The Man with the gun. Part II.

The door burst open. Glass. Wood. A doorknob. Then…a body. Bloody, Broken, already dead... as it flew through what was left of the frame.

Inside, men stood, or half squatted in fear. It was a single punch. One punch. A sound like bad melons hitting a rock. 220 pounds of what used to be a man, with what was left of what used to be a face, exploded through the door.

From outside it looked like an explosion threw a body through the door. From inside, where men stood in awe. Where the stink of fear filled the air, like old socks on wet feet. It didn’t look possible. For years, the men who were there, would have trouble sleeping.

Not one of them, even though they were men of the Wild West, cut from solid rock and weathered by hard times, men who had braved winter with no more than leather to eat, would have considered themselves as tough as that man. One insult. One fist. One punch. One second. One death. It was over.

That it is all it took for the Man with a gun, to send another a soul on its last journey. He did it without a gun. They don’t give notches out for fists. If they did, his would be covered like scars. The Man with a gun turned back to his drink. Someone would clean it up. Someone always did.

The Man with a gun decided to stay that night. He was tired. There was a hotel. At least for tonight, he was safe in town. The man he hit, had bullied the town for months. No one strong enough, brave enough…or maybe stupid enough to cross him. Until. The Man with a gun ordered a drink, and the bully boy put a cigar out in it.

The Man with a gun, was reasonable: “Pay for that drink. And buy me one without your cigar in it and we will walk away friends.” The Man with a gun, turned back to the bar. The bully boy grabbed the Man with a gun by the shoulder, turning him to land a sucker punch, as he had to so many other drifters and farmers. His arm was still cocked to throw a punch when the Man with a gun’s fist hit his face. Bones, vertebrae, teeth, and the will to live, all broke with that one punch. No. No one was going to bother the Man with a gun tonight.

Tomorrow? Well, tomorrow Is another day.

by Kevin Hughes