Stranger (a flash short)

Flash Short Story

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"No one knows." The man speaking shrugged with effected indifference, though inwardly enjoying his listening audience. "'Fore anybody can get a long look, he's gone."

"Has he really killed twenty-seven men?"

The speaker turned a gleaming eye on the youth, a boy hardly old enough to be in the saloon, let alone drinking, listening to stories of John Kindle.

"That's a rough guess, kid. No one really knows the truth, 'cept maybe Kindle hisself."

"You seen him?" another asked, and the man turned, nodding as he spat into a spitoon near his feet.

"I was there in Dodge the day he braced with Cullen Hash," he whistled softly. "Never did see anythin' so slick. Kindle hardly moved, next you know Hash is face down, bleedin' into the dust."

"Wow." The youth was wide-eyed. "What a sight! To have seen him in action! Bam, bam, dead!"

"Few folks can measure up to his quick draw- Hickock maybe, or Virgil Rivers. I'd hate to live off the diff'rence."

"To be that good-!" the kid was kinda starry eyed, his imagination running wild. "Makin' folks step back an' take notice- man! John Kindle must be a mighty big man!"

"He cuts a wide path, but don't toot his bugle about it. A man'll be fast for a while, but sooner or later there's always someone faster."

The talk tapered off a little then, the bat doors swinging open to let in a trio of weary, dust coated, weather beaten strangers. They spread out a little as they came in, eyeing the room on the way to the bar. One settled himself at the far end near the back door, the other by the side window with a view of the street, but the tallest of them leaned against the polished wood right in the middle. None made eye contact with anyone else, nor spoke other than to gruffly order whiskey or rye. The youth who'd been listening so eagerly, nudged the talker.

"Who're they?"

"No one you want truck with, boy." His eyes had a strange, wary light to them, and he edged the lad from him with his elbow. "Move along now."

"Why?"

"Just do as I tell you."

"I'm full growed!" he protested sharply. "I ain't scared off by three no account drifters!"

A silence so heavy it made breathing hard dropped over the room, and the man leaning on the bar slowly turned, shot glass in his hand. The flat expression on his face mirrored that in his eyes, which fell directly on the youth. Deliberately he took a slow swallow of his whiskey before setting the empty glass on the bar, his eyes never leaving the youth.

"I come a long way across dust covered country only the Devil would enjoy, so maybe I still got some in my ears." He rumbled almost gently. "You say something to me, Boy?"

"No!" the man next to the kid suddenly stood, putting himself slightly between the two. "What I mean, the kid here- he didn't mean nothin'. Just loose talk mister."

"I can speak for myself-!"

"Shut up!"

"Let him talk." Moving slightly away from the bar, the tall man stood loose and easy, his almost gentle tone at odds with the cold glint in his eyes. "He got somethin' to say, let him get it out."

"Mister, please, he don't know better."

"A man has got to learn some time." With a baleful eye fixed to the youth in question, his brow arched slightly. "Ain't that right?"

No one moved. The man standing by the kid was anxious, beads of sweat on his brow, his gaze on the young man, praying he'd say nothing stupid. Right about then, the youth himself began to sense he'd stepped into something he shouldn't have, and he paled a little, his eyes drawn to the big caliber pistol strapped to the stranger's thigh. The handle shone from use.

"I asked you a question, Boy."

"Well," lips suddenly dry, he licked them nervously. "I suppose a fella is always learnin' himself new things. Seems like as long as he's alive, a body learns stuff."

"You like learnin'?" The stranger asked gently, poised like a cat ready to pounce. The kid nodded eagerly.

"Sure I do!"

"Then learn this, an' don't you ever forget it. Never assume the history of a man. He might look rough and trail weary, but he can slap brand on a man quicker than the crack of a whip. You brace the unknown, you're askin' for a plot on boot hill." Tilting his head slightly, a faint glimmer flickered through his eyes. "You ken?"

"Yessir."

Slowly taking a coin from his pocket, the tall man flicked it over his shoulder at the bar tender, who deftly caught it midair. His eyes were still on the youth.

"You have the look of a smart kid. Stay that way."

His boots echoing against the wood floor, he walked to the door and paused just before pushing through. The youth called softly after him.

"Who are you, mister?"

A warning glance shut his mouth, but the tall man stared at him until he looked away.

"You really wanna know?"

"Ain't important, I suppose," the boy mumbled uncomfortably. "None of my business."

"Like I said, kid...smart."

The bat wings beat softly as the man disappeared, and the local men looked around, startled to find all three strangers gone. The two others had ghosted out unseen. Every man left in the saloon breathed a sigh of relief. The one who'd been telling the story earlier grabbed the youngster by his shirt.

"Jess, next time I say beat it, just go! You know what kinda curly wolf you was pokin' at?!"

"Lemme go Dale! Golly, I already swallowed water from that other fella, let me be!" Yanking free, he smoothed out the wool, grumbling. Dale snorted in disgust, shaking his head.

"That fella ever comes back through here, you'll take milk from him, an' say thank you!"

"Yeah?" Though just humbled, Jess was quick to snap back, his young pride easily wounded. "Says who!"

"John Kindle." Dale's tone was sharp. "If that weren't him, I'll eat my saddle."

"John Kindle," Jess echoed the words, suddenly very glad to be alive as he gazed out to the now empty street.