The first thing Jonah Hex did upon his impromptu resurrection was die. In his first new moment of second-life, he gasped wildly in shock and fear and confusion, and in doing so inhaled a massive lungful of sand and water-starved dirt. He choked on it, alternating between swallowing it and breathing it and coughing it up, thrashing about in his apparently double-grave until he thrashed no longer and grew still. 

The first thing Jonah Hex did upon his second return to the mortal fold was to keep his mouth closed and hold his breath. He pushed his arms upwards with great effort, clawing aside fistfuls of sand until he felt his hand meet air, and then he kicked and pushed and clawed and eventually shifted enough earth to begin sitting up; rivulets of sand fell from him as he lifted himself, streams running from the brim of his hat as he finally breached the surface and sat straight, his lower half still encompassed in sand. He allowed himself to breath, soaking in the taste of the dry desert air - salt of his own sweat, heat of the high sun - and then, surprise giving way to the perturbation of mystery, surveyed his surroundings. 

Jonah took off his hat, fanning himself with the brim while he held a hand over his eyes to gaze out across the horizon. A tumbleweed drifted across his line of sight, as if cued off-screen. Jonah went "[i]Hmmmm[/i]" suspiciously, then replaced his hat and set to work digging his legs out, scrabbling around in the dirt and kicked until he could stand, and stand he did, stepping a few feet forwards and turning to take a look at his supposed-to-be-final resting place. It was a shallow grave, even with the natural settling of sand and soil deposited by wind and the movement of critters, and looked to be crudely and hastily dug. Jonah coughed into his hand and came away with a small pile of sand in his palm. "[i]Hmmmm[/i]" he went again, and dusted himself down from head to toe. He carefully checked himself over as he did so: clothes intact, if battered and frayed; boots still sturdy, with soles comfortably worn in down to the shape of the callouses beneath his toes; skin feeling springy and alive, and mostly un-tarnished. He raised a hand to touch his face, and his fingers brushed the familiar rough, unshapen scarring that marred its left half. He nodded to himself. His hands moved south, and he pulled the waist of his trousers forward and risked a glance downward. All intact. Jonah nodded again.

His search moved across his waistline and onto the familiar tough leather of his gun belt; his fingers carefully traced the edge of the leather towards the holster, faltering before brushing the cool metal of his revolver. Inwardly, Jonah breathed relief. Digging himself out of his own grave is one thing; being caught without his gun is another entirely. Some things are sacred, even if Jonah himself is apparently [i]not[/i]. He closed a fist around the grip and lifted his revolver from his side, rediscovering the comfortable weight of it and how it felt in his hand. With a practiced movement he sharply shook the gun sideways to knock the chamber loose of the body, and checked within: fully loaded, though polluted with sand and dirt and dust. He shook the bullets loose into the palm of his other hand and blew down each chamber, clearing the worst of the loose debris, and then wiped each bullet clean before loading them back into the drum and giving the gun another sharp knock to re-chamber it. With some encouragement the drum span span freely, but Jonah knew his pistol would need a proper clean and oil before he could properly rely on it again. 

Snakes and coyotes he could handle without it. Men were more complicated.