Talking Down The Dance by Buckskin

Word Count 2209

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Second Chance To Live

Thanks to Catherine and Chris for the beta
And to Rhonda for kicking my muse in the butt and
Offering fantastic suggestions to finish this story.
Thank you, Lancer Sister!

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Part of the Conversations With A Gunfighter Series

His desire for a solitary evening vanished when the cantina door opened with its customary screech; no entry or exit went unnoticed.  Patrons turned their heads, as if attached to one neck, and stared at the one who had interrupted the quiet evening.  Except one.

The newcomer scanned the room before fixing his sight on the lone man partially hidden in the shadowy back corner of the room.  Tom Hatcher walked into the smoky interior, returning the curious stares with a cold scowl.  They weren’t worth his time.  There was only one man deserving of his attention, and that man did not appear to notice him.  That would change, and quick.  Hatcher would demand the attention.

The patrons, satisfied the newcomer was not interested in them, quickly looked away and focused on the drinks in front of them.

Johnny Madrid, hat pulled low, shadowing his face, sat unmoving, outwardly unaffected by the intruder.  He slouched in the chair, relaxed, right hand resting on the table, his left slowly spinning the glass on the scarred wooden surface, but his gaze remained fixed, reading the threat in the man walking slowly toward him.

Johnny had been eyeing the door since claiming the back table hours ago, and now the desire for a quiet drink alone crumbled, footstep by footstep, as dread washed over him.

There was something different about the man.  The approach was quiet, but the glare told Madrid all he needed to know.  The menacing glower failed in its intent.  There was no covering the apprehension that bled to the surface.  He was looking to make a name for himself, and deep down, he was scared.   Fear wrapped him in a mantle of defeat before he even started the confrontation.  And Madrid was not about to comply.  No matter the sneer, scowl, or stare, they all spelled one thing.  Trouble.  Could the kid be talked down?

“Madrid…”

Johnny leaned back in his chair as he sized up the young man standing before him — the young man looking to make a name for himself — the young man too anxious and unprepared to call out the professional.  He shoved the opposite chair out with his foot in a halfhearted invitation and sighed.

“This ain’t no social call, Madrid.”  Hatcher wondered if the gunfighter could hear the pounding in his chest.  It nearly deafened himself.  He’d have to learn control if he wanted to be the best.

With his left hand, Johnny tipped the hat back on his head.  “Nope, it ain’t.”  Then, nodding to the chair, he softly said, “Siddown.”

“Told ya, this ain’t no social…”

“I heard ya the first time.  Relax, kid.  There’s plenty ‘a time for dyin’.  Siddown.”

Johnny, again, nodded at the chair.  “Have a drink an’ let’s talk.”

“I ain’t here ta talk!”

Taking his time, Johnny poured himself another shot of tequila, then met the kid’s eyes.  “What’s your name, kid?”

“Name’s Tom Hatcher.”  Good!  Madrid needed to know the name of the man who would take his reputation.

“Well, Tom Hatcher, why don’t ya sit an’ talk?  Humor me an’ tell me why you’re so fired up ta get yourself killed.  This been your ambition in life, call out a gunfighter an’ get yourself blown ta Hell?  Seems ta me you’re a little young for that.  Ya should be home, helpin’ out the family an’ romancin’ that little neighbor girl.”

This wasn’t what Hatcher expected.  Those weren’t the fighting words he expected; they weren’t even words of dismissal.  He’d just been invited to join Madrid for a drink.  To sit and drink.  Share the table and bottle.  Where was the bloodthirsty gun hawk?  The savage, ruthless killer of legend and lore?  Where was the challenge to meet him in the street?

Madrid’s words stung.

“It’s not me who’s gonna die today, Madrid.  You wanna talk?  Alright, we’ll talk!  Tell me, what do you want carved on your headstone?  I want to get it right, so you tell me word for word.” 

Johnny stayed quiet, then signaled the bartender for another glass.

Mistakenly, Tom Hatcher prodded.  “Stallin’ for time, Madrid?  You yellow?”  He let a sly grin slide across his face and felt his heart pound, increasing with every second that ticked off the clock.

A twitch tugged the corner of Johnny’s mouth.  “No, kid, not yellow; just tired.”

“How about I help out with the words, huh?” 

Silence.  Only a maddening stare. 

The grin pulled wider across Tom’s face.  “Here lies Johnny Madrid — Rotting To Dust.  Sounds good, doesn’t it?”

Bolstered by the lack of aggression from the gunfighter, Tom Hatcher blundered on, attempting to ignite the spark that would burst into the flame of gunfire.  Gunfire that would ensure his victory and seal the reputation to the rightful owner.

“Know what I think?”

“No, kid, what’d you think?”

With a snort and a cocky half smile, Tom Hatcher leaned in, trying to dominate the one-sided talk.  “I think you’re scared.”

Was there any talking this kid out of pulling his gun?  Talking him out of the dance?

But the reckless comment did not produce the reaction Hatcher expected.  The gunfighter remained seated and began to laugh; he laughed in Tom’s face as the kid’s eyes grew wild and embarrassment flushed his cheeks; rage coursed through him, taking him down a path he was not prepared to navigate.

“Yeah, kid, I’m scared.  Scared of havin’ your death on my conscience; scared of seein’ your face haunt me, knowin’ I shoulda talked ya outta the dance.  Knowin’ you’re gonna die with my bullet in your chest.”  The words came soft, but deafening in their meaning.

This wasn’t how he imagined the confrontation would happen.  And now, he wasn’t sure how he should proceed.  Doubt began to worm its way into his brain.  Doubt could get him killed. 

And that made Tom Hatcher mad.  He’d gotten himself into a situation he didn’t know how to get out of; he had envisioned the confrontation so clearly, and what was happening was not what he planned; he could very possibly die, probably would die because of it.  No!  He couldn’t quit; he couldn’t lose face, not now!  He would be labeled a coward!

A retort, bitter and raw, flowed uncaring from his mouth.

“You’re gettin’ too old!  Can’t keep up anymore!”

A blur, and Tom was now looking down the blue steel of Madrid’s Colt.  He’d not seen Madrid move.  The Colt suddenly materialized as if by sleight of hand.  A buzz sounded in Tom’s brain, his mouth went dry, his eyes riveted on the muzzle just inches from his face.  

His lungs ceased to draw air; he saw nothing but the hungry barrel of the revolver; the cyclopean threat paralyzed his entire being.

He turned hot, then cold, as shock struck quick as lightning.

Then, Tom met the menacing stare of Madrid’s eyes; glacial and terrifying, but the cold, dark glare quickly faded.

Bluff and bluster shattered.  Hatcher’s false bravado blew away, as if carried far by the desert wind.  What had just happened?  It had taken Tom two days to build up the courage to confront the young but seasoned Johnny Madrid.  And, in those few words and one action, Madrid successfully eviscerated every fanciful thought he’d had regarding taking the reputation he would never earn.  The mystical appearance of Madrid’s gun froze him solid; his legs rooted to the floor.

Once again, the soft invitation was extended.  “Siddown, Tom Hatcher.”

And this time, Tom sat; his knees began to fold of their own accord, making it into the chair just before the floor came up to meet his behind.

Madrid smiled and pushed the glass across the table toward the kid.  Hatcher picked up the tequila and put it to his mouth, took a swallow, then choked.

Would this kid listen to the wisdom Johnny had learned on his journey to being the gunfighter Madrid?  Could Johnny turn this kid’s life around before he got himself killed?

The kid would listen even if Johnny had to knock the sense into his head himself.

Madrid took stock of the disillusioned youngster sitting defeated across from him.  The reddened face and watering eyes confirmed inexperience; he didn’t look old enough to be drinking, and yet, there he was, wanting to take down Johnny Madrid, thinking he was fast enough to do the job.  Fast enough to outdraw the best.  Fast enough to die before he had the chance to live.  When would it stop, he wondered?

Johnny watched the shaking hands pick up the glass, then hesitated and reconsidered before taking a second swallow.  Instead, with a tap-tap-tap, the glass finally settled on the table.  Hands, lacking the callouses from practice drawing a gun, continued to shake.  The kid covered his pale face with those trembling hands, trying, Johnny thought, to shut out the reality of the last three minutes.

Johnny leaned back in his chair and softly offered the kid another drink.  “Ya look like ya need it.” 

A kindness.  Tom Hatcher wasn’t expecting that.  He began to pull himself together, to gather what dignity he had left.  His mind spun, thinking just how close he’d come to death, and wondered why Madrid didn’t pull the trigger.  Johnny Madrid.  The best there was.  Killer.  Bloodthirsty.  A man to fear.

Wrapped in a blanket of disbelief, he asked, “Why… why didn’t you shoot me?” 

“Wasn’t gonna shoot ya if I didn’t need to.  You think that’s all I do — walk around shootin’ people?”  He stared at Hatcher, waiting for an answer.

The cantina was quiet, but the aura at the back table was deafening.

“I don’t shoot people for the sake of shootin’ ‘em.  The only time shootin’ is right is in self-defense.  What were you thinkin’?”

“But people know who you are when you ride into town!  They step out of the way when they see you walk down the street!  You killed all those men!  All the gunfights…  How many men have you killed?”

“Only killed men tryin’ ta kill me.  Forget about the rumors, the stories ya heard, kid.  Unless you hear it from me, it probably isn’t true.  An’ it ain’t a credit ta the man you are ta have folks scared of ya.

“It wasn’t my choice to be a gunfighter; it just happened that way.  And I wish ta God I woulda had someone ta help me, like I’m tryin’ ta help you. 

“Killin’ ain’t what you think it is, kid.  Watchin’ a man die is ugly.  The look in their eyes when they know they’re already dead haunts ya every day.   There’s no pleasure in watchin’ a man bleed out in the street.  Blood soakin’ inta the ground, bones an’ guts layin’ in the dust ain’t a pretty sight.

“Ya want fame?  Be a doctor, discover somethin’ that’ll cure small pox, or find a way ta make peace between enemies.  Be a teacher; educate those kids who’re headed down the wrong path… like you are.”

Could Johnny convince Hatcher of the hell he’d create for himself?  Dealing with nightmares, waking up bathed in a cold sweat night after night?  Too tired to stay awake, too haunted to sleep?  Lying in bed for hours, or, most likely, sitting with a bottle of tequila in an attempt to drown sorrows, wash away the guilt of the shock and disbelief on the faces of those dying by his bullet.  And worse were the ghosts; the relentless torment, the torture — Johnny’s own private Hell.  He had to keep this stupid kid from making the biggest mistake of his life.

“Somethin’ ya need ta consider before ya travel the road of a gunfighter — you’re only the best until someone better comes along, an’ chances are, it’s gonna be you layin’ in the dirt, an’ you’re gonna die.  Dead is forever, kid.  No comin’ back from it, so ya gotta be sure about what ya wanna do.

“Go home.  Ask that little gal ta marry you and raise a bunch of kids.  This ain’t the life ya think it is.”

Tom Hatcher sat and listened to Madrid’s words.  He slowly rose to his feet, the uneasy sway visible, and grabbed the wall to steady himself.  Finally, he turned and shuffled out the back.

The door had barely closed when Johnny heard the unmistakable sounds of a belly turning inside out. 

Hatcher made it into the alley before reality set in, knowing just how close he’d come to death, and it hit hard.  But he didn’t die; instead, he would live only by the grace that Johnny Madrid permitted it to be.

Inside the cantina at the table on the back wall, Johnny sighed deeply.  Had his words made any difference?  He couldn’t say, but at least there was no body on the floor, no sightless eyes staring into nothing, and more, no guilt added to the already unbearable weight on Johnny Madrid’s conscience.  Until the next time.

~end~
December 2025

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