The dust and danger had settled down, or so I thought. A funny thing about the future is that—no matter how much you plan, no matter how much you try to avoid trouble—you don't quite know where the wind will take you. A storm, for example, will carry a twig away. In this world, we're that damn twig. So, that time, I was in a room with three dangerous men who had no reservations about slitting, shooting, and stabbing each other without remorse. The best I could do to control it back then was to sit in one corner of that unkempt room like a good dog and keep my mouth shut.
'Your brother, you're trailing him, yes? That's why you come here?' Hachiman spoke first, sitting on the bed, back resting on the wooden board that had seen much better days.
'Trailing, you say? No, my dear fellow, the correct term is catching,' Ravenscroft remarked with a wry smile, crossing his legs with the composed elegance of one at ease, yet ever mindful of decorum. Seated upon a spare chair, he continued, 'I mean to return to London with my brother in tow. Should he harbor even the faintest inclination to resist, I shall, as they so quaintly express it here, hog-tie him and see him dragged aboard a vessel bound for England, if necessary.'
'Well now, that's one helluva kin you got there. Reckon you know he's carryin' a bounty so big, it'd chase him clear to hell and haul him right back again,' monotoned the Man Named Gambit, leaning near the door, peering toward Ravenscroft as if to imply something grim about his brother's future.
'Delinquency, my good man, is something of a family inheritance. My father, you see, is a rogue of the highest order, and my mother—bless her soul—is a whore of a woman, though possessed of a heart of gold,' chuckled Ravenscroft as he adjusted his black gloves. 'As for my grandfather, though I know little of him, I am quite certain he too was no stranger to mischief, for the apple, as they say, seldom falls far from the tree. Yet, as I have made plain, I fully intend to return my brother to the motherland. Should I fail in this, or should anyone dare stand in my way, they will soon discover that I am as skilled with the blade as I am with a cutting remark.'
I twitched in my seat, my fingers fidget-tapping on my knees; I knew this could end badly. But I stayed where I was. I didn't want to interrupt again, lest those two put their ire on me and make me the scapegoat for their anger. I didn't worry about Hachiman, though. By that time, I knew he was easy-going, as if he followed wherever the wind blew. But sometimes, the storm of vengeance took him away from his usual manner, and he became more serious than the Man Named Gambit. So, talking wasn't an option then.
'Then I reckon you'll have to gun me down when that day comes ridin' in. Like I told you, I don't take my bounties alive—never have, never will,' the Man Named Gambit tipped his hat forward, covering more of his face.
'Why wait for such a time, when I am perfectly capable of accomplishing it at this very moment?' replied Ravenscroft, with that same smile he always wore.
'Well now, why don't you go ahead, pard? My fingers're gettin' mighty twitchy, just itchin' to feel the weight of that iron's trigger myself.'
'Kodomo—children,' Hachiman intervened, straightening his back and leaning forward. "The way I see it, we walk the same road. I do not like this. And you two, I know, you don't like either. But the point is, we settle this later. Truce, yes?'
'And sleep soundly knowin' there's someone nearby who wouldn't hesitate to slit my throat in the dead of night? No thanks, friend. I'd sooner settle it right here and now, take what I came for. Lot less to fret over down the trail, don't you agree, Englishman?' The Man Named Gambit's hand, the one lazily leaning against the wall, slid slow as a rattler toward his hip, hovering just above the worn leather holster where his eager, blood-thirsty six-shooter waited.
'At last, we find ourselves in agreement—a rarity, indeed, akin to the sighting of a triple rainbow with two depressed leprechaun at each end, guarding bowls of fecal matter. We ought to savor this moment, much like one would relish a perfectly cooked cut of beef, accompanied by a fine glass of Cabernet Sauvignon.'
'Unseasoned beef,' quipped Hachiman beneath his alcohol-laden breath.
I chuckled—well, I stopped before I did. I wanted to. It was a bit of a double jab in two words, I found.
'You sure got a mouth on you, don't you, chink? Reckon you can't find the good sense to keep it shut, can you?' grumbled the Man Named Gambit.
'Īe, īe,' Hachiman shook his right hand while his left reached for his gourd flask. 'Only when I'm drinking from a lady's wet pocket, I do.'
'Pray, you might consider gleaning a lesson or two in the art of humor from him. The brooding gunslinger? How utterly cliché, is it not?' chuckled Ravenscroft, his hands not moving from his lap. He was steady. The whole thing didn't unnerve him one bit.
'Well, look who's flappin' their gums—the big-mouthed Englishman. I reckon I could give you another mouth to jaw from, since you enjoy yappin' so much, but I can't promise it'll be in working order when I'm through.'
The air was tense with a rusty violence that the Old West was known for, but in that room, the taste of it made my stomach churn. I wasn't sickened by it at the time I'm writing this; I'd gotten somewhat accustomed to the brutality of it all. Hell, I'd even committed my first irreverent act just an hour earlier that time. And, mind you, I had only been exposed to these three for a single day by then. I was truly afraid of blood—that's why I often curled up in a corner when the action happened. You can also thank my desire not to expire early for that. If you continue to follow this tale, you'll see how much exposure to the harbingers of death makes a man somewhat numb to it.
My point is, no man was ever born blind to cruelty.
Only the world causes that blindness bit by bit, like a worsening cataract.
'While I do not find myself in need of an additional mouth, it seems you might benefit from one because of your oft silence. Do enlighten me, should you wish for this entire charade to conclude; I would be more than willing to assist in adding that second puss,' responded Ravenscroft, with a mannerly tone with a thick, posh English accent, heaving out a single chuckle afterward.
Both of their hands were near their weapons, except for Hachiman, who was, of course, drinking from his gourd. Yet, I saw he was observing them intently and closely. He was ready to jump into the fray if all hell broke loose in that room. Just as I thought one of them would make the first move—a sudden, deafening explosion rocked the entire building. The walls shook violently, as if the earth itself had split open. Dust rained down from the cracked ceiling, filling the room with a thick, choking, semi-blinding haze. The coffee table beside me rattled, nearly tipping over, and my heart jumped into my throat. I thought I would've puked it out. Women screamed from downstairs, their shrill voices mingling with the deep, guttural howls of men running out onto the street. I flinched in my seat, instinctively ducking, as if the blast had been right outside our room. The shockwave slammed into me, though it was more from terror than any physical force.
I wasn't the biggest fan of dynamite. It reminded me of something else I'd rather not remember.
Through the haze, I could make out Hachiman and Gambit springing into action, their bodies moving before their minds could catch up. They looked in the direction of the blast—towards me, as if I were the one who caused it or as if the noise came from the room.
It didn't.
Outside, I heard the rapid clatter of hooves, followed by the eerie, high-pitched screams of horses in agony. The shrill neighs cut through the chaos, almost human in their suffering, and that sound alone made my stomach twist in knots. Even in the Old West, cruelty toward mounts was frowned upon by the people, and yet they didn't bat an eye when a human being received such treatment. It was absurd how soft they were with certain animals but not with the animals they most resembled—each other.
Then came the whoops and hollers of men—outlaws, by the sound of them. Wild, bloodthirsty cries echoed through the sandy streets, as if hell itself had opened its gates and unleashed a pack of rabid wolves.
Then they turned their heads toward the window as if they had forgotten about me entirely. I followed their gaze, half expecting the walls to come crashing down around us. Through the grimy, half-shattered glass, I caught glimpses of shadows moving in the street below. Men—if they could even be called that—rode fast and recklessly, whipping their horses and firing shots into the air like madmen, their faces twisted into cruel grins. Their horses stumbled, blood seeping from their flanks where the riders' spurs had gouged deep wounds.
One rider caught my eye in particular.
His horse, a monstrous black stallion, moved like something out of a nightmare—its mane and tail whipping in the wind, eyes flashing red like burning coals. The man atop it wore all black, from his wide-brimmed hat to his scuffed boots, and his face was split into a wicked grin, the kind that promised nothing but death. He inspired as such—no, it feels as if he was Death manifested flesh. He fired both pistols into the air, laughing with a sound that was more like a cackle than anything human.
Only when people saw him did they hide behind whatever cover they could find.
The windows rattled from the force of the blasts. More shots rang out, the sharp cracks of revolvers and rifles echoing off the wooden buildings, followed by the unmistakable crash of glass shattering somewhere nearby.
The first to move was the Man Named Gambit. Without a word, he bolted toward the door, his face set in that cold, grim mask I had seen earlier. He didn't look back, didn't ask for help—just went, his hand hovering dangerously close to his holster. I knew then he was going to fight. The town had been overrun by savages, and there was nothing the Man Named Gambit loved more than a good fight.
Hachiman was the next. His grin stretched wider across his face, excitement flashing in his eyes as he vaulted over the bed and moved toward the window. He opened it with a slow, deliberate hand, then leapt out with a grace that seemed impossible for a man who'd been drinking all day. In a flash, he disappeared into the chaos outside, dashing silently through or out the streets like a soft silhouette.
But Ravenscroft remained still, his eyes never leaving me, even as the chaos unfolded around us. His calm gaze cut through the dust and the noise, locking me in place. He didn't even glance at the window. He probably kept his eyes on me earlier when the two looked out of the glass.
'Are you not inclined to accompany your companions to the valley of the shadow of death?' he spoke calmly, fixing his dark purple necktie.
I stared at him, eyes wide open, the whites of them bulging with red nerves. I couldn't speak, couldn't even move. Pathetic, I was, to be that way. Remembering it now, I felt like I was looking in a mirror and seeing a completely different person. Then he continued.
'I must confess, you present quite the sphinx, for it is rather peculiar that one such as yourself should be with such company. You are a veritable nervous wreck—certainly not a killer, nor a criminal. Pray tell,' he leaned forward from his seat; 'What manner of man are you, my good chap? What brings you to this most foreboding of places, where Death seems to pay a visit every minute—indeed!—every fleeting second?'
'I—I don't know,' I finally managed to say, buckling under the weight of the interrogation.
'Well, no time to dwell on one's existence when it is in the path of danger. You appear to possess a keen intellect, quite the literate and bookish sort. I trust you are familiar with Dante—the Poet?'
'Dante Alighieri?' I asked. It was the first familiar thing I had heard in what felt like an age. 'Yes—yes. I am.'
'Brilliant!' he shouted and clapped, continuing after. 'Then you know what the Italian wrote: the darkest places in hell are reserved for those who maintain their neutrality in times of moral crisis. This, my good fellow, is one such moment. Faced with a greater evil, will you opt for action or remain inert? Death, as we both know, is an inescapable aspect of existence. You are the most astute individual I have encountered in this dismal place. In this, I am sure of your awareness.'
'W-what are you trying to get at?'
'I merely posit that if one does not take action, one might as well be dead," he remarked with a soft chuckle, betrayed by a searing, squinted stare. 'The world suffers no coward, and I—I am no exception to that rule.'
I knew what he meant. He wasn't trying to goad me into following Hachiman and the Man Named Gambit. He was ordering me to do it in his own sick, twisted way. The best and easiest way to make someone your puppet is with a subtle threat, after all. I swallowed hard, and he kept smiling. How could such a warm expression burn so much? I thought to myself. I nodded, understanding his words, and stood up.
'You only needed a bit of nudge, after all,' he laughed, standing up and walking towards me, pulling out his knife. I thought he was going to stab me, but when the blade nearly reached me, he turned the handle, offering one of his own toys for me to use.
I took it with a heavy hand.
'Be sure to use it wisely,' Ravenscroft patted my shoulder, his hand stayed there for a long time, before walking out of the room. 'And be a darling, don't stab yourself in the process.'
I followed behind him, but not too close. I didn't want to look like a slave, even though, technically, I was one. I'd been forced into it by some jesting fate, for Christ's sake. But, as he said, no time to dwell on one's existence when it's in the path of danger. And Danger was in town.
Along with him, Anarchy.