Three Bullets Read online

  THREE BULLETS

  By

  J. Sloan Murray

  To Abe, for giving me the idea in the first place.

  To my parents, for believing.

  To Deedy, for everything. Infinite.

  .I.

  .1.

  .One-Eye.

  ​As the wind cakes his wretched face in dust, the Stranger pulls up his bandana and lowers his hat. He closes his duster and taps his horse with his spurs, hurrying along to the town below. As he nears the town, he looks with his singular eye at the welcome sign placed at the entrance. In big bold letters it reads:

  Welcome to Frozen Deer Valley

  ​It is a pitiful title, given that there aren’t enough mountains around to consider it a valley, that the place is rarely ever below scorching hot, and that there certainly aren’t enough deer around to warrant the title. He remembers that the name came from a loose translation of an old Chiricahua name, and apparently the founding townspeople were creatively lethargic and chose it instead of a more civilized one.

  Had his life gone another way, the Stranger might have mocked the Apache for picking such a strange name. But as it is, he owes his existence to them and can do no such thing. He couldn’t be where he is now without them and his plan would never come to fruition, and he respects them for that. Perhaps even loves them. Were he a better man, he might have even stayed with them. They could accept what was left of him when few others would.

  But the Stranger is not a better man, nor a peaceful one. He has bigger plans than complacency, and a certain man he needs to find.

  ​As he walks through the rather large sleeping town, old memories of the place show him where to go. He rides slowly down a few streets, refreshing his years-old memory with new buildings and businesses, no doubt the work of men from the eastern states who figured they could civilize this town with their libraries and churches.

  From his memory of the place, the town was untamable, a festering hemorrhoid filled with the lowest of the lowest of creatures masquerading as human.

  ​After a short ride, he stops in front of his destination. He looks up at the large sign hanging above him. Higgins’ Saloon & Inn, the sign reads. He ties his horse to a post and walks in.

  ​He remembers that Higgins had been a very old man the last time he was here. He is no doubt dead by now. A middle-aged Negro with specks of grey in his hair seems to be the new owner. He was either too lazy to change the sign or knew not to alter one of the first bars in the town.

  ​The Stranger quickly adjusts his eye patch and lowers his bandana as he walks to the bar and orders a drink. The bartender stares at him and his disfigured face for a moment before shrugging off the unpleasant shock of seeing such deformity.

  ​As The Stranger waits for his rye whiskey, he turns around and leans against the bar. He silently surveys the saloon, looking for the man he needs or something to do until he finds him.

  ​The gloom of the saloon surprises him. If not for a few words when he got a drink, he would have assumed the bartender to be a mute. In one corner are several scantily-clad mistresses. Despite their physical beauty, none of them seem truly attractive. There is no life in their faces. Each seems saddened to rely on such a pleasant occupation for money. The Stranger hopes for their sakes that it is just a dull night and that their mouths and legs open more when the crowd is larger.

  Several lone men sit at tables, sipping their lives away, united in their solitude. He imagines that he must seem like another one of them to whoever saw him arrive. Perhaps even worse off, considering the burns on his face.

  But he is different. He might have a sad story like the rest of them, but he still has a purpose, a drive in his life.

  ​A piano sits in another corner of the saloon. Going along with the mood, no one is playing it. No one seems to care. It’s somewhat fitting, though. Music might make the place seem more alive than it deserves to be.

  Near the piano, however, is the one sign of life throughout the entire place. Five men sit at a large round table playing a heated game of poker. They each look back and forth at each other, trying the futile game of reading one another.

  ​As he sips his drink and watches a few hands, the Stranger notices that of the five, only two seem to truly know what they are doing.

  One of them is a brute of a man, presumably smarter than he looks simply because of the large amount of money at his side of the table. His hat rests on his chair, showing off the large and hairless dome of his head and the rolls of skin on the back of his neck. Despite the lack of hair on his head, his face is covered in it, sporting a long scruffy beard littered with clusters of food. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing his impressively large forearms. Combining them with the rest of his gargantua, one could easily see him crushing anyone else in the room. The Stranger wonders if he has so much money because everyone is scared to bet against him.

  It doesn’t matter, though, because the man across from him has an even larger amount of cash. It is almost comical to The Stranger how opposite the two men look. He is a short and gangly fellow, sporting a thin mustache, a bowler hat, and a nice coat that he refuses to take off, despite the steadily increasing heat of the room.

  The man seems to be toying with the others. He has an impressive stack of money and is continuing to win hands as the minutes go by. From his look, his wit, and his overall bourgeoisie attitude, the man seems to be from out of town. A rich gentleman from the East Coast, most likely.

  He tries to lighten the situation by frequently making jokes. Unfortunately, everyone except the brute is losing their money to him, invalidating his efforts. He nervously smiles at them and tries to ignore the fact that half of them surely want him dead.

  ​Having recently taken more money than he needed from a less deserving individual, and because the frail man with the bowler hat is of importance to him, the Stranger walks over and asks to play, setting down a large stack of money in front of his proposed seat.

  The Brute looks up at the Stranger and stares for a moment, chewing his tobacco and not saying a word. Not out of disgust, or even of pity, but to simply measure him up. To read him, as the others are trying and failing at doing to each other. He looks down at the tempting pile of cash in front of the Stranger and quickly nods before going back to dealing the cards.

  ​Bowler Hat continues to stare at The Stranger. Unlike the Brute, he isn’t experienced enough to know the lasting results of human cruelty. He stares in shock and disgust at the Stranger’s half-melted face and the patch covering his milky white right eye. Bowler Hat has seen burn victims before, and, though he found them to be unpleasant, could easily put up with them. But he had never seen one whose face has been ruined by flame before.

  He finds it to be a pity. The other half of the burnt man’s face is actually quite handsome, if rugged. Were he more confident of the Stranger’s predilections, Bowler Hat might have even propositioned the Stranger if he didn’t have the burns. His piercing blue eye stands out against his dark mop of hair. It looks focused on something, but Bowler Hat can’t place what it is. He often prides himself on the fact that he can read people very well in poker, which he has used to full effect here tonight. Even so, he can’t quite place what he sees in the Stranger’s eye. He can see a faint hint of sadness, or possibly anger, as the two are very close to one another behind the eye, but nothing more. He finds it most strange that the Stranger’s good eye is now what draws his attention more than the burnt tragedy on the other side of his face.

  ​The Stranger sits at the table and receives his hand of cards. He looks at them briefly and covers them before looking around at the other men.

  One of them, sporting an unfortunate moustache, shows his inexperience in the game by overs
elling a negative reaction to his hand, making it clear that he had a good hand but wasn’t about to show it. Two quickly fold, rightly catching his idiocy.

  The Brute’s expression doesn’t change a bit as he looks at his cards. He calmly looks around and bets a decent sized amount of money. The man with the funny moustache shifts in his seat for a moment before faux-nervously calling, then raising. Bowler Hat stares at his cards for a moment, deciding if it is worth it. He shrugs and calls.

  ​“I’ve got enough money as it is. I’ll see it through,” he says with a surprising Southern accent. The Stranger is a bit surprised at this, having expected him to be from the North, but doesn’t show it. Everyone grumbles at this, annoyed by the man’s overconfidence.

  ​The Stranger looks back down at his cards for a moment. He looks back at everyone’s anxious faces. He continues waiting, knowing full well what to do, but taunting the rest of them with his hesitance. He puts the stack of money into the center of the table. Shortly after, he puts another large stack into the center, much to everyone’s surprise.

  ​The Brute, still calm as ever, sits for a few seconds in silence before putting another stack into the center.

  ​“Better be bluffing, One-Eye,” he muttered as he sets his cards down and waited for everyone else. “This is my last hand for tonight and I’m looking to win back some of the money this peckerwood stole from me,” he says, nodding to Bowler Hat.

  ​“Stole?” Bowler Hat says with a smirk. “My dear friend, or perhaps I should say acquaintance, I have ‘stolen’ nothing from you. I have earned this money through sheer intellectual supremacy to the likes of yourself. It’s not my fault that you’ve called when I’ve had better hands than you. Hell, if you were talented at this and played with some intelligence, then you probably could have had me bested several times through the night.”

  ​The Brute glares at him, unsettling Bowler Hat a little.

  ​“For your safety, ‘friend,’” he growls, “I recommend that you don’t win this hand. Because I’ve had it up to here with you tonight and if I see you walk away with one more dollar, then you’re not going to have the fingers to play any more games around here.”

  ​“All just meaningless drivel from a brute who thinks that physical strength is all one needs to succeed in life. Go on thinking like that, friend. Perhaps I’ll give you a job working on the railroads one day. Or maybe even let you help build our new town hall, should I ever get the finance from my men back east.”

  ​“Hey, fellas,” the man with the funny moustache says nervously, “let’s just calm down. There’s no need to be bad sports. We’ve had a fun night. If our Eastern friend here wins, then he’s won, fair and square. Besides, the hand’s not over. He ain’t guaranteed to win,” he says as he puts what is left of his money into the stack, going all in with the call.

  ​Bowler Hat shrugs, then calls, convinced the only ones with control of the hand were he and the Brute. The Brute and One-Eye follow suit, both with the same belief.

  ​They all look around at each other as they begin to lay out their cards. The man with the moustache smiles and lay his hand down.

  ​“Two-pair,” he says happily, eager to take the money.

  ​Bowler Hat lowers his head and sighs. “I suppose I must applaud your stupidity, sir. Were you trying to bluff, perhaps? Usually, that means that you are supposed to be the one who makes the high bets and not the one who simply calls. It was a foolish mistake, and I have lost respect for you because of it,” he says as he lays down three aces.

  ​Seeing this, the Brute leans back and smiles. “I gotta admit,” he says as he basks in his victory, “it feels pretty damn good taking my money back from you. You’ve been a real piece a’ shit all night. Good to know that you ain’t walking out of here with all the money.”

  He shows his hand, revealing five cards in a row.

  “A straight, ‘friend.’ Now what about you, One-Eye? Can’t beat this, can you?” he says as he sips from his glass.

  ​One-Eye stares at him, letting the Brute suffer impatiently for mocking him, before laying out his cards.

  ​“Two of hearts. Five of hearts. Eight of hearts. And a nine of hearts,” One-Eye says, still holding onto his final card.

  ​“Well,” the Brute says, pained anticipation choking him, “what’s the last one? Nothing if it ain’t a heart.”

  ​One-Eye stares at him for a moment, slightly enjoying this. “Well,” he begins, “I wouldn’t bet on nothing.” He lays his final card down. “Jack of hearts.”

  ​The Brute looks down, staring off into the table, holding his drink and squeezing. Bowler Hat is intimidated when he sees the glass shatter and the Brute not reacting, not even to the ensuing blood. He sits like this for some time as One-Eye takes his new stack of money and stuffs it in his pocket. After a minute, he calms himself and looks at the hand one more time.

  ​“So,” the Brute says, “One-Eye wins with a One-Eyed Jack. Fits. Shame he can’t really see how much he won. Ah well. At least this sumbitch didn’t get all the money,” he says as he glares at Bowler Hat.

  ​“Don’t need two eyes to see that I just took you for all you’re worth,” One-Eye mutters calmly, not flinching in the least when The Brute slams his fist into the table and stands up. One-Eye smirks. He doesn’t wish to attract too much attention yet, but aggravating the Brute served as a fun diversion until he could get Bowler Hat alone.

  ​“Okay, look here, One-Eye,” the Brute growls. “I ain’t in a good mood and I’m a little drunk. When I’m drunk, I tend to do things, nasty things. Things that’d break a man like you in half. So I’m telling you right now, shut yer trap before I make you give me back my money. I swear to-”

  ​“Excuse me, my dear friend,” Bowler Hat interrupts, equally agitated by the Brute’s behavior, “but I believe you’re taking this too far. Perhaps we should all calm down and have another drink. We should be good sports about this! We’re all civilized in here, I would hope. Here, I’ll start. Congratulations, good sir, on your victory.”

  He tries to shake hands with a presently detached One-Eye.

  “It was well-earned and well played. I commend you for it. And now you, my dear friend,” he says as he extends his hand to the Brute, “I congratulate you on a well-played night. You certainly were a challenge, and despite your temper, were a good opponent.”

  ​As he holds his hand out, the Brute stares at it briefly before grabbing it by the wrist and slamming it down.

  ​“By God, what the hell are you doing?” Bowler Hat shouts as the Brute tears open the sleeves on the man’s nice shirt, revealing several cards wrapped around his arm.

  ​The Brute begins to smile and starts to chuckle. “I knew it. There was no way you shoulda been able to win all those hands. You’re a filthy liar and a cheat.”

  ​“Now, now, my good man,” Bowler Hat begins to ramble nervously, “you see, I freely admit that I was using this device to cheat. You see, I am part of a judiciary investigation unit. We’ve had reports of devices like this being used to steal hundreds of dollars in poker tournaments throughout the nation. So we have determined that we need to use it in a successful run through a poker game to determine its validity. We can’t begin to prosecute these cheaters if we don’t understand how their devices work. So I was on a government-enforced test run tonight. If it had worked and I had won all of your money, then I would have freely given it all back to each of you and would have admitted my tactics. I’m not a crook, good sir. I’m a civilized man, much like yourself, and I was just doing my duty for my country, as morally incompetent as it may seem upon first glance. You see, I’ve been-”

  ​“Enough!” The Brute shouts as he grips Bowler Hat’s wrist even tighter and holds it against the table. “You’ve cheated your way through the whole night. I’ve had enough of it. You ain’t gonna lie your way out of this one. You seem skilled with your hands. I think it’s time we fix that,” he says as he pulls a large knife out of his
belt and holds it at Bowler Hat’s wrists.

  ​Before the amputation can begin, One-Eye darts up out of his chair and towards the Brute. He grabs a piece of the Brute’s shattered glass as he gets behind him. He wraps one arm tightly around the Brute’s throat and holds the glass up to the Brute’s eye.

  ​“You start digging into his wrist with that, I take out your left eye,” he calmly whispers. “Between us we could make a full pair. Is that worth it?”

  ​The Brute breathes heavily for a moment.

  “You don’t know what you’re doing, friend,” he replies coldly. “You let go of me now and I’ll just take your other eye. You give me back my money, I won’t even do that. But if you hold that fuckin’ glass to my eye for one more second, I’m taking your fuckin’ head and putting fire to the rest of it.”

  ​“Then try it.”

  ​Before the situation could escalate, One-Eye hears the saloon door swing open and the click of a rifle being cocked.

  ​“Let the man go,” a stern voice said. One-Eye turns his head and glances at the source behind him. Three men in hats and grey dusters stand with their guns aimed at him.

  The middle one seems to be in charge. He looks much older than the other two, a five-day gray stubble growing on him. He has a rather large, ornate Crucifix hanging from a string around his throat and an even larger rifle aimed at One-Eye’s head. One-Eye recognizes the man and calmly lets go of the Brute.

  ​The Brute sighs and releases Bowler Hat. He turns around and begins to thank the men with the guns, but his face quickly fills with fear when he sees who they are.

  ​The leader’s calm face quickly becomes angry when he sees the Brute.

  ​“Goddammit, Horace,” he says. “What did I say Baron said about you coming here?”

  ​“Look, Rick, I’m sorry,” Horace says as cowardice replaces his brutalities, “I heard he wasn’t in town this weekend and I figured I could. I’m sorry. Please don’t tell him. He’ll kill me.”

  ​“I should kill you,” Rick replies. “I’ve stuck my neck out for you time after time, and you always come back. I’m going to let you go right now, but you better get the hell out of town, because I am letting him know you were here. If you’re around town again, you’re a dead man. So go. Get out now.”