Mexican Standoff (An Original Short Story)

Mexican Standoff
There stood the three. The Gambler, dressed in a sharp black suit topped with his clean black hat. The Rancher, outfitted in overalls and a dirty white shirt, capped with his unpolished tan hat. And The Convict, wearing a ripped blue shirt with a worn brown hat atop his long-haired head. These were three who found no parallels with each other. Men who had journeyed opposite roads of adventure to end up where they were, making a circle beside the railroad tracks in an empty Texas town. This circle had stress, tension, anger, and most importantly, six pistols. One in every hand, and every barrel pointed at a different man. This was a classic Mexican Standoff.
“Drop yer guns,” The Rancher said, as if his position was the better.
The Convict scoffed. “No no old man. My pistols is stayin’ where they is until yours get outta my face.”
The Gambler smiled his handsome, toothy smile. “Come on boys. Ya gotta stop bickerin’ like ladies.”
“Shut up,” The Rancher ordered.
All it resulted in was a taunting look from The Gambler. “You a God-fearin’ man mister?”
“Yes I am,” The Rancher answered.
“I could tell. The God-fearin’ ones are always the assholes.”
The Convict spat out a cackling laugh.
“Just means I ain’t afraid to die here,” The Rancher added, slowing The Convict’s laugh to a small chuckle before it ended.
The Gambler scoffed, still holding that mischievous grin.
Then came silence. The Rancher held his menacing stare and The Convict tightened his grip on his LeMat Revolvers. The wind blew sand along their boots, making soft dings against their spurs. A horse whinnied in the distance, but no man had the luxury of taking their eyes away from the barrels that threatened their lives.
The Gambler’s eyes started stirring up with thought. “Damn, I’m kinda missin’ Marlene right about now.”
“A woman likes you?” The Rancher asked sarcastically.
“Well, depends how ya define that.”
“Good meat at the whorehouse is bout how I define it,” The Convict asserted.
The Rancher looked down on The Convict with disgust, and The Gambler with distaste.
“Show some respect,” The Gambler ordered. “Be at least somewhat gentlemanly. Women are things of beauty, ya oughta hold ‘em in high regard.”
“So you a wedded man?” The Rancher asked, now interested in his opposite.
The Gambler laughed. “I may have respect for ‘em but I have more for myself. You can't keep ‘em around, all they do is slow ya down. Don’t tell the ladies I said that though,” he said with a sordid smile.
“Ya’,” The Convict spewed, “I been to a few prisons, marriage was the worst of em’ all.”
“Must mean it just takes a real man to please a woman for so long,” The Rancher stated.
The Convict gritted his teeth so hard it sounded like sparks should’ve been flying from his lips. “You don’t know what a real man is. Not til’ you been where I been.”
“Where’s that?” asked The Gambler.
“Gregg County Prison.”
“A man gone there killed my good friend. You know The Scamp?” The Rancher asked.
The Convict flashed an ugly, evil smile. “Yeah, I know ‘im. He done escaped that prison though. Tol’ me he was gettin’ outta Texas, takin’ a train back home to New York or some such. Maybe you can catch ‘im.”
“Wouldn’t waste a bullet, step, or breath for that backshootin’ snake. Hope his train finds a hole to hell,” The Rancher exhorted.
“I’d drink to that. Down with The Scamp I say! Just gimme some whiskey and I’ll preach it like town crier!” The Gambler shouted, almost raising his pistol like it was a glass.
The Convict’s legs began shaking. Soon they were almost dancing around under his hips.
“What’s got you so shaky?” The Rancher asked, his eyes squinting on The Convict’s dirty, disheveled face. “Gettin’ scared?”
“No, I just seriously gotta piss.” The Convict yelled out.
A second of silence filled the train station. The words had to echo through the air for a quick moment. Then The Gambler let out his roaring laugh. Spit flew from his mouth as he spewed out the loudest cackle imaginable, countering the elegant look he had tried to dress himself with.
“It’s your fault, talkin’ bout whiskey. You got the river flowin’,” The Convict blamed The Gambler.
The Rancher lightened his judgmental stare as he began a small chuckle. Heh. Heh. Heh heh. The impossible-to-imagine smile of The Rancher was finally shown as he let out his consistently small and deep titter.
The Convict’s face had turned somewhat red, at least redder than it was by default.
“Y’all won’t be laughin’ when I’m pissin’ on your corpses when this is all over,” The Convict declared.
The statement brought The Rancher’s giggle down a bit, but The Gambler didn’t even hear the words over his crazy laugh. He had become somewhat exhausted and belly-ached. His pistols were wiggling in his weak hands.
The Rancher held a tight stare with The Convict. Before their stares were battles, wars between deadly glares. Now their eyes locked, and it was agreement. It was treaty. They knew the Gambler, in all his humor, wouldn’t come out alive. He wouldn’t be the one to take the next train. There was a Mexican Standoff in the train station of that Texas town, but two of the three knew it was no such thing. It was going to be a duel.
The Convict and The Rancher stared at each other, nodded, and squeezed the trigger to one of their pistols. With a loud yell, and a thud upon hitting the ground, The Gambler was shot dead.
The two remaining men moved both their barrels at each other. Four guns and two men. The circle was broken.
No more talk filled the station. No more laughs were to be had, no more stories to be told.
“Whatcha wanna do now mister?” The Convict asked. “Split ten paces and have ourselves a right fair duel?”
“No man’d be dumb enough to trust you,” The Rancher stated.
“Why’s that? I ain’t so different than you.”
“I ain’t nothin’ like you. You a murderer and a liar. You didn’t know the Scamp, you are
him.”
The Scamp grinned. “Was I that obvious? Damn, I thought I might have tricked you,
talking like a stupid Southerner. Really was getting on my nerves though. That dead boy talked like a moron.”
The Rancher gritted his teeth. “You sum’ bitch. You killed a good friend of mine. I’m gonna make you pay for what you done.”
The Scamp laughed. “And how are you going to do that? There isn’t a man in this world that’s faster with a pistol than me.”
“I don’t know, they say the law is swift,” The Rancher said with a smirk.
The Scamp tilted his head in confusion.
“Put the pistols down Scamp!” yelled The Lawman. He approached with a big white hat atop his head, and a Winchester rifle in his hands. He pointed it at the center of The Scamp’s back. “You are under arrest. This time you’re goin’ somewhere worse than Gregg County.”
The Scamp groaned under his breath. “I’m not going anywhere, especially back to prison.”
“I don’t think he’s givin’ you a choice,” remarked The Rancher.
The Scamp tightened his jaw. He squeezed the triggers of his pistols and swiftly made a turn towards The Lawman, but before he could squeeze again, a bullet found the bridge of his nose. The Scamp fell flat on his back, a trail of blood leaking up his forehead. The Rancher fell to his knees, looking down at the two holes in his gut. His blood hurried out into the sunlight and turned his shirt red before he fell listlessly into the dirt of the train station.
The Lawman walked over to the triangle of dead bodies. He bent down and closed all three pairs of eyes as the train finally rolled up to the station.