the shovel and pounded the other piece in the split end to form a cross. Shoulders slumped from fatigue, he pounded the makeshift cross on the front of the grave with the back of the shovel and stepped back to admire his handiwork.
“Toss the shovel over here and then say a few words,” Jon ordered.
The man scowled as the shovel bounced near Jon’s feet; he was obviously not accustomed to such ceremony. He struggled for words.
“Dear…uh…uh…”
“Keep quiet!” Jon said disgustedly, “I’ll do it.” Jon pushed away from the rock and walked over next to the skinny varmint.
“Take your hat off and bow your head.”
He did as ordered.
Jon removed his hat. His chin dropped to his chest. “May the Lord have mercy on this man’s tortured soul. Amen.” Jon pulled handcuffs left over from his lawman days from his back pocket. “Put your hands together and put ’em behind your back,” he ordered. The cuffs clicked shut. He led the man over to the riverbank near a small Joshua tree and shoved him to the ground.
“Stay put,” Jon ordered as he scavenged around some nearby bushes for twigs and sticks. He tossed the sticks in a pile and struck a match. The bone dry twigs burst into flames. Jon hurriedly picked up some larger kindling and threw it on the flames.
“I’ll make us some grub and then we’ll ride out in the morning, Harger.”
The other man nodded and glanced up at the sheriff. “If I’d known it was you back there, Stoudenmire, I wouldn’t a tried to rob ya.”
“I guess I’m supposed to feel better now.”
“Well, I suppose not, but what’s a big shot sheriff like you doin’ way out here in the Sonoran Desert all by yourself anyhow? Ya musta screwed up or something!”
“Yeah, you’re right, Harger. I did screw up.”
“I knew it,” he said. A cocky smile broke out on the robber’s face.
“I screwed up all right—I shoulda killed ya a while ago when I had the chance.” Jon grinned at the scowling Harger. Jon unstrapped his saddlebag and pulled out bacon, grits, coffee, a cast iron skillet, and a small metal coffeepot. It wasn’t long before the scent of fried bacon, grits and fresh coffee filled the air.
Jon grabbed a metal spoon and scraped some bacon and grits onto a tin plate and handed it to Harger. He filled his own plate, crossed his legs and sat down by the fire. The two hungry men ate quietly, wasting no time in cleaning their plates.
After dinner, Jon led the robber over and cuffed him to a tree. He gathered up the utensils and dishes, quickly washed them in the river and stuffed them back in his saddlebag. He unstrapped his bedroll and spread it on the cold ground. The eerie sounds of the great horned owl filled the air as he crawled under the blanket and got ready for a night’s sleep.
“Better get some shuteye, Harger—we got a big day tomorrow,” Jon barked.
Harger grumbled as his head disappeared under the blanket.
Jon lay wide-eyed, staring up at the starry night, unable to find sleep. His thoughts took him back to his childhood. The chilling voice of his father calling him a coward after a beating by a much older boy raced through his mind. Still trying to prove his father wrong, the cruel admonishment drove him forward with great fury and brutality in times of battle. But his loving mother’s urgings always to be kind to others confused and tormented him. Tough on the outside, Jon bemoaned such violent incidents, and he always would. It was part and parcel of being Jon Stoudenmire—a notorious gunman and deeply conflicted man. After tossing and turning for what seemed an eternity, his eyes finally fell shut as he drifted off to sleep on the cold desert floor.
- - - - -
“Wake up,” Jon shouted as he kicked Harger’s boots. “We gotta get goin’.”
Harger grimaced. His dirty fingers rubbed his crusty eyes. “What about breakfast?” he carped.
“What about it?” Jon asked.
“Ain’t we havin’ breakfast?”
“This isn’t some fancy hotel, Harger. Besides, we don’t have time. Here, eat this,” Jon said as he tossed the man a strip of jerky.
Harger bit off a chew as the men gathered up their gear, quickly mounted up and rode off toward Skeleton Pass, a long day’s ride through the hot desert.
Chapter 2
It was about sundown when the men reached the outskirts of Skeleton’s Pass. Jon paused on a rocky knoll overlooking the bustling outpost, an important watering hole along the Gila trail to California. He glanced back at his long-faced prisoner.
“Ever been here before, Harger?”
“I’ve passed through a couple of times.”
“They got a hotel here?”
“Yeah. It’s at the other end of town.”
“Let’s ride on in,” Jon ordered. “It’s gettin’ on toward sundown and I wanna be sure to get a room for the night. You’ll be stayin’ at the county jail.”
Harger frowned.
Jon surveyed the popular settlement as they passed through the outskirts of town. He saw a blacksmith’s shop, stable, bank, telegraph office, stage depot, small general store, saloon, jail, assorted other businesses and the hotel. As they rode on in, the riderless horse garnered a few stares from the curious townsfolk. Suddenly, Jon pulled hard on Babe’s reins; the big steed came to a stop in front of the county jail. The front door swung open. A tall man wearing a badge stepped out on the boardwalk and greeted them.
“Evenin’, fellas.”
“Evenin’,” Jon replied as he quickly dismounted and wrapped the leather straps around the hitching post.
The man stepped off of the boardwalk and extended his hand. “Marshal Ned Brown,” he said, smiling.
Jon reached forward for a quick shake. “Jon Stoudenmire, Marshal. Pleased to meet ya.”
The marshal’s faced broke into a big smile. “Well, I’ll be damned. The famous Sheriff Stoudenmire, right here in Skeleton Pass. May I ask what brings a man like you to our little corner of the world?”
Red-faced, Jon quietly replied, “Just passin’ through on my way to California.”
“Looks like ya had a little trouble along the way.” The sheriff glanced at the empty horse and the cuffed man.
“Yeah. I stopped to water yesterday and this fella here and his friend were hidin’ in the rocks near the river. First thing I knew, they were tryin’ to bushwhack me.”
“Hmmm, is that so? What’s the lowlife’s name?” Brown asked.
“Wes
