The drunk stumbled into the saloon, gripping a gourd flask in his left hand, singing an off-key oriental tune. I couldn't understand the words, but I knew he was singing it wrong. It wasn't sonorous; he sang with a lisp, spitting out each note as if it pained him. His voice was high-pitched—not in a good way—like a bird trapped in the hollow of a tree.
'Your friend, sir?' I asked the Man Named Gambit.
'No, I work alone,' he replied almost immediately, his eyes fixed on the screeching drunk.
'You look the part,' I almost said.
Thank God I didn't. I might've been shot. There are plenty of ways to die in the West, but the worst of them is getting shot without a fight. You'd look like a beaten dog, and worse, your legacy would rot with the "civilized" folk. The man with the fast gun becomes the legend, while you? You'd be just some unlucky bastard with a hole in his forehead. Only if you're as good as your killer will you be worth remembering. God knows I'm not. I should've been in a library somewhere, but I got caught up in the allure of it all.
The drunk stopped singing abruptly, as if sobered at the sight of us alone in the saloon. His eyes sharpened like a hawk's. His hand shot towards a knife where his six-shooter should've been—but quicker still was the Man Named Gambit. He didn't even draw his gun, yet his aim was already on the man's hand.
That's how good he was.
Perhaps I blinked, though. Because the next thing I knew, the drunk's knife was out of his hand. I only heard the whistle of air before seeing the tip of the Man Named Gambit's ear bleeding. The drunk chuckled, his breath thick with the smell of whatever vile liquid he'd been drinking.
'Pretty fast, small man,' the Man Named Gambit remarked, wiping the blood from his ear. 'But a knife won't cut it, pard—iron's quicker.'
With a single, swift movement from the Man Named Gambit came a single shot, the drunk dove behind the bar, taking cover. I ran to hide myself, fearful of catching a stray bullet or knife. I was coward. Perhaps even more so now than before. I'm not sure.
From where I hid, I could hear the drunk laughing while the Lone Hunter rained iron on the bar. Through blurred vision, I noticed the Man Named Gambit's lips twitch into a grin. He was enjoying the whole thing.
By high noon, the two had turned the saloon into Swiss cheese. The drunk evaded everything, and that old saloon in Church's Bell was left riddled with bullet holes. If it still stands, you might find light leaking through those tiny apertures. And when you see them, you'll know they're scars from that day.
'Damnit, I'm out of bullets,' the Man Named Gambit cursed. 'You're quick, I'll give you that, chink.'
The drunk snickered, half offended, half amused. He stood up, apparently knowing Gambit was truly out of ammunition. With a smooth motion, he vaulted over the damaged bar, shattering bottles beneath him without a care for the glass.
The nerve of him. Tempered steel.
My eyes landed on his sword—an ornate thing, unfamiliar to me, alien in the West. But I knew, even then, that the drunk was a master of it.
'Chink? I'm no Chinaman, gunslinger. Nihonjin. You—' The drunk was about to continue but the Man Named Gambit cut him off.
'English, Chinaman,' the Lone Hunter said, holstering his revolvers as he moved towards the bodies still slumped at the poker table.
'Japanese, from Japan.'
'Japanese, Chinese, Koreanese—makes no goddamn difference to me. Y'all look the same. Those small eyes? Tough luck,' The Man Named Gambit sneered.
'Speak for yourself, white man. I could say the same to you,' the drunk retorted, filling his gourd with whatever liquor remained unspilled.
The Man Named Gambit, on the other hand, was busy looting the dead, fishing bullets from their pockets. He pulled a red kerchief from one corpse and tossed it aside. The drunk's laughter ceased the moment his eyes caught sight of that crimson cloth. His eyes widened—a moment of recognition.
'You follow these men?' he muttered, kneeling to pick up the kerchief.
'What's it to you?' the Man Named Gambit answered, uninterested, still looting.
'I follow them too.'
The Man Named Gambit's hand stopped mid-loot. He glanced at the drunk, who now clutched the kerchief, his knuckles turning red as the cloth. The humor drained from his face, replaced by something raw, something furious. The Man Named Gambit averted his gaze and went back to his pilfering. He didn't want to get tangled in someone else's revenge.
That's a fool's game. He knows it.
But if he were to get involved, there'd better be a payday. He's a bounty hunter after all.
'What's it to me you follow them?' the Man Named Gambit asked.
'I'll work with you. No pay. You lead me to these men, and if I find my friend, I kill him.'
'I work alone,' the Man Named Gambit shot back.
'You can't. There are too many of them. You're fast, but not fast enough. You couldn't even kill me. But you'll face my friend, Sojiro. He's faster than me. Deadlier. I once saw him kill five men, cutting off their heads after just to make sure they were dead.'
That made the Lone Hunter pause. He studied the drunk, not with his usual sharpness, but with acknowledgment. The drunk stood, extending a hand. The Man Named Gambit flinched, his fingers twitching towards his holster.
'Hachiman,' the drunk said.
The Lone Hunter eyed the hand for a long moment before shaking it.
'Gambit's the name. This ain't a partnership. It's a truce. You owe me bullets.'
Hachiman laughed and released the Man Named Gambit's hand. Then, both men turned their eyes to me, still cowering in the corner. Hachiman grinned, while the Lone Hunter's face remained expressionless.
'What about him?' Hachiman asked.
'Maybe shoot him. He could be one of them," the Man Named Gambit said, drawing his gun. "You one of them, boy?'
'N-n-no! Please don't shoot!' I stammered, too scared to raise my hands, clutching my abdomen instead to keep from wetting myself. Hachiman laughed and pushed Gambit's arm away from me.
'You're scaring the kid, let's take him along,' Hachiman suggested.
'Yeah? Won't he be like a wheel stuck in a mud?'
'English, Gambit," retorted Hachiman.
'Fair 'nough. Won't he be a burden? A hindrance?'
'We'll make something out of him.'
'Fine,' Gambit finally holstered his gun. 'You'll cook, scout, and set camp. Don't mess up, boy.'
'Y-y-yes, sir,' I stuttered.
Hachiman retrieved his knife from the wall, the one that had nicked the Man Named Gambit's ear, and tossed it to me. He laughed, took a swig from his gourd, and followed the Man Named Gambit out of the saloon.
'You owe me one, Tomo-chan,' Hachiman chuckled.
I was just relieved to be alive. And wouldn't you know it? It was a good day to still be breathing.