After riding through a surprisingly fierce rainstorm coming out of the Northeast part of West Texas, I finally made it to El Paso on the Mexican border, not that you'd notice the border much, except for the Rio Grande running alongside it. El Paso and Juarez across the river are kissing cousins, both dry, both dusty, both poor, and both making you wonder why anyone would build a town here, let alone two. I've rode into lots of places in the middle of nowhere, but two towns in the middle of nowhere speaking different languages is more than enough tobacco to chew on. You wouldn't even notice the two languages after a while, since most settlers here learn a bit of both quickly, or wind up getting cheated, or killed, or both.

Riding into a poor town is normally not good business for a man in my profession. Call me a gun for hire if you want. I prefer that over gunfighter, like many of us do, since we don't gunfight for nothing unless we have to, and we like getting paid for it. But sometimes it doesn't work out that way.

By the time I reached the middle of town looking for the saloon the sky had cleared, and the sun grew so hot again my long riding coat was already dry. Cooler wet or hotter dry, I'll take dry every time. I don't like walking into a saloon dripping wet like a soaked prairie dog back out on the plain, especially if I figure being in there for a while. With no contract yet I had no place else to go, except maybe the hotel up the still muddy street. That comes later.

I get surprised when I'm recognized in a new town. There's never a picture of you to go by unless it's drawn on a wide-reaching warrant for your arrest, nailed up by the sheriff's office door. If you're smart and know how to goad the other gun to pull first, it's self-defense if you're good enough. If not, you don't last long in this profession. I've been hauled in front of a county judge a few times and always got off so far. Best is when I don't face a draw down at all because the other gun runs out of town. I still get paid with no risk and no new bullets to buy. That's a good day. I think it's funny that if someone is looking for you, you don't want to be recognized, and if no is, you do.

I had no warrant and no contract and thought I'd be pretty unknown in El Paso or Juarez, but you never know what will tip someone off. I carry a Colt single action six shot revolver with a smooth brown handle in a plain leather right sided holster. Nothing fancy, but always oiled and ready. Simple and quick.

The saloon was as dusty inside as it was outside, fairly dark and smokey with the smell of cigars, beer and whisky. The bar was off to the right along the wall and there was a small empty table on the left in back. At the bar I slapped down a 50-cent piece and said "Whisky. Bottle." The barkeep didn't ask for more money and handed me the bottle with a glass. I sat at that back table alone facing the door. A number of card players at tables around the room gave me a quick eye but kept on playing. After a few minutes a couple of Mexican looking gentlemen suddenly got up and left. Something about them felt odd. They maybe had no reason to stay longer but no reason to leave suddenly either from what I could tell. In my business you learn to notice and figure things quickly and I've been in enough saloons to know.

I was two drinks into the bottle and stopped the cork back in when one of Mexicans took a few steps back into the saloon.

"Yanqui. You!" He looked and pointed right at me. "Te queremos afuera. Ahora!" When I saw him walk back in I slipped my right hand under the table up to my holster. "I'm not going anywhere. Now or later." I stayed calm and relaxed, but ready. Always ready. He backed out but I left my hand where it was.

Maybe three minutes later a woman came running into the saloon, her eyes were darting around the room until she spotted me. "Se ñor, por favor, Sal afuera. Si no lo haces, lo golpearán como un cobarde!" Her voce was shaking.

"Who will beat who?" I asked, never taking my eyes off the front singing doors.

"Mi hijo, van a golpear a mi hijo." Someone would beat her son if I didn't step outside? I've been called out for lots of reaons but this was a new one. Her raspy, desperate voice and shaking hands convinced me there was something real going on. I got up and stepped outside onto the boardwalk while pulling my long riding coat around the back of my holster.

Below on the Street were three men and a young boy. The man that came into the saloon shouted, "Yanqui! Enfrentarlo!" He pointed at the boy.

"Face him for what? He looks twelve years old."

"He must prove he is a man."

"He's not going to prove it on me. He draws on me and I shoot you," my finger stabbing at him in the air. "Maybe I'll shoot all of you except the boy. Don't think I can?"

The three men looked at each other for a moment and stated to slowly back away, and then ran, leaving the boy standing alone in the middle of the street. The woman ran over to the boy, crying and holding him, mumbling something in Spanish. She then looked at and smiled through her tears. "Deja a tu marido," I shouted to her as I turned around to walk back into the saloon. The entire saloon had emptied and everyone was standjng behind me on the boardwalk.

"If she leaves her husband how will she survive," one of the card players asked."

"I can use help with the bar, and the boy can clean up when we close. In the day he should stay in school. Learn English good." The barkeep then paused and in a lower voice asked me, "Did you think about drawing on the boy?"

"No, that's not a contract, and it's not even self-defense. Besides, he's just a boy."

"Just a boy," the barkeep said, looking back at the kid.

"Just a boy," I repeated. "Nunca eres demasiado joven para morir."

"You're never too young to die," repeated the barkeep.