'I never understood the fuss about bounty hunters,' started Ravenscroft—one hand on the table, the other pressing a knife to the Man Named Gambit's left rib. 'Call me old-fashioned, but I would much prefer to collaborate with the constabulary. At the very least, they are proper lawmen.'
Both of them held the same stance for two rounds. It was unusual how men could become desensitized to things the more they did them. From the way these two acted, I knew they'd been close comrades of the unsavory kind. I'll say, by that time, I'd met criminals in my travels, but in the Old West? The only sinful act was the one left undone. A man kills because someone killed someone close to him. The death itself isn't seen as immoral, because to them, it's justified. Only the truly self-aware know their own evil. I suppose the same goes everywhere.
'I'll be damned if I ever get you Englishmen. We might be spoutin' the same tongue, but it feels like we're worlds apart,' retorted the Man Named Gambit, gun still aimed at Ravenscroft's stomach. 'It's a helluva thing.'
'It's because we bestowed our language upon you, and in return, you butchered it. Turned it into something I'd call barbaric, my well-spoken friend.'
'Keep pressin' them hand, Englishman, see where Lady Luck will get you,' the Lone Hunter promised, a faint smirk on his lips.
'I swear upon Adam's rib, dear fellow, I shall—if you take a shot,' Ravenscroft replied, his eternal smile never fading.
'Oh, I reckon you won't be able to stomach it when you lose.'
Both the businessman and the cowboy found it amusing. They didn't know the reason behind the banter. They were sparring with double-entendres. Beneath the table, one wrong twitch, and both would be dead. There was nothing I could do but act like everything was normal. Though, I was not a great actor. Sweat beaded on my forehead like large drops of morning dew, and my fingers tapped on the table like the piano man at Carmina's Cantina.
A familiar laugh snapped me out of my nervous trance. Hachiman had just left a room with a courtesan. I'm an admirer of beauty, but her beauty was lost on me at that moment. I stared, wishing I could burn a hole in Hachiman's skin to get his attention. Thankfully, he noticed me. I shifted my eyes from the table to him. Good thing he was sharp, even drunk. It was, quoting the Man Named Gambit, a hell of a thing.
Swift as a fox, Hachiman's blade flashed through the air, the whistling steel stopping just at Ravenscroft's neck. He didn't decapitate him, no. Hachiman always made sure his kills meant something. That was also the first time I saw his sword. It looked like tempered steel, but the blade had peculiar markings—deliberate lines etched across its surface. Some of them were scratched out except for two. I didn't know what they meant then, but soon enough, I'd come to understand.
'Tsk, tsk, tsk, yare yare—' tutted the smirking Hachiman. 'Why do good times not last?'
The sword hovered there, a drop of blood trickling down Ravenscroft's black clothes—a fitting attire for a man about to die. If everyone in the Old West was as wise, they'd be dressed in sable every damn day.
The whole saloon fell silent. Deafening. I wanted to hear anything but that silence—the annoying piano, a boisterous drunk patron, a girl with a terrible laugh, a FUCKING FART! Anything but the tension in the air.
'The very same reason that ill times do not linger,' quipped the Englishman.
Hachiman snickered; the Man Named Gambit wasn't as amused. His gun remained steady, like a tree trunk that couldn't be swayed.
'You're outnumbered,' said the Man Named Gambit. 'Best you put that knife down before things get real red and ugly.'
'Oh, good sir, such a matter is no bother at all. However, should your Eastern confidant persist in brandishing his sword, I shall not hesitate to draw blood. Three well-placed stabs, I wager—sufficient to reach your vital organs and more.'
'Ain't my friend, Englishman—just an unlucky son of a gun who'll be keepin' me company in this mess.'
'Truth is, I don't care if you give a few sticks to this humorless hakujin,' added Hachiman with a smile. 'It's a partnership made out of circumstance.'
'Such romance blossoming between you two; it's like watching two enemies slowly becoming lovers. Quite adorable, I must say,' chuckled Ravenscroft.
My heart thumped like the fast gallop of a Thoroughbred. Impulsivity took over. I grabbed the whiskey bottle on the table, broke it, and held it near the Englishman's cheek. That was my first act of violence in the Old West. The atmosphere of brutality was slowly seeping into me, though I didn't realize it then. The air was a contagious smog of cruelty, and I'd already inhaled some.
But my hand shook. True bravery doesn't happen in a flash of want. That action came from two wishes: to do something and not be a burden, and for the Man Named Gambit to forgive me.
'Now it's three to one, partner. Don't you think it's high time you reconsidered your odds?' whispered the Man Named Gambit, leaning forward toward Ravenscroft.
'A magnificent surprise that you've gathered such companions. Makes me a tad jealous, but my statement still stands. I've enough time to stab you three times. Factor my knife's friendliness to your sides,' said Ravenscroft, pressing his neck harder on Hachiman's blade.
Hachiman, smirking at everything, didn't flinch. No matter how friendly he seemed, he was still one of them. Killers. Murderers. Wanting it to end, my nerves did the talking.
'H-how about a truce?' I blurted.
The three of them looked at me. Hell, the whole saloon looked at me. And they laughed. They wanted blood. That's what passes for joy in the Old West: death. I didn't understand it then, but Father Time's ridiculous dealings would show me the truth. For these folk, happiness was a zero-sum game, ending only when someone died.
'You know, it's not a bad idea,' chuckled Hachiman.
'The most sensible man in the place, are you?' Ravenscroft bantered.
'I don't take my bounties alive,' grumbled the Man Named Gambit.
'Don't you? Then I'll let you in on a little secret—I'm not the fellow you're hunting.'
'Horseshit,' spat the Man Named Gambit. 'You're the spittin' image of the man on my bounty.'
'Spitting image, but not the same spit.'
'English ain't my first language... uh… why are we talkin' about spit?' Hachiman muttered under his breath. They both ignored him.
'Look closely at my mug, eh?' Ravenscroft raised his right eyebrow.
The Man Named Gambit did just that. He stared hard at Ravenscroft, then realized the difference. The man on his bounty had a scar above his right eyebrow. This man had none. The Lone Hunter's brow furrowed.
'Then you're not Ravenscroft?'
'I am Ravenscroft, though not the one you seek. I am George Ravenscroft. It is my fool of a brother Morgan you want.'
'Goddamn twins,' the Man Named Gambit cursed, holstering his iron.
Hachiman sheathed his sword. I was the last to lower my pitiful weapon. George rubbed his neck, patting the small, bleeding cut. If you didn't know him, you'd think he was a proper English gentleman. Every move deliberate, every word polished—he carried himself like British nobility.
A dashing man in his thirties back then, dressed all in black, like a crow—smart and clever as one too. That's why people would come to know him as the Thieving Crow.
'Thank you for the free shave,' he said to Hachiman.
'Anytime, good sir,' Hachiman replied, mimicking George's accent, before heading to the bar. Laughing after.
'I must say, fancy a man with a sense of humor,' chuckled George.
'We got some talkin' to do,' said the Man Named Gambit, standing and walking to a room.
'Excuse us, gentlemen,' George followed after adjusting his suit, giving the businessman and cowboy a pat. They didn't realize their pockets were already empty.
Hachiman followed, grumbling, 'I haven't even ordered my sake.'
I was left standing there. I didn't feel part of them. I wasn't a killer, wasn't a swordsman, and sure as shit wasn't a thief. I was a nobody. Probably just some fool who wandered too far from the library.
Then the Man Named Gambit paused, looking back at me.
'You comin'?' he asked.
'Uh—yeah!... yes, sure.'
I got embarrassed and stitched my lips together.
The Man Named Gambit gave me a nod, and I followed.
There was an unknowable grace in it all—how, even in violence, men become friends when they find similarities. I didn't know what mine were yet. I wasn't a man of action. But for once, I was glad to be part of something.
Even if it was a band of a gunslinger, swordsman, and a thief.