It was daytime, mid-June. The sun had barely risen, though it hardly mattered since this place knows only the dryness of a sun's drought or the dampness of rain's barrage. Those are the only seasons there. It meant nothing to me, yet I still write it. I have become almost immune to the weather, but, at the time, I was still trying my best to find comfort in such a place. The roof above my head, cobwebbed and dusty like an abandoned, dried-up mineshaft, gave me a semblance of comfort.
I was currently using a saloon as my temporary dwelling. It was loud, dirty, and smells of musty liquor, men, and women. Even in my room, the stench of humanity's sins has left its mark, clinging everywhere it could spread like a tumor or a disease—to the window curtains, the bed, my clothes. It was a smell I couldn't get rid of, no matter how rigorously I scrub my skin.
After I finished mopping around in my room, I went to the bar. I wanted to ask the madam who runs the place to clean my room for a hefty sum, but she was nowhere to be seen. I asked the bartender, Pedro, a Mexican man of short stature. Not the meanest-looking of the bunch, but he had a loud mouth that could drown out the church bells every Sunday morning, and a sharp tongue that could cut a soul to pieces.
He told me he had left Mexico as soon as he heard a civil war was brewing. Of course, he had to leave. He didn't want to die for a shallow reason like patriotism, he said. If he was going to die, he wanted to be buried in gold and surrounded by whores, not beside poor sods who died for stupid ideals and equally stupid oaths. I suppose that's the effect of the so-called American Dream—a promise of grandeur that only ends in disappointment. But I don't blame the man for leaving. I'd leave too if I were him. I'd leave my family, my home, everything I know, if someone promised me I could have everything I ever wanted.
'Señor Rodgers! Señor Rodgers!' he cried in that terrible shrill voice. 'I think Señora Carmina went somewhere. Maybe wait for, uh, mañana—tomorrow, huh?'
'I'll keep that in mind, Pedro,' I said, tipping my hat as the locals do to show gratitude. 'Have a good one. Give yourself a shot or two—my treat.'
Pedro's eyes lit up at the sound of that. Red-rimmed from either lack of sleep or too much drink—both likely—he poured himself a shot of tequila in a small glass and whisky in a slightly larger one. '¡Muchas gracias, Señor Rodgers! To your health, I toast—salud!'
I went to the nearest table, hoping to gamble the time away. I knew that place was a hellhole, full of bandits, cheats, and liars, but I didn't care. I'd rather get cheated than rot until midnight or until the saloon's mistress returned. At least I'd learn a clever trick or two, maybe pick up some craftsmanship in conning. The way I saw it, I'd gladly lose to a cheat, because at least I'd learn something. A winner wins, a loser loses. That's all it is—simple.
By late morn, a stranger arrived at the saloon. The whole bar fell silent, as if a rattlesnake had bitten everyone's tongues. I looked at the man, and he looked back at me. A shiver ran down my spine, a cold desert air had suddenly gripped my bones. In that one glance, I knew this man was dangerous. No good man could inspire such fear with just his presence. I stood up, folding a straight flush of cards as I walked to the bar. I knew something was about to happen, and if I didn't leave that stool, I'd pay more than the dollars I had bet—it wouldn't be money I'd lose.
It would be my life.
I leaned over the counter, keeping my eyes on the man with no name. My legs quivered like a stick caught in the Western gales.
'Carry on,' the man said, and everyone obeyed. He commanded the room with those word. The half-drunk pianist resumed playing, the others continued drinking and talking, but their voices were hushed, muffled, in want to not drown a certain conversation.
'How much's the pot?' he asked.
'Three dollars big pot, two small,' someone replied.
'That so?' the stranger said, his eyes scanning the room. I saw the men's hands slithering to their waists, reaching for their iron, as they say there. The stranger was outnumbered. I tipped my hat forward, still leaning over the bar, fearing a stray bullet might find its way into me. But something about the strange man told me that wasn't his end. I was right.
'Y'all bounty's more than that,' he added grimly.
With a swift motion, the stranger stood up, kicking the table in the process. His two six-shooters flew into his hands as if tethered to them. The men shot at him, but the table, thick and sturdy despite years of use, shielded him. I didn't see it, but I heard six shots. He was fast—the fastest I've ever seen. Or, well, heard. When the dust settled, four men lay dead, two was taken by a bullet each, and the others needed two. The stranger was like Death walking into the saloon, reaping what these men had sown.
'Call the sheriff,' he said, looking at Pedro. And Pedro, shivering, ran to the sheriff's office. 'I want what I'm owed.'
The stranger was unusual. Not only was he fast and efficient at his job, but he had manners, in a twisted sort of way.
He arranged the chairs and fixed the table, even wiping the dust away after setting it upright. He propped the bodies on the chairs, making it look as if they were still alive, staring at the fistful of dollars scattered beneath and across the hole-riddled table.
When my nerves had calmed, I approached him, holding a bottle of liquor and two shot glasses. I was curious about this man. He seemed like a character straight out of a dime novel, a true Wild West gunslinger. The difference was those stories were fictional, and that man—his gunmanship was real. I poured him a glass of whisky.
No man can turn down a whisky or two—or so I thought.
'I don't drink the devil's tears,' he said, sliding the glass towards the table in front of a dead man. 'Me and my company 'ppreciate the gesture.'
I refrained from speaking. He was an odd fellow, indeed—a man who easily takes a life but refuses to drink. How could that be? But there were more pressing questions. Who was the man? What was his name? So I asked.
'May I have the pleasure of knowing your name, mister?'
'I'm a man named Gambit, but I'm told I have many.'
Then another man entered the saloon—not the sheriff. He wore not the common dress of the West but the garb of the East. I would later come to know him as the Drunk Demon of the Orient.