The orange June sun bore down on the sinners of the Earth, intent on burning us alive with its unforgiving glare. I wasn't yet accustomed to the Western weather then, and the heat almost made me pass out—if not for the adrenaline coursing through my veins after the chaos in the saloon. Standing on the battered wooden veranda of the wrecked saloon, I found myself alongside the Man Named Gambit and Hachiman.
Surrounding us, the townsfolk of Church's Bell had gathered, their guns trained on us from all sides—from the streets up the roofs of the Getty's General Merchandise Store, Doc Devon's Hospital, and so on so forth—ready to deal their so-called "justice".
The sheriff, a rotund, balding man who hid his gleaming, crystal ball scalp under a ten-gallon white hat, took his place at the forefront. He was there to confront the ones responsible for the shootout. Behind him, Pedro cowered, subtly gesturing for me to slip away from the two troublemakers.
I didn't move.
Partly because I didn't want to be gunned down by the jittery townspeople, and partly because I feared my newfound companions might stab or shoot me if I ran. Neither option was appealing. So I stood there, frozen like a statue from Medusa's Hellene marble statue.
'Now what in the seven hells were you boys thinking? Comin' into my town and startin' a shootout in the mornin' like some common bandit rabble,' the sheriff bellowed, his frustration barely contained. 'You boys done caused a ruckus, y'all realize that?'
The sheriff's barely restrained anger was apparent, even as he puffed out his chest like a bloated hippopotamus, his brown button-up shirt straining over his belly.
'Ain't no bandit,' the Man Named Gambit said coolly.
'Then what in tarnation are you boys?' a ranger interjected.
'Bounty hunters,' the Man Named Gambit replied.
Hachiman took his gourd. At that, the townsfolk tensed, raising their weapons higher as Hachiman took a swig from his gourd. The man was unfazed, chuckling as he drank, and I'd never seen anyone drink as much as he did, nor with such reckless confidence.
The sheriff's composure cracked, and he shouted, 'You think this is a hog-killin' time?'
Hachiman only laughed: 'With all honesty, yes.'
The sheriff's fury intensified, but the Man Named Gambit shot Hachiman a warning look, though a hint of amusement crept across his own face. That was Hachiman for you—the Drunk Demon of the Orient. Few things rattled him, even when his life was on the line.
'If y'all be so kind as not to shoot, I'll explain the whole scene inside,' the Lone Hunter offered.
'Go on,' the sheriff grunted, putting his hands on his squeezed-in waistline.
'The deadmen in there were outlaws. Five of 'em were seen ridin' with the Red Riders and Billy Grimes near Newport. They must've rolled into town last night. Their names? Johnny 'Black Ben' Sommer, Harlow 'Half-shot' Redding, Jackson 'Roman' Bass, and Benjamin 'Curly' Carson,' the Man Named Gambit recited.
'And the fifth?' a woman in the crowd asked.
'He ain't inside.'
'I call bullshit, Sheriff! They's outlaws! They don't have no papers!' a ranger, Baron, spat.
'Shut your mouth, Baron!' the sheriff barked. 'You got papers on you, boy?'
'If y'all don't mind me reachin' into my pocket, they're in there,' the Man Named Gambit replied.
'Go ahead, check him,' the sheriff gestured to Baron.
Baron approached cautiously, his hand twitching near his holster. When he got close enough, the Man Named Gambit calmly said, 'I don't let no ten-cent man touch me, pardon.'
Baron hesitated, glancing back at the sheriff, who only sighed in exasperation.
'Alright, take out your damn papers. But if you pull any funny business, you'll leave this town with more holes than you came with,' the sheriff warned.
The Man Named Gambit carefully retrieved the bounty papers from his worn black duster. Hachiman continued to drink as I stood at the back, reasoning that if bullets started flying, I'd have the best chance of survival. Looking back, it was a foolish thought—there were enough bullets for the three of us.
As the Lone Hunter slowly pulled out the papers, Hachiman suddenly yelled, 'BOOM!'
The entire town flinched, a shot even rang out, though thankfully, whoever fired had terrible aim. If they'd been more accurate, Hachiman would have had more than a headache to think about the morning after. But, predictably, Hachiman just laughed. The Man Named Gambit nudged him in the ribs, though the faintest smile tugged at his lips as well.
Finally, Baron took the papers and handed them to the sheriff.
The sheriff read them in silence, his irritation deepening. It was clear from his expression that he would have preferred to hang us right then and there.
'God damn it,' the sheriff muttered. 'They're clear! Lower your guns!'
The townspeople reluctantly lowered their weapons as the sheriff motioned for us to follow him to his office. Some of the women cast flirtatious glances our way, Hachiman grinned back, and I even got a kiss on the cheek from an auburn-haired beauty. The Man Named Gambit, though? He didn't even blink. The epitome of a gunslinger.
Once inside the sheriff's office, he took his seat behind a cluttered desk, nibbling on dried venison and crackers as if he were some kind of king. Papers were strewn everywhere, evidence of unprocessed bounties. He leaned back, eyeing us with disdain.
'You boys shot up the saloon. That ain't lawful. I oughta throw you in a cell with that drifter,' he gestured towards a snoring figure in one of the jail cells.
The drifter looked at us. He appeared truly like a drifter. Except, there was something about him. He stared at us as if he wanted to talk. No one saw him because no one turned his head towards him except for me.
In fear of escalating the situation, I rooted to my place, well away from the iron bars.
'And why didn't you?' Hachiman asked, leaning lazily against the doorframe.
'Careful, boy. I could shoot you dead and call it Western justice. No one would care about a drunk, dead chink rottin' in this town,' the sheriff sneered.
Hachiman smirked, unfazed. The Man Named Gambit stepped forward, his spurs jangling ominously as he neared the sheriff's desk. Half his face was covered with a scarf—a scarf, in that blistering heat.
'Where's the bounty for those four?' the Lone Hunter asked.
'Not yet,' the sheriff replied.
The Lone Hunter picked up the sheriff's plaque, inspecting it.
'Why not, Sheriff Hart?' he emphasized the name; 'We got the papers, we got the heads.'
'The papers say you need five. You brought me four. Can you count, boy?' the sheriff said, his voice dripping with condescension.
'I count six bullets in my black-eyed Susan,' The Man Named Gambit replied coldly.
'Boy,' Sheriff Hart paused, putting down his venison jerky and leaned forward to the table. 'Threats don't scare me. I've seen the lot of you come. You shoot me, and there'll be a bounty on your head so high you won't be able to sleep without looking over your shoulder.'
'Good thing I don't take my targets alive, and I rarely rest,' the Man Named Gambit retorted.
'Now, now,' I interjected, trying to defuse the tension. 'I'm sure we can work something out.'
'Well, I thought there's none of you three that had sense.' The sheriff tapped his desk, pulling out a letter with a red wax seal. 'This came to me this morning. Seems like fate brought you here. There's word that the Ghoul Gang, who you know are tied to Billy Grimes and his Red Riders, are causing trouble at a nearby homestead. You go deal with them, and when you come back, I'll pay you the bounty. Clear?'
The Man Named Gambit grumbled, but I quickly agreed. 'Yes, sir, sheriff, we understand.'
Outside, I could feel the Lone Hunter's silent fury directed at me. One wrong word, and he might have shot me on the spot. Hachiman, on the other hand, draped his arm around me, laughing, and offered me a drink. I politely declined—whatever was in that gourd, I didn't want to find out.
At least Hachiman was in good spirits. For that time.