Mexican Showdown

Name's Ryder. He's Mason. We're like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, 'sept we ain't got a bunch of U.S. Government soldiers and officials and don't forget the Federalies - them's the Mexican Government, comin' after us. So, in a way, we's ain't like them. But, we do have Mexicanos comin' after us. A bunch. See, they caught wind of us lookin' for some old Spanish buried treasure. I reckon' they're gonna make us do the leg work, shoot us, and take our treasure. I ain't told Mason 'bout 'em though, so he's in the unknown category. Which is where I plan on keepin' him until he finds out. Otherwise, I ain't got my ridin' partner.

The saloon doors swung open. Dust stuck to us like an engine gettin' tared 'n feathered. The clanking of our boots. We smiled appreciatively as we walked in. Three men to the right, playin' cards. Older fellas. Ain't much to worry about.

The bartender knows me, as he looks up from wipin' down the bar. Two big Mexicanos were trailing us, but rode on past. That was a little too close. We make our way to the bar.

"Well hi there Mason," she shouted, eyes wide, thrilled to see him.
"Howdy, but I reckon' we've never met," he said with a sheepish grin.
"Oh, not you silly," as she limped her wrist in a slapping motion at Mason's hand.
"Miss Annabelle, you look lovely as free bottle'a whiskey," I said as I took my hat off to her.
"Oh Mason, you sure know how to charm a woman!" Annabelle blushed.
"You're the only woman I care to charm," I smiled back, with a wink.

He stared at me in disbelief....

"You used my name?!"
"Well, you weren't wanted here, or the Dakota Territory, or California, or..." I trailed off, laughingly.
"Jesus Christ Ryder!" Mason bellowed.
"Hey, hey, hey...shhhh! They don't know me as Ryder here, I'm Mason," I said calmingly, "They know me as Mason....as you." I couldn't contain my laughter.
"You're a sun-of-a-bitch!"
"I know, I know, but you'll get over it."
"You're a horseshit!"
"Jesus Mason, quitcha bitchin'!"
"You're lucky I'm the only one within three days ride that doesn't want chu dead."
"And for that I am eternally grateful," I bowed to my best friend, Mason....we'll leave last names out of this.

We pulled up to a couple a stools, and pulled 'em out, and took our seats.

"Whiskey, two, doubles."
"Sure thing Mr. Mason," the barkeep replied.
Mason looked over at me with a stare I ain't seen since my mother was fixin' to whip me up as a boy. 'Course, then again, that might a'been the last time I seen 'er. I smiled right back at 'em.

Mason pounded his drink; I took a sip, keepin' my eyes open.
"Gimme another!" Mason hollered.
The 'keep poured Mason a double. Again. I kicked Mason's shin with my spur.
"Jesus, what the Christ is you doin?"
"Shut your trap. Quit chuggin' that shit like it's water. Besides I didn't even kick you that hard."
"Now you ain't got no one in three days ride that wants you alive," Mason grumbled as he bent-over and rubbed his shin. "Why are we lookin' around anyway. Or should I say, why are you lookin' around?"
"I was just checkin' things out. Why you gotta act like an evenin' lady for?"
"I ain't actin' like NO WOman!" Mason spat out but quickly lowered his tone. "I ain't actin' like no woman," he repeated, softer this time.

"I reckon' we're a need a couple a rooms, 'keep."
"Sure thing Mr. Mason."

Mason leaned in over me, still glarin' that Mason glare, "I thought we was just passin' through?"
"Would we be stoppin' off for whiskey if we was just passin' through?"
Mason looked confused, "Yeah? Why wouldn't we?"
"Mason, quit bein' a dumbshit and relax. 'Sides Miss Annabelle happens to have some wonderful hospitality."
"Sure, that's great for you, but don't think I'mma lay there and listen to her hospitality!"
"She's got friends," I said as I leaned back and gave her a little wave.
"She's got friends...." Mason asked as he looked at me, then turned to her, "why didn't you tell me in the first place? Shoot, I think our horses are tired. Good thing you got us those rooms."
"They're wiped out..." I trailed off.

Mason don't know this, and I still ain't fixin' to tell him, but this is where we need to be. Well, not here, in this buildin' with ole Miss Annabelle and her friends. But in this here town. Two days ride from where ever it is we rode in from. Shoot, I can't even remember anymore.

Cut to a few drinks, and a few hours later. Well, 'bout 10 drinks, and by drinks I mean whiskey, and by hours I mean hours.

Me an' 'ole Miss Annabelle made our way up the stairs to my room. Mason was keepin' his hand at poker. None of them 'ole fellas was still playin'. But, some of Miss Annabelle's friends managed to keep him company. Mason is probably the single best card player I ever seen. Which has caused a few draws. Some we won, and some we...oh hell, we won 'em all. Otherwise we ain't fixin' to be here. Needless to say, I think Mason'll be OK on his own. Don't look like much a threat tonight. But, ya never know. Ya get some fellas drinkin' their whiskey 'n losin' to Mason, 'cause 'em all to get pissed off.

But, the way Miss Annabelle keeps lookin' at me, Mason, I don't much give a shit about Mason, err Mason, playin' cards. But the money he'll win tonight will pale in comparison to that 'ole Spanish gold, jewels, treasure, whatever else them Spaniards thrown in that chest.

I ain't sure what I'll do with my share. I think somewhere I ain't never been. Maybe the states out east? I been to St. Louis. Passed through there when I was runnin' 'way from my dear 'ole mama. Bless her soul. She passed a few years ago, got word through the Pony Express when I was locked up in some shithole. Mason, naturally, saved my ass from a short rope and a long drop.

I ain't too sure what Mason'll do with his share. Probably shit himself.

Well, hell forget about Mason. I need to get back to Miss Annabelle. So, we get to my door, and as I turn to open it, she grabs my gun holster and pulls me into her for a kiss. I picked her up and carried her into my room. With her face and chest blockin' my view, I stumbled into the room, trying to find the bed - keep in mind, there weren't no lights. We fell onto the bed. I stood up and struck a match from the box on the bedside table - classy place here. Well, Miss Annabelle shows me some good hospitality. And a second time for good measure. And a third. Well, shit, if you seen Miss Annabelle, you'd go for a fourth, too.

"Mason, how is it you only come 'round these parts once every so often?" Miss Annabelle questions.
"Well, I reckon', I'm ridin'...a lot. Movin' cattle 'cross the territories. Clearin' out engine," I lie to her. She don't need to know what I do.
"Oh, I was just wonderin'. I'd like it a lot more if you came around more often."
"I suppose that'd make two of us," I say, as I rolled over for round five.

'Round that time I start to hear some hoopin' and hollerin' from downstairs. I paid it no mind as I was busy lettin' Miss Annabelle show me a good time 'n all. 'N wouldn't you know it, I hear some Spanish. I ain't speak Spanish, so I don't know what's bein' yelled at or who's bein' yelled at. Mason, I reckon' has pissed off some son-of-a-bitch, by winnin', 'n runnin' his mouth. Mason has a tendency for bein' a showoff. And, well, bein' a class "A" asshole. But, like I said, he's the only one in a three day ride who don't want me dead. Except for when I swing open the door with my night strut, after finishin' up with Miss Annabelle.

Son of a bitch.

There's them Mexicanos - so much for that three day ride. I knew they was fixin' for us to do the work. The thing is, they know Mason is ridin' with me. Mason don't know them. This is one of them times I should've put Mason in the know category.

"Miss Annabelle, be a dear 'n toss me my gun belt," I said over my shoulder, not keepin' my eyes off the situation brewin' downstairs.
She grabbed the belt, and flung it at me. It hit the wall, shells fallin' out every which way.
"God dammit Annabelle!" I yelled as I bent down and swooped up my belt and threw it around my shoulder as I began to make my way downstairs.

"Mason! What in the Sam Hell is goin' on?" I yelled. See, a few drinks and a few more rounds with Miss Annabelle blurred my memory that I was Mason. Looks like the secret's out. The room stopped and looked at me. Including them two big Mexicans who was followin' us from earlier that rode on. And, well now, a few more.

"Quién es él," the barrel-gutted Mexicano asked. I don't speak no Spanish, so I don't have a fuckin' clue as to what he said. "Quién es él?" he shouted!
"Mason, the hell is goin' on down here?" I asked, in a matter-a-fact kinda way. I do this when I need to take charge.
"They came ridin' in, askin' for you. Says you know somethin' about treasure," he stammered out confusingly, "Spanish treasure."

Well shit.

"Spanish treasure?" I forced out a laugh.
"Yeah, Spanish treasure," Mason snipped at me. A pile of poker chips in front of him. His right hand on his six-shooter, back against the wall, sittin' on his chair. He still hasn't gotten up. Even with the Mexicanos standing over him, guns drawn. Mason is the only one I'd want in this kinda situation.
"Huh, don't know much about it," I said as I could feel the Mexicanos starin' daggers into me.

"Donde está el Ryder?" The big Mexicano asked, for what was not the first time. But, the rest of the room knew me as Mason an Mason as, well, shit I dunno.
"Ryder," I questioned.
"Yeah, they're lookin' for Ryder," Mason snipped, again.
"I reckon' I'm Ryder," I responded, to what I don't know. "Mason, you speak Spanish?" I asked as the rest of the saloon looked at me, comin' to the realization that I wasn't Mason.
"Ryder, you'da been dead by now if it weren't for me," he said, "'Course I speak Spanish. Ya hafta, when ridin' with you."
"I reckon' you ain't never said anything to me."
"Ryder, do I ask ya if I can take a shit?"

"Absolutamente gringos!"
"Really, there's a lot about me you don't know the first thing about!"
"Oh, is that so?"
"Yeah! That's so!"
"Well shit, maybe there is a buried Spanish treasure!"
"No shit Ryder," Mason belted condescendingly. The nerve of him. After all I've done to make sure he gets his share.

"El tesoro español, que sabe sobre él?"
"Why the fuck does he keep talkin'?" I screamed.
"HE WANTS TO KNOW ABOUT THE GOD DAMNED SPANISH TREASURE!"
"Oh, well tell him I ain't talkin'."
"Él.....dice que......él no está hablando," Mason said to the Mexicano.
The Mexicano bellowed out a laugh. "Diga a su amigo que él es un hombre divertido."
"Más bién un dolor en el asno," Mason responded.
The Mexicano bellowed out another laugh. "Usted es absolutamente divertido. Ahora, dígame lo que usted sabe sobre el tesoro español."
"No sé cualquier cosa. Pienso que Ryder es el que usted quiere hablar con," said Mason.

I can only imagine what they're sayin'. Probably some shit about, well, fuck I don't know.

"Mason, what the shit is goin' on?"
"I'm fixin' to figure that out, too. So what about this treasure?"
"Dammit Mason, I was gonna tell ya."
"When? When we was gettin' shot by a bunch a Mexicanos?"
"Before that!"
"Before that," Mason repeated, "No sé cualquier cosa, sino continúo y lo tiro de todos modos," he said to the Mexicano.
"Gringo, usted es un hombre divertido divertido. Pero debemos discutir el tesoro. Ahora venido, dígame."

"Ryder, they'd like to know about the treasure."
"Tell 'em I say to fuck off."
"I reckon' you ought to tell 'em yourself. I don't think we're gonna like their response."
"Well, what'cha thinkin' we oughtta do?"
"Tell 'em about the fuckin' god dammed treasure!"
"Mason, we can't do that! We do and we're dead!"
"We don't and we're dead to!"
I hate it when Mason is right.

"There's eight of 'em."
"Glad you can count, Ryder."
"You got two guns, I got one."
"And that's only 18 bullets. Not to mention the fact that you're drunk."
"Yeah, but he's fat," I point to the barrel-chested Mexicano, squinting. "I could shoot him. That kinda target is hard to miss."
"Usted quiere comenzar a hablar," the Mexicano asked.
"No, Estoy intentando hablar algunos cerebros en mi amigo," Mason responded back
The Mexicanos still haven't put there guns down. Most if not all the saloon has already run off.
"Ryder, there's only two of us."
"Ryder, there's only two of us," I mocked back, as Mason glared at me. He needs to knock that shit off. That glarin' shit.
"Mason, I don't want to die in some Mexican showdown."
"It's a 'Mexican standoff!'"
"Then why are you sittin'?"

Mason shook his head at me, pretty much informin' me that he didn't plan on standin'.

"Well, I'm drawin' unless you got a better idea."
"Ryder, I ain't the idea man. I reckon' I'll see ya on the other side."
"Yeah, we ain't lost yet."
"Our string 'a luck is startin' to run out."
"How so?"
"'Cause I'm sittin' here with a few hundred dollars in front of me, about to get shot in a hail of bullets because you're a dumbass."
"Well, shit, Mason," I say, "you gonna hold this over me? Make it my fault?"
"Qué usted quieren saber sobre el tesoro," Mason asked the Mexicanos.
"Díganos todo," the barrel-chested Mexicano responded.
"El pozo deja charla."
"Bueno."

Mason drew both guns, under the table and cocked 'em. I had six shots to hit the fat Mexicano. I'd let Mason worry about the other seven. Well, I'm sure I'd shoot some too, if only on accident.

I pulled out my gun from the holster, still strapped over my shoulder. This caught the attention of all the Mexicanos as they cocked their guns. Looks like had ourselves an official Mexican standoff.

The thing about these things is ya already know they're gonna happen. The trick is to remain calm. Think of somethin' else, as opposed to the thought of imminent death for you and them. Well, I reckon' who gives a shit if they die. It's me 'n Mason I'm worried about. Things start to slow down. Not that people movin' slower, but they are. Bullets too. Kinda hard to put into words.

You don't feel like you're breathin', your pulse slows down. Details become more clear. I reckon' through a saloon full 'a noise, I could still hear the clank of a bottle or the footsteps of somethin' in the back room. You know, noises you ain't never hear in a normal circumstance in a saloon. But, this ain't exactly a normal circumstance. Funny thing though, your mind races. While every thing else is slowin' down, seems like every thought you ever had in the world comes in your head. Fast too, like a bullet.

"Mason, what's the Mexican word for goodbye?"
"Adios," he said and with that a hail of bullets flew across the saloon.

Two bullets tore into my chest, as I fell down to my knees. I had two more hit me, God only knows where. Mason got three shots off, dropping two of the Mexicanos to the floor; I didn't know if they were dead or not. The barrel-chested Mexicano was still standin'. I fired off two shots, at point blank range, missing both times, as I fell slowly face first to the floor. He just laughed. I watched, as everything slowed down. Mason got hit in the neck. Blood began shootin' out like a geyser as a look of bein' lost took over his pale face. He couldn't shoot no more, as he fell limp over the table, bullets flyin' into his body. My brother, layin' there, dead on his Spanish treasure.