation down the dirt road.
“Stanton’s unarmed,” Malone hollered.
Jon looked closer. “Sure is. Wonder what the hell he’s up to.”
As they drew closer, Jon surveyed the scene. Stanton’s waist was empty, but six guns protruded from the hips of the other men. Stanton looked bigger in denim; stocky and barrel-chested, his rolled sleeves exposed his massive forearms.
“Spread out on the street, fellas. Start shootin’ at fifty feet,” Jon ordered. Jon and the men stepped down from the boardwalk. Jon tried desperately not to limp, but his leg still hurt from the stunt on the stairs; otherwise, he felt rested from his long sleep. His gang moved to the street’s middle and stopped. His anger was growing. He could feel it rising inside as Stanton and his bullies came closer. Senses on high alert, he began to focus. Jon couldn’t wait for the mayhem to begin.
Heads peered out of store fronts and second-story windows; others peeked from the corner of the alley. The tension mounted as Stanton moved closer. Soon, he was just seventy-five feet away.
Jon’s deep voice thundered down the street. “Any closer, George, and we start blastin’.”
George’s arm shot up; his men stopped. The expression on his broad face darkened. “I’m not carrying, Jon. Surely you wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man.”
“Not on purpose, George, but who knows? You might get hit by a stray bullet or something—can’t tell.” Jon grinned at the muscular mogul.
George stood still in the street. “I’m no gunman, Jon. You know that. Why, I wouldn’t have a chance in a gun fight with someone like you.”
“You can shoot well enough, Stanton. What’s your game?”
Stanton smirked. “How about you and me, man to man, bare knuckles here on the street where the whole town can see? If I whip ya, you’ll leave town. If you whip me, I’ll do the same.”
Cliff’s head spun toward Jon. “You’re all shot up, Jon. You can’t do that! George is a bare knuckles fighter from way back. He’ll kill you!”
Malone stepped over. “Let me arrest him, Jon. You’re in no condition—”
Jon interrupted. “Keep your badge hidden, Jack. I can’t pass this up.”
Malone’s head shook as he buttoned his duster.
“Tell your boys to unbuckle their gun belts and throw ‘em in front of ‘em. My boys will do the same. Jack Malone will gather ‘em up and put ‘em in Cook’s old office.” Jon tipped his head toward the nearby building.
The confident George, still smarting from the surprise beating Jon gave him at the boardinghouse, couldn’t wait to take on the injured gunman. An ugly scowl covered his face as he ordered his men to unbuckle. The leather snapped, the buckles popped open, and holsters and guns hit the ground one after another. Malone and Sloan hurried along, collecting the fallen firearms and lugging them to the vacant sheriff’s office.
The threat of gunplay gone, the townsfolk came out of the alleys and buildings and slowly formed a circle around the two warriors.
Jon’s forearms rippled as he rolled his sleeves up. His opened and closed his calloused fingers several times, slipped off his large gold ring and tossed it to Cliff.
Cliff snatched the ring from the air.
Jon grinned at his long-faced cousin. “Don’t worry, Cliff. I ain’t had this much fun in a long time.”
Fists doubled, elbows high, Stanton looked plenty agile as he sparred with his man Pedro.
“You’ll kill him boss. I hear he’s all shot up,” Pedro shouted as he ducked a punch.
Stanton ignored the comment, acting as if he didn’t know he was fighting an injured opponent. He suddenly spun toward Jon, fists in the air.
Jon’s long arms hung at his side as he walked confidently to the center of the street. He saw large gold rings on both of Stanton’s hands.
“Take ‘em off!” Jon yelled, pointing at his fingers.
Slightly embarrassed, George yanked off the rings and tossed them to Pedro. He jumped quickly back to a fighting stance and jabbed the air in front of Jon’s face several times.
Jon ignored the mock punches as Stanton moved in quickly, bobbing left and right to keep the badly hobbled Jon off balance. Suddenly his right fist flew forward, bashing into Jon’s jaw. Jon staggered backward and then righted himself. Stanton ducked and weaved, moving quickly left and right. Jon found it hard to keep up. He threw a left jab; it bounced harmlessly off of Stanton’s shoulder. George retaliated with a hard left to Jon’s bandaged gut.
“Uggh!” Jon grimaced in pain as he grabbed his stomach. George raised his thick leg and let loose with a mighty kick square on Jon’s head. Jon flew violently backwards and crashed onto the dusty street; his head banged hard against the ground. Blood trickled across his eyes as he lay staring at the blue sky. He was dazed and disoriented as he rolled to his side and struggled up to one knee. Moving in for the kill, George’s big fist blasted into the side of Jon’s face. Jon fell hard to the ground. He lay motionless, his face red and swollen from Stanton’s punishing blows. He could hear Cliff shouting, “Get up, Jon! Get up!” A coarse groan went through the crowd as Stanton danced above him, waving his fist and challenging Jon to fight on. Battered and beaten, Jon was in great pain as he stared at the sky above. Suddenly, that old Bible verse came to mind. His eyes narrowed as he whispered, “I’m willin’ to die for a friend, but not today.”
Rejuvenated, Jon struggled on one knee and then leapt to his feet like a man possessed. The awful pain in his leg seemed to diminish as he charged toward Stanton, ducking and weaving like a bare knuckles fighter. Confused by Jon’s sudden burst of energy, George swung wildly, missing by a foot. The crowd screamed in delight as Jon dipped down—his big fist flew forward and buried deep in Stanton’s gut. “Oh my Gawd!” he screamed as he folded over in pain, gripping his stomach. Jon reeled around behind him, smacking Stanton’s head with the side of his hand.
“Damn!” Stanton screamed as he fell hard to one knee. Stunned, the nasty tyrant tried to right himself. But Jon rushed over; his thick fingers wrapped around the brute’s shirt collar. He yanked him to his feet. Eyes wide with fear, George seemed paralyzed as he waited for the next punch to arrive. Jon lifted his arm above his head. His big fist flew forward with great fury and drove deep into Stanton’s gut.
“Oh gawd!” George screamed as he staggered around helplessly, dazed and disoriented by the terrifying blow to his midsection. Jon moved in closer to his prey; his fist powered forward again. Blood and sweat exploded from Stanton’s face as the crunching blow crashed into his chin, knocking him backwards several feet. He slammed into a hitching post and bounced face first onto the hard dirt street. Jon stormed over and stood panting over the fallen man, fists doubled. Beaten almost senseless, Stanton made gurgling, moaning sounds as he lay battered. Jon leaned down and yanked his limp body up by the collar; he wanted to hit him again.
Suddenly Ned shouted, “I think he’s had enough, Jon!”
Eyes glazed over with anger, Jon stood shaking over the battered man. Sweat poured from his face as he pondered his next move. He saw a chance to kill this brute—he wanted to take it. But in a bare knuckles fight, he had done all he could do. Anything more would be murder.
Ned walked over and splashed a bucket of water on Stanton’s face. Stanton’s head shook and water flew as he struggled to open his swollen eyes. Chest heaving, wet strands of black hair hanging from his forehead, he was defenseless. Jon yanked him up to eye level; their faces were only inches apart. Stanton’s face looked like raw meat. His nose was shattered and broken; his eyes had been reduced to swollen slits. Jon yanked harder on his collar. Their faces banged together. “I wish I could have killed you, you son-of-a-bitch!” he barked.
“I…uh…uh, never been hit that hard,” George mumbled. “I’m finished.” Jon let loose of the collar. The smallish Pedro hurried over to keep George from falling. He slid his arm under the big man, struggling to hold him up. Several of Stanton’s men ran over to assist Pedro.
Jack Malone stepped forward and yanked his black vest open, exposing his badge. “I got some important news for you, George. Can you understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes…I…I can understand,” he replied almost inaudibly.
“I’m the law around here now, George. Councilman Smith appointed me this afternoon. And you will be leaving town as was promised, my friend, except you won’t be going where you thought you were. You’re going to the county jail in Santa Cruz.”
Stanton struggled to lift his head. “What the hell for?” he moaned.
“For the murder of old Curly Harmon. We have an eye witness as well as a confession from former Sheriff Cook that you ordered him and Dave Barton to kill Curly. We can also implicate you in the attempted bushwhacking of Jon outside of town yesterday. I imagine you’ll be going to jail for quite a spell.”
The defeated Stanton’s head dropped to his chest.
Malone’s brow furrowed. He flashed an angry stare at the fallen powerbroker. “You and your men have brought nothing but fear and death to this town, Stanton. You’re lucky to be alive—you should be dead. Now get up!”
The men helped Stanton to his feet. Malone quickly cuffed him and stared at the other men. “I want you all out of town by sundown tomorrow. If I ever see any of you within fifty miles of this town, I’ll throw your sorry asses in jail. Do you understand?”
The frightened men nodded their heads as they struggled to keep the heavy Stanton on his feet.
Battered and bruised, fists doubled, Jon stood watching in the street. He felt no sympathy for Stanton, only remorse for not having had the opportunity to kill him. He squeezed his bloody fingers open and shut as he watched the ragtag crew prepare to drag Stanton away to jail. Humiliated in front of the entire town by the beating from a wounded Jon, he was a pathetic sight. Jon limped over and punched Malone gently on the shoulder. “Good work, Sheriff. I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
A slight grin broke out on Malone’s narrow face.
Suddenly, Jon felt a hard tug on the arm of his shirt. He turned to see the bespectacled Doc standing next to him in the street with a big frown.
“Now it’s my turn, tough guy,” the old doctor scolded. “You’re comin’ with me, ya hear me? We gotta clean those wounds and change those bandages right away, pronto, in my office. And no arguing.” His glasses fell down to the end of his nose as he bumped into the big man and pushed him toward his office. The crowd roared as Doc straightened his glasses and kept on pushing. Jon grinned and walked obediently ahead of the persistent caregiver.
As they approached the office, Doc reached in front of Jon and pushed the door open. His eyes softened as he laid his hand on Jon’s shoulder and looked up at the big gunman. “You’re a brave man, son. I’m proud of ya!”
Jon smiled warmly. “Thank ya, Doc.” The two men ducked under the door and disappeared inside.