Forget My Name

FORGET MY NAME

Flash.
Silence.
Roar.
The storm outside had been brewing for days, and he had stayed just ahead of it. He had made it to Greensville soon enough to get everything situated before the storm. His horse was in the stable, and he had made it into the bar just as the clouds began to block the waning sun, throwing a darkness over the streets.
His hat was black, though lighter than it had once been from the years of sun beating on it, and the weeks of dust that had settled on it from his most recent trip. His dark overcoat gave him a menacing aura, but that was fine with him. It tended to keep the fleas at bay.
He sipped from his glass, wincing as the liquid set his throat on fire, and sent a spike of pain through his head.
These damn headaches wouldn't leave him alone. They'd been coming and going since he was a kid, but now they just wouldn't quit. They grabbed just behind his eyes and reached around to the back, and just squeezed.
He took another sip, soon he'd sleep, and the pain would fade until morning.
Another flash through the window, the lightning was getting closer. The rain would be upon the town soon. Night had come early because of the clouds, but now that it'd been given a few hours, it was pitch black outside, except for the lanterns that sat on street corners, or on the walls beside the doors. Half of them had been blown out because of the wind, and the ones that were left cast an eerie glow on the street outside.
Sip, burn, wince.
He sat alone, like always. Like he liked. One of the bar girls had sat next to him about a half hour ago, but he'd shooed her away. He didn't want company. He sat facing the corner, which was against his better nature; he normally liked to sit with his back to the corner. But tonight he'd wanted to see the storm come in, and there was a window right next to him. Besides, no one would bother him tonight. It was one of those nights where you just didn't want to fight.
"Well, I'll be damned," said a voice behind him. There were a lot of voices behind him, a lot of loud noisy drunks, a lot of people trying to be quiet, but having to yell over the drunks, and the constant scraping of chairs, and raucous laughter. But the voice, who yelled, was aimed at him, and he could feel it. He tensed, hoping his instincts were wrong. His instincts were never wrong. "I'll eat my foot if we ain't got ourselves an' outsider."
Just ignore him, he thought to himself, not turning to face the man. You don't even know for sure he's talking about you.
"Hey, you o'er there! How about you turn around and face the rest of us," the man yelled again, closer.
He could hear the footsteps walking towards him. Not good.
"I'd rather watch the storm in peace friend, if it's all the same to you," he said calmly, trying to defuse the situation before it got any worse than it needed to be.
"I ain't your friend, pal, and I want ta see yer face," the man was slurring words pretty badly, but he sounded like one of the bigger patrons.
"Forget my face," he said with a halfhearted laugh. "You wouldn't be impressed."
A hand on his shoulder, the man spun him around. Bad move.
Before the man could react his wrist had been twisted hard enough to create a loud popping sound, and a pistol had been stuck right in his gut. "I don't want any-" The rest of the sentence was drowned out by the man's wailing. If he had been sober, he probably would've been shocked into silence by the pain in his arm. But drunk, apparently he was a little girl.
No good, He thought, looking around at the rest of the crowd, about fifteen in all. They had, for the most part, stopped what they were doing and looked at him. He quickly holstered his gun and let the big man fall to the floor before raising his hands. "I don't want any trouble folks."
Then, the worst thing that could happen, happened. A man took one look at him and said, "Hey! Ain't that Jack the Whip?" A stupid name, one he would never, ever have chosen for himself. Unfortunately, no one had asked him.
"Holy crap, it sure is, he's worth five thousand dollars dead!" Cried another man in amazement, reaching towards his belt, then stopping, realizing what he was doing.
He still had his hands raised in the air, "No, no, no. You're mistaken, I'm not THAT wanted, it's four thousand ALIVE," he explained, hoping maybe no one would try to shoot him. He was sure he could outdraw all of them. In fact, if he had enough ammo, he could kill half of them before one of them had cleared leather, and kill the rest before the ones who cleared leather could take more than a shot or two. However, he only had two six shooters, and that meant even if he killed one man with every bullet, he would have four people left over. Not to mention whoever came in from outside.
"He's right," a third man agreed, nodding emphatically. "It's four thousand alive, three thousand dead."
He'd left that part out on purpose, because to these half brained hillbillies, the difference between three and four thousand just didn't compute. To them, if it had the word thousand at the end, it just meant a lot.
This was going to end badly for someone, and he had a striking feeling it was going to be him.
"Let me warn you," he said as he back up several paces towards the stairs. "I'm fast."
"He is fast," someone agreed, raising a glass.
Well, that one is too drunk for me to have to kill, he thought. "Thank you sir," he said to the drunken man, and to the rest he said, "I really don't want to kill anyone tonight. Because, see, my ma, before she died, God rest her soul, asked me not to kill anyone on Sundays. In honor of the Good Lord's day and I agreed."
This brought an even thicker silence to the room. Then, one man, clearly thinking hard said, "But, sir, today's Tuesday."
"Is it?" He asked. Then, "Well, then you're all dead men." Instantly, his two guns were out and he began shooting. Not at the other human beings in the bar. But at the lanterns all around the room. His plan worked brilliantly, as he shot through the glass of each lantern, the fire inside went out, and the room was thrown into almost total darkness.
Several gunshots that weren't his rang out, and someone cried out as if they'd been hit. He pounded up the stairs and into the first room he saw. It was empty, so he slammed and locked the door behind him, then ran to the window. Outside, the rain had began to fall, and hard. It was pouring outside. Well, that's awful timing, he thought as he flung the window open and climbed out onto the roof, sliding down the shingles and landing on the sand outside in a roll.
In moments he was soaked, the rain was thick enough that it was hard to see more than a few dozen feet, even when you stood near lanterns that were still lit.
He ran towards the stable to get his horse, he hated leaving town in this weather, but at this point didn't see much choice.
But just as he reached the door to the stable a voice cried out, "Hold it there Whip."
He stopped and turned around; there stood a tall young man, a kid really, with his wide brim hat and his gun at his hip. His hand at the ready. "You ain't goin' no where."
Jack stared the man down wearily, tired of killing people who didn't need to die. People willing to die just to see if they were the best. "You don't want to do this kid. This life ain't worth it."
It was hard to see clearly through the buckets of rain, but it looked like the man was smiling. "I hear yer pretty fast."
"That's what I hear too," Jack replied, resignation in his voice. "What's your name?"
"Paul," the boy answered. "They call me the viper."
"The viper?" He asked, incredulously.
"So why don' you an' me see which is faster, the viper or the whip?"
"Son, I don't want to see you die in the rain, I don't want your mom's tears on my conscience. If you let me leave now, I'll let you say you beat me, and I'll even spread the word that Paul the Viper is the fastest. How does that sound son?"
"No. I'm callin' you out."
"Oh," Jack acknowledged, disappointedly. "Well then, I guess this ends one of two ways." He stepped away from the stable door and out into the clear, watching as 'The Viper's' hand hovered near his gun.
It was dark, and rainy, and hard to see. So he just closed his eyes. Nothing like a little playing with fire to liven up the night. Odds were, this kid would draw first, and when he cleared leather there would be a scraping sound. So, it was just a matter of being able to draw, aim, and shoot before Paul could aim and shoot.
Easy.
He could feel his heart slow in his chest, could hear the white noise of the falling rain moved to the background. His breathing was deeper and slower than normal, but it helped keep him calm.
He could hear the man step to the left, so he stepped to the right. Paul was breathing hard, he was nervous.
The sound, metal on leather. Paul was slow.
Before the gun was entirely out of the holster Jack had drawn his pistol, and fired twice. Both shots hitting Paul squarely in the chest. Flipping him onto his back in the mud.
A tragic way for a kid to die.
Jack looked at the fallen kid for a few seconds, then turned, opened the stable door and went to his horse. After patting his horse and getting the saddle ready he drew his knife from his belt. He pulled his sleeve up past his bicep, looking at the scars covering his arm, notches for every man he'd killed. Every life he'd taken. Every tragedy he'd caused.
He moved to the newest cuts on his upper arm and accurately sliced a new line next to the other three in the set. He flinched, just like always. Then pulled the sleeve down and turned back to his horse.
"C'mon boy," he whispered as he led the horse out of his stall.
A few minutes later they were off, riding out into the night. He passed by all the townspeople from the bar as he rode through the town. They had all seen the duel and had lost their fight.
They all stared at him in awe as he passed.
Another town, another legend written in blood.
There was no sunset to ride off into. But then again, Jack's hat was black, not white, and he was heading east. He didn't look back, he just slowed to a trot, and traveled through the night.
There'd be more men to kill tomorrow. That was the price you paid here.
Here in the old west.