People forget fast in the West. Call it the trade of liquor, the loss of sense, and the gain of forgiveness. Though, I don't really know if they do forget that easily. People are vengeful by nature—if they truly believe they've been wronged, they'll serve you pork and beans with a side of a hole in the chest or a lynching.
But yes, the people of Church's Bell forget fast, for when sunset came, everyone was busy with their daily craft. Prostitutes were giving men false pleasure and diseases. Barmen were serving shots of dirty whiskey to the thirsty and the fools. Gamblers gambled. You catch my meaning.
And so, the saloon, which I forgot to mention earlier (it's Carmina's Cantina), was back in business. It was booming. The macabre irony of it all wasn't lost on anyone. A shootout had just happened, and people went back as if the place that brought them joy wasn't also the site of death and gore. Suddenly, while I was leaning on the rails of the second story of the saloon, I felt a heavy pat on the back. I looked to see who it was, and of course, it was the friendly Hachiman.
'You look rough there, tomo-chan, you've been staring into space more than anyone else here,' said Hachiman, his hand never leaving my shoulder.
'I'm alright, Hachiman,' I said, giving a faint smile. I wasn't alright. I was getting dragged into some adventure I didn't want, and the people involved were an unruly cast of killers and drunkards, about to face the same or worse cast of bandits. 'Just thinking about tomorrow.'
'Eh, tomorrow will always come. You sleep, you don't sleep. Same thing happens. Even if you die, it still comes. You just couldn't see it,' Hachiman chuckled before taking his hand off me to drink from his gourd. I looked at it intently, as if studying what was really inside. My curiosity got the better of me. It always does.
'Say, what's in that thing?' I inquired.
'My friend right here?' Hachiman shook the gourd he'd made from his flask. 'I don't really know myself. It has what it has.'
'Which is?'
'Drink,' he laughed.
'I suppose,' I replied, leaving a few seconds of silence. When it became unbearable, I spoke again: 'Why do you call me 'tomo-chan'? What does that mean?'
'Well, it means 'friend'. I call you that because I don't know your name, and since we're going on this death mission, I figure I could use a friend. We all could.'
'Ah, I see,' I smiled a bit bigger that time.
We stayed there, leaning on the railing of the second story of the saloon, watching the sinners and saints on the main floor of Carmina's Cantina going about their God-given right to gamble, fuck, and drink. I felt uneasy around Hachiman. I'm not fond of lying to people's faces, especially if they're willing to be my friend.
And indeed, the day after worried me. I'd read about the Ghoul Gang in the papers during my stay in Church's Bell. They were outlaws dealing in kidnapping and ransom, but anyone foolish enough to cross them would receive their loved ones violated beyond measure. They'd be raped, tortured, and beaten until there was nothing left inside. It was horrible.
But what worried me more was the wrath of the Man Named Gambit.
If he was truly angry at me, I wouldn't even have the pleasure of meeting the Ghoul Gang. I'd be dead by morning.
'Well, tomo-chan, I'm going down to meet a lady who caught my eye,' Hachiman grinned before patting me on the shoulder in farewell. He quickly went downstairs before I could say anything. Off he went.
My eyes followed him, and then they accidentally fell upon the Man Named Gambit, sitting at a gambling table, playing poker with men of various backgrounds. You could tell from their clothing: one was a cowhand, another a local businessman, and yet another wore a gentlemanly suit—your everyday gambler. I went down there, deciding to play with them, hoping to take my mind off things and perhaps soften the Man Named Gambit by losing some money to him.
'Take a seat, partner. The man before you folded; you can take his spot,' said the cowboy.
'Sure thing, mister,' I muttered, sitting down.
The next round started soon after. I accidentally won. My hand was a straight flush. It was sheer luck. When I don't want to win, I win; when I don't want to lose, I lose. Lady Luck must've been venomously pissed at me back then. Uncharacteristically, the Man Named Gambit grumbled. I knew then that he really wanted to shoot me dead until I was nothing but bloody holes and a few scraps of flesh barely clinging on. And I couldn't afford to lose on purpose either; it'd be too obvious that I was buttering him up.
'Now, now, my good man, you are beginning to let slip your disguise. This may very well cost you more than you have wagered in this round,' commented the gentleman sitting to his left.
'You an expert at this game, English?' spat the Man Named Gambit.
'No, my cheery chap, I'm not—I'm a doctor—a medicine man—by trade. Calling someone an expert outside their expertise would be incorrect, I'd say. But I am a man of many talents, and it just so happens that gambling—poker especially—is one of them.'
'One of those talents isn't mindin' your own business, I reckon?'
'I suppose not, my good man,' smirked the English gentleman.
A tense quietude fell over our table while the rest of Carmina's Cantina carried on as usual. The piano man continued playing that god-awful, jolly tune that still irritates me to this day. It was so quiet at our table that I could hear moaning and chuckling just a few steps away from the rooms of the saloon. The Man Named Gambit's gaze never wavered from the Englishman.
'Hey, don't I know you from somewhere?' asked the Man Named Gambit while the cowboy dealt the cards.
'My countenance is quite common, good sir. Perhaps you've mistaken me for someone else,' the Englishman smiled, maintaining eye contact.
'No, no, no, I know I've seen you before.'
'I don't know. I've lived here nearly all my life, and I haven't seen him since last night,' added the businessman.
'Last night, huh?' the Man Named Gambit muttered. He removed one hand from the table and looked at his cards: two-pair—black aces, black eights. The Dead Man's Hand, they call it, after Wild Bill was shot in the back of the head by Jack McCall.
Well, each man's luck is unique. But luck is always a dice roll. I suppose the Man Named Gambit got lucky when he realized that the English gentleman was indeed a face he recognized.
He'd seen it on a bounty poster. This was the fifth man on his bounty list: Morgan Ravenscroft.
'Must be quite the visage I have. I just arrived earlier,' corrected Ravenscroft.
The Man Named Gambit quietly drew his six-shooter, aiming it towards Morgan Ravenscroft. I saw it all. As he pulled the hammer of the gun with his thumb, I noticed that Ravenscroft had already slipped a knife under the table, pressing it into Gambit's side. You wouldn't know it just by looking at them. Both men maintained the same demeanor: Ravenscroft flashing a smile that seemed genuine, the Man Named Gambit remaining stoic.
They continued to play as if they weren't moments away from killing each other. I couldn't focus, so I folded after just one turn. I didn't even stand up from my seat. Fear had me rooted in place. I told you—I was a coward then.
Very much so.