No Gun, Just Steel

The saloon was thick with the stench of stale beer, sweat, and tobacco smoke. The floor stuck to your boots, but nobody cared. Mexican Joh sat at the corner of the bar, closet to the front doors, face half-hidden beneath the brim of his hat, nursing whatever they called whiskey in this shitty place. His eyes were half-closed, but he wasn’t sleeping. No, he was watching.

Slim had been talking trash for a while, slurring every word. He was a half-wit but thought he had something to prove. He shuffled toward John, pushing past others at the bar like he was important. “You’re a pervert, Greaser,” he slurred. “Bet you’re one of those sick son-of-a-bitches, huh? Get your kicks fucking little girls.”

“Yeah, that’s right. You’re probably the kind that lures ’em with candy. Old man like you, bet you like’em young,” Slim’s voice got louder–like he was putting on a show for the few half-drunk idiots around the room.

Still, Mexican John didn’t move. Didn’t say a word. He just took another drink, his eyes down, his mind somewhere far away, maybe Mexico, maybe the desert. Didn’t matter. Slim was the problem here, not him.

Slim didn’t like being ignored. He slapped John hard on the back. Once, twice, three times. It echoed through the room like a warning shot. Still, John didn’t react.

The bartender, a wiry man and younger than John with more wrinkles than an old saddle, wiped the counter and muttered under his breath, “Ain’t ya gonna do nothin’?”

John slowly looked up at the bartender, eyes half closed and with a lazy grin. “I don’t carry a gun in town,” he said. “Never have, besides the kids a half-wit and unarmed.”

The bartender shrugged. Slim was a fool, and fools, well, they don’t last long around these parts. The kid staggered out the batwing doors, still running his mouth, and John was happy to see him go.

Outside, the sun was setting, painting the street orange and red. John stepped out of the saloon, slow and steady like always. He hadn’t been in a hurry in years. But then he saw Slim step off the boardwalk across the street, a shotgun in hand, shaking like a leaf.

“You’re dead, old man,” Slim yelled, his hands too shaky to hold the shotgun steady. The weapon was too big for him, but Slim didn’t care. He thought this was his moment. He thought he could do something.

Mexican John didn’t flinch. He didn’t blink. He just stared at Slim like he’d seen it all before.

“You gonna kill me, Slim? he asked, voice low. “You gonna do it?”

John reached under his duster, his fingers brushing the cold steel of his knife. Slim didn’t notice. Slim didn’t have the sense to know what was coming.

The knife was in the air before Slim thought of pulling the trigger. John’s wrist flicked, and the blade flew, cutting the distance between them. It sank deep into Slim’s chest, right between the ribs.

Slim’s eyes went wide. He couldn’t scream, couldn’t even gasp. He tried to raise the shotgun, but his hands wouldn’t work. The gun hit the ground with a thud, and Slim staggered back, blood spilling out of him like a river.

He didn’t last long.

Mexican John stood over him, wiping his knife clean on Slim’s shirt. He looked down at the kid, now just another dead fool in a long line headed to Boot Hill. John felt tears well up in his eyes, knowing it didn’t have to end this way, but for Slim’s actions.

The bartender came running out, short on breath, eyes wide like he’d seen a ghost. “I thought you said you weren’t armed,” he said, voice shaky.

“I never said I wasn’t armed,” Mexican John said. “I said I don’t carry a gun in town.”