Dust
2003-11-25 - 12:20 a.m.

He sat alone at the bar, a half full glass of whiskey in his hand and his six guns hanging low at his side. The harsh cacophony of the barroom had ceased to disturb him. He raised the glass to his lips and took a long drink. The whiskey ended before his thirst, and he called Frank, the bartender, for another round.

As Frank was pouring the russet liquid in the glass, the doors of the saloon swung open, and in walked a monster of a man. This impression of monstrosity was not given by his size; indeed, his diminutive stature seemed more likely inspire giggles than shakes. He was dressed as all gunfighters were, with his guns hung low and his hat pulled down. He had a two day shadow and on his face. Then there were his eyes. Certainly it was the eyes that gave men pause. They looked positively feral. These were the eyes of a man without emotion, without regret, the kind of man who would kill for a nickel and not even blink. Eyes are the window to the soul, and his did not lie.

The man at the bar didn’t even turn his head. He’d been expecting the man. His name was Charles Bonnadeau, and he was out for blood.

“Is there a man, name of Hanson, in this establishment?” Bonnadeau shouted. His voice carried the authority of one who has nothing to lose. The bar fell silent, and no one answered his inquiry.

He scanned the room, his bloodthirsty eyes resting on the face of every man and then passing of with disinterest until he saw the man he whom he sought. His mouth twisted into a yellow-hued grin, his crooked, colored teeth only adding to his animalistic appearance.

“My old friend Robert Hanson!” He sneered, “How nice to see you!” His voice then lost its faux-friendly sheath, and became a steel blade. “I’m calling you out.”

Hanson turned to face Bonnadeau, and slowly rose to his feet. “Surely you aren’t hunting for trouble again, are you Charles?”

“What’s a’matter, Hanson? You scared of ol’ Bonnadeau? Well don’t worry. It’ll be quick. Not painless, but quick.”

Hanson almost smiled.

“Let’s go then.”

They stood on the street, one man at each end. The townspeople gathered around to the gunfight, even the women and the children. Death was everywhere here. There was no attempt to hide it from anyone. It was as much a part of life as food and horses.

No one said a word.

Suddenly, the draw, a shot, another shot, and another. A man is screaming, firing wildly, each shot lower than the last. His blood fills the riverbeds his bullets create, and soon he is the landscape.

The people begin to disperse, each one unaffected, yet forever changed. One more life gone, for better or worse.

When the old men discussed it, none of them could remember who won and who lost. All they remembered was that someone died, and someone did not. No one knew whether good or evil won that day, and no one cared. Someone had won, and that was enough.