The Blade.(Kevin Hughes) It was just there. One second it wasn’t. The next…it was. Six inches of tempered steel buried to the hilt.
Unfortunately, six inches of tempered steel, buried to the hilt in a human chest, is almost invariably fatal.
It was this time too.

Everybody had seen Bad Bart go for his gun. Nobody saw the Blade throw his knife.
Bart only had a moment to look down, before his empty hands had reached to pull the knife out of his chest.
They never made it. His life force only started the movement, his death ended it.
He did not crumble. Nor did he slide to the ground.
He just sort of folded in on himself, twisted to one side, and died. Just like that. One second he was alive, proud, angry.
The next second…he was not.

There was complete silence in the bar. It was an unusual sound for a Saloon. It might have been because the twenty or so living people in the room were all holding their breath. And the other one, wasn’t breathing at all. The only normal sound of breathing came from the Blade, as he looked around the room. Everyone looked away as his eyes registered their presence, deemed them harmless, and moved on. In that room were seven men who had killed before, not one of them was a threat to the Blade. Even the former Captain, a survivor of the Battle of Bull Run, a man as far from cowardice as the moon is from the sun, made sure that the stranger knew he was no threat either.

The lone woman in the room was the first to take in a breath. When she let it out, it was to say: “Thank you, Quiet.”

Quiet merely nodded. He knew she meant it. He wasn’t given to words much. He didn’t often have something to say, so he didn’t. It is how he got his nickname: “Quiet.” Folks back East thought the nickname was do to his prowess with a knife, a silent weapon. It wasn’t. Sure, the screams of the men who died at the end of his blade were silent cries, for it is hard to scream with either your throat slit, or six inches of tempered steel stuck in your heart. The people out West called the Stranger - “Blade” when his knife was out, “Quiet, “ when it wasn’t.

In towns all across the Old West, there were legends and saying a plenty:

“If Quiet comes into town, don’t let the Blade come out.” “Quiet ain’t never looked for no fight, but Blade has finished them all.” “You won’t see the Blade until the handle is sticking out.”

“Why, I seen Blade throw three knives, one each at the Harrow gang. Each knife thrown so daggum hard ,it took two men to pull the blades out. He pinned the one Harrow boy right to the pillar he was standing in front of. Me and another fella held that Barrow boy’s arms up, so two other guys could pull the knife out of the wood. All the while Blade just stood there, waiting for us to bring him back his knives.”

Nobody listening, and they all listened to the Old Timer, because they knew the story was true. Most of them were there the night he killed Bad Bart. They all knew that only Quiet could pull a blade free of a body with one hand. For Quiet had showed them a “trick” once, so as he wouldn’t have to kill a man who had to little sense, and to much liquor in him. It was six or seven months ago...

Quiet had ridden into town to get some grub. He got his supplies and went to the Saloon to get some home cooking. That Saloon was famous in that part of the country, because old Mrs. Harper cooked not only meals, but pies, and even made bear claws once a month. A meal could cost as much as Fifty Cents. Nobody minded the price. Nobody messed with Mrs. Harper either (Yes, she was the woman who thanked Quiet, when Blade went away), she was both a treasure- and treasured. If the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, she had all their hearts. But…I am wandering off the story of the “trick.”

When the drunk had made enough remarks to rouse even Quiet to speak, everyone expected Blade to come out, and a blade too. Instead Quiet just pulled the drunk down into a chair by the big wooden poker table. Quiet slapped the drunk once, which sobered him up right quick.

“Now you watch this close. “

The words were meant for the drunken man, but everyone is the room drew closer to both see, and hear. That was about the most words any of them had ever heard Quiet say, and Blade didn’t speak, he acted. But Quiet wasn’t done talking:

“You see these two knives?”

People moved back a bit, the blades were out, but Blade didn’t appear to be. But…just to be safe…they all became statue like.

“Now, I am going to put them both through the table. One quick like, and one slow like. “

TWINNNGGGGG.

It happened so fast, nobody saw how he did it. One second the knife was on the table, the next second, it was right through it. Just singing like a tuning fork, as it hummed like it was happy to go through four inches of solid oak, in one swift, powerful, stroke.

“That was the quick like. Now this is the slow like.”

This time, they all watched as Quiet picked up the second blade, placed the tip of the tempered steel against the four inches of solid oak. He didn’t wiggle the knife, like some might have, he didn’t use small chopping motions, as some might have. He simply…well… PRESSED the blade deeper into the wood. After the first inch or so seemed to melt into the wood, a small flame burst up to rush around Quiet’s flesh. Quiet ignored the flame and kept pressing. The knife just sunk, there is no other word for it, the knife just sunk until the only part above the table top was the hilt. And it was hot.

Quiet spoke again:

“Now, these are good blades. See the groove? That is for the blood to find a way out, when they go inside your body. Other wise, well, I could only put them two inches or so into your body. But since they both have channels to let the pressure of your innards out, well, they slide in just so buttery. So here’s the trick. I don’t think your body is as strong as this table, nor as thick. Yet I put my blades thru it both quick like and slow like. If you say another word tonight, or have another drink well, here’s the trick. I will have to choose to put one thru you slow like, or quick like- and I hate making decisions on an empty stomach. “

The drunken man? Well, he didn’t say a word, he just up and left. Quiet went back to his table to eat. He left the blades in the table.

“Quiet, you left your blades in the table!” Yelled out the Old Timer.

Quiet smiled.

“I know Old Timer. I figure if anyone one man can pull out either blade, I shall by them dinner from Mrs. Harper.”

They all tried. Even Big John, the Swede, who was the biggest man any of them had ever seen, and the town’s Blacksmith. A man so strong he could put his anvil in a wagon without any help at all. And that anvil weighed 400 lbs if it weighed a feather. The Swede tried so hard, he started speaking in Swedish. Martin, the Stone Mason, with a grip like Iron tongs, well he couldn’t budge them either. Mrs. Harper wasn’t going to have to cook for any of them.

Quiet let them have their fun. Then he walked over to the table, and pulled one knife out with his left hand, and one with right. No trouble at all. Smooth, like sliding a smooth stone down an ice covered stream. Forty pairs of eyes tried to leave their heads, and just as many balls shriveled up. The eyes saw what they saw, turned it into raw fear, the men’s testicles did the rest. How strong was Quiet?

Quiet put the blades away. Looked around the room…smiled as he put on his hat, and left them with these few words:

“If you stick them in, you got to learn to take them out.”

The end. By Kevin Hughes

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