enough did, from point blank.”
The marshal frowned. “Looks like you lost one,” he said as he nodded at the empty horse. “I’m sure you’re not using that beautiful buckskin for a pack horse.”
“You’re right about that. This varmint’s partner came at me from the rocks near the river with pistol in hand, so I introduced him to my Bowie knife. We gave him a proper burial next to the river yesterday. Harger here probably knows his name.” Jon eyes shot toward Harger.
“Slim Jernigan,” Harger grunted.
“‘Nother bad one,” the marshal replied. “Ya did us all a favor puttin’ him in the ground.”
“Yeah, that’s what I figured.”
“Let’s go inside, gentlemen.” The marshal pushed the door open. Jon helped Harger down and led him inside.
Jon ducked under the doorway of the small adobe building, pushing a grumbling Harger ahead of him. He looked around; there were two cells and a couple of desks, a black pot belly stove and a supply room. Pens and paper sat on both desks; from this he figured Brown must have at least a part-time deputy. The sound of a man snoring drifted out of one of the cells. The other one was empty.
“Put him right there in that empty cell, Jon,” Brown ordered.
“Say hi to your new home, Harger,” Jon said as he grabbed the skinny robber by the cuffs and led him across the room.
Harger stumbled to the door and glanced in the small enclosure. “I been in better jails than this,” he grumbled.
“Quit your bellyaching!” the marshal barked. “The food’s good and the tarantulas only come out at night.”
Jon grinned; he was starting to like the friendly lawman.
The marshal slammed the iron door shut and locked it. The key chain rattled as he tossed it on the peg and then ducked behind his desk.
“The bank’s closed for the day, Jon, so I’ll go down first thing in the mornin’ and get your reward money. In the meantime, I’ll run the horses down to the stables and make sure they get some good grooming. There’s a hotel just down the street a ways if you’re lookin’ for a room.”
“Thanks, Marshal. I guess you’re just kinda takin’ care of everything.”
“It’s my pleasure, Sheriff,” he replied as he slid a tattered log book out of the desk drawer. He opened it as he glanced up at Jon. “My deputy will be in after a while to spell me. How ‘bout I meet ya down at the Oasis Saloon for dinner in about an hour? It’s right across from the hotel.”
“It will be a pleasure, Marshal.” Jon slid his pocket watch out of his vest pocket and checked the time. “See ya at seven.”
The marshal nodded as he dipped the pen in the ink well and logged the prisoner’s name in the frayed book.
Jon quickly exited the jail and jumped down next to Babe. He untied his saddlebags and tossed them over his shoulder. He patted her on the hindquarters and started down the busy street toward the hotel.
“Sheriff Stoudenmire!” Marshal Brown shouted from the doorway, pen in hand.
Jon stopped and turned in the street. “Yeah, Ned?”
“The hotel clerk’s name is Elijah. Tell him the room’s on me.”
“Much obliged,” Jon said as he resumed his trek to the hotel. He felt the stares of some of the locals as he made his way down the dusty street. Another indicator that his reputation had preceded him, it was becoming a familiar dance but not one he appreciated. Soon the faded sign atop the three-story hotel building was in sight; he hopped up on the wooden boardwalk and stepped inside.
“Howdy, stranger.” A smiling clerk looked up from the front desk and greeted Jon as he ambled in.
“Howdy.” Jon scanned the lobby. A few guests were talking quietly on two large leather sofas located just to the left of the desk; otherwise, it was empty. He turned back to the clerk. “I’d guess you’re Elijah?”
“Yes, yes, I’m Elijah, and you’re Mr.—?”
“Stoudenmire,” Jon said as he approached the desk.
The diminutive desk clerk paused for a moment and looked over the top of the small round glasses hanging on the end of his narrow nose.
“Is that Jon Stoudenmire?” he asked politely.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“From down Arizona way?”
“Why do you ask?” Jon replied quickly, annoyed by the continuing questioning from the inquisitive clerk.
“I’ve just heard about you, that’s all,” the clerk replied in a wheedling voice.
“Is that so? And just what have you heard?” Jon wanted to know just what people were saying about him.
“Rumor is you rode into a mining town out in the Arizona desert and single-handedly took on a whole rat’s nest full of hired guns. They say you’re no one to trifle with when you get riled up. Some say you might have killed upwards of a dozen men.” The clerk’s eyes blinked rapidly as he peeked over his glasses at Jon.
“Don’t believe everything you hear, Elijah. I had plenty of help, and I sure didn’t kill twelve men. But you’re right about one thing, Elijah.”
“What’s that?” The nosey clerk replied.
“I do get riled at times, and right now I’m damned tired and wanting a room in the worst way. You understand?”
“Why…uh, yes sir, I do… your room is coming right up.” The clerk quickly grabbed a key from the wooden slot. “Room 210, just at the top of the stairs.”
Jon frowned as he glanced up at the rooms. “Got anything with a view of the street?”
“Yes, yes, we do, Mr. Stoudenmire. Let’s see, room 230 is open.” The clerk poked the first key back in the slot, grabbed the key for 230 and laid it on the counter.
“Marshal Brown said he’d take care of the room,” Jon said as he snatched up the key and headed for the stairs.
“No problem, Mr. Stoudenmire. I’ll take it up with him.” The clerk smiled broadly.
Jon hurried up to his room to clean up a little. He tossed his saddlebags on the featherbed and splashed water on his hot face from a nearby pan. He grabbed a towel off of the bedpost, patted dry, untied his saddlebag and carefully pulled out a gray silk shirt. He slipped on the shirt, splashed some cologne on his cheeks and headed for the Oasis Saloon. Still dry from his trip, a couple of shots of whiskey sounded real good right now.
Jon dodged a couple of potholes in the heavily traveled street, jumped up on the boardwalk and pushed slowly through the swinging doors of the saloon. He looked around; the folks looked peaceable enough. A man in a plaid vest pounded out “Turkey in the Straw” on the upright piano as Jon walked
