The Slick

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He rode in from the east, a tall man in a white shirt with black slacks, around himself we wore a dark brown coat that went all the way to his ankles. On his head he wore a black hat with an orange trim and a large brim, and at his hips he had with him a sight that to many men, was their last. The sight of the man with the 2 six shooters that were as black as night. He rode on with the sun at his back, giving light to the once sleepy town of Tucson, in the Arizona territory. The man was known as "Slick" by friends and soon to be victims for how fast he could draw his gun, some say the twitch of his hand is the last thing you see before you die. But this Slick is no murder no sir, in fact if you called him that he would pistol whip you so hard you would wake up in a different county, no this man was a hero to those who knew what he had truly done, he always fought for those who could not and made sure that cruelty and greed knew his name before they too fell to those guns of legend.

Now in the town he kept low, making his way to the closest saloon he could, men standing clear and women blushing as he walked by, the men respected him for his honesty and the women fell in love with his charm and would do anything to be with Slick, even for just a night. As he entered the saloon he got him self a drink and caught wind of an argument, a rowdy and rather drunk gentleman had lost his temper over a card game, across the table another man sat, cool, smiling, his white hat just covering his eyes but Slick knew exactly who lay under it. He made his way over as he heard the mystery man say.

"Aww come on now Johnson it's only 200, now how about one more hand, and just cause you're my friend I'll let you deal."

The man Johnson lost his mind at this and flashed his pistol.

" I ain't no friend of yers McClough you cheating son of a bitch, that's 10 hands in  a row and ain't no fucker that lucky."

Slick lit a cigarette and tapped Johnson on his shoulder. He whipped around with hatred in his eyes.

"Do you have something to say you piss shi-"

Johnson froze as the barrel of that gun of legend stared him down. Slick smiled and stared Johnson dead in the eyes.

"Now friend, I this you've had about enough, now hows about you go on and git?"

As soon as the words passed his lips Johnson flew out of that saloon and some say he's still running to this day. Slick then slid his gun back at his hip and sat down with the man.

"Hows about you deal me in, friend?"

The man looked up at Slick now, his cool blue eyes lit up but the rest of him stayed relaxed.

"Well I'll be damned you really came back, after all these years and you have the nerve to show your face here again." The man jumped up and reached for his own gun, a long barreled five shooter, legend has It that this man shot this gun in Tucson and nailed a flying bird all the way in Phoenix. However before he could draw, Slick had one gun at the man's head and one at his chest. The two men looked at each other, then smiled, then laughed as they embraced each other. The other men in attendance looked on both interested and horrified all at the same time.

"You gotta be shitting me, Kyle "Slick" O'Howard still quicker than me after all this time." The man laughed and look at his friend.

"And I'll be damned, Clay "Lucky" McClough still cheating old drunks after all this time." Kyle smiled at his friend.

Just like his friend Kyle, "Lucky" was also well know just maybe not as much, Clay got his named for being the luckiest in the friend group he and Kyle hung around when they were kids in Tucson, they all were raised in Tucson but had gone their separate ways, Clay went North and Kyle went East, as for the others, Kyle had no idea where they were at the moment. On his way North Clay made a name for himself being the bet gambler this side of the Mississippi and if you made him mad, he could shoot you in-between the eyes across the county line, he had the best range and the best accuracy. Not as fast as Kyle but if he could get his gun out he could hit you no matter what.