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6 Kommentare 15.3.12 05:10, kommentieren

Arizona Blue-Gunfighter: The Mexican Stand Off [Chapter one of four]

The Coach Bags Stand Off

The man called Arizona Blue was a man by himself and before him laid another town, this time in South Dakota; behind him were scars and memories. Each one had a name. He forgot them, but he remembered the count. It was thirty-six dead. All shot through the heart except for a few in the head. He was known as the fastest gunfighter that ever lived.

As Arizona Blue dismounted his horse, standing outside by the town cemetery, he paid his respects to Wild Bill Hickok. I guess if he had anything close to a hero, it was him and John L. Sullivan. His grave wasn’t made up of anything great, a gate around it, white with a black epitaph. He stood starring at the grave. His horse Dan by his side, he whispered; yet one might think he was talking to his horse; no it was to Wild Bill, as he said:

“Here lies Arizona Blue, faster then Wild Bill, because death got him soon…err, -- or first; deader then a doornail, by a coward. “

He took his hat off, bid him farewell and mounted old Dan, riding into town. The town hadn’t changed much, thought Blue, as he combed the streets up and down, kid of scanning it to see what was what, sizing it up. It was a lawless town, a town with little pity, and folks wanted to know who was who there.

It wasn’t more wild than up North, in Alaska, at the Red Dog Saloon; come night, it would be lively enough he pondered. Blue was thirsty, Coach Colorful Handbags thirsty after riding a thousand-miles through more states than he could count.

Matter-of-fact, as he tied his horse to the saloon pole, swung the door open, as if he owned the place, the first words that came out of his mouth was:

“A cold beer, now…!” his face had flat affect with a few days growth—he looked mean.He had five $20-dollar gold pieces in his pocked, along with several smaller gold pieces. He didn’t feel rich bay far, but he had enough for a long stay and a big hoot in town; and knew where he could get bathed by some fine looking women, who didn’t ask any questions.

The bartender looked, and then looked again:

“Ho, yes sir, Mr. Blue,” with a low murmur, and went for a tall glass, put a few cold ice cubes in the glass, and filled it with beer:

“You remember how I like it, haw Sam?” Blue remarked.

“Yup, I guess I do…sir, I sure do—glad, glad to see yaw back in town, yup sure am.” The bar tender knew it was better to answer him than to start a conversation by asking a question; questions were not always the best way in such places to carry on a conversation; too many folks looking for too many things, and everything in Deadwood was based on information, and money.

As Blue poured the beer down mouth wide open looking from his peripheral vision—to the side of him, he steadied himself one hand dangling by his gun the other half in the air letting the beer run down him like a overflowing river; he told Sam to fill it up again. And Sam knew it was better he not have to ask twice. He was like that Wild Bill when he got Coach Handbags, and it was best to accommodate him with a smile.

“Lola, still in town, Sam?” asked Blue.

“She sure is Mr. Blue; --most likely at her rooming house, down the street.”

“She’s a fine gal, Sam,” replied Blue.

“Yaw, she’s getting on with age, but she’s still a looker,” they both laughed. Lola had lived in town for ten-years. She was from Alaska. Had come down around the same time Blue did to Deadwood. But she stayed. They were old drinking pals and sleeping pals as for the time Blue lived in Deadwood, back then.

Blue looked around the saloon, there were two cowboys sitting down at a table towards the end of the bar; drinking down shots of whisky with a beer for a chaser. They had the bottle sitting in front of them. Just then two Mexicans came in and sat at the opposite side of the bar from Blue.

“Se?or, dos cervezas, por favor,” the big nosed one said. And Sam went to get the beers.

“Speak-a-the English, wet-backs,” yelled one of the cowboys. The Mexicans looked at one another, and just shook their heads. They didn’t have guns on, and Blue knew, Deadwood was not the place to be without guns, be it Chinese, Mexican, Indian, or white, guns were the only thing everyone had in common besides drinking, gold, and whores

“Pay them no attention,” said Sam, to the Mexicans “they’re not the friendly type; but nobody is really around here, perhaps you should leave before trouble starts?” And he slammed the two beers down on the table.

The Mexicans continued to speak in Spanish, and it was starting to irritate the two cowboys:

“You guys talking about us, cas if ya R, your dead meat buddy…!” Said one of the two mean at the end of the bar; Blue understood Spanish somewhat, and they Coach Outlet talking about finding a job and possibly trying to rent a room out for a few months, then going back to Mexico and giving the money to their families. Jobs were hard to find in Mexico, and they, perhaps like everyone in Deadwood, wanted a piece of the gold everyone was talking about. It was in all the papers, and just a few years back, a big strike was found not far from town. Matter of fact, Deadwood was a camp for many years, not a town at all, and was the original spot to mine for gold, but now folks went far out into the surrounding hills. It was really all Indian country, for the most part, but none of the white men were recognizing it.

The drunk stood up, pulled his gun out and shot the Mexican in the chest. He dropped head first onto the bar. The other Mexican ran out of the bar

“Cowards, they’re all cowards,” the angry tall white man said in the back of the bar, as he was putting his gun back into his holster, and everything was fine-and-dandy again, or so he thought.

The bartender stood upset, looking at the dead man on the counter, the drunk at the end of the bar, and Blue. He wasn’t sure what to do. Blue took his beer with his left hand to drink it—his right

“He drew first!”

“No, he didn’t have a gun,” his partner said.

Then the tall man looked around and said:

“Now who is here to say he didn’t!” Again I say, it was a lawless town, yet some order needed to be, and for the most part, the saloon owners paid body guards to take care of such dealings. A sheriff was elected by the towns folks, the elite that is, and it was only for show and tell, not for law and order. The two men now were looking at Blue and the bartender. At that moment the Mexican that ran out of the bar had grabbed a rifle, and was charging in through the doors. He was swearing in Coach Computer Bag:

“Te voy a matar, bastardo, matar…matar. “

Blue understood what he was saying, but the drunks were thinking he was joking. The Mexican was out for blood. As a result, as the tall man stood up, the Mexican shot him in the chest and he dropped to his knees, and as he was about to shoot the sheriff came in. He seen the tall man on his knees and pulled his pistil out aiming it at the Mexican. The tall man just dropped over dead then. The other drunk started rambling that his pal had to kill the Mexican because of this crazy behavior. The sheriff was about to take the Mexican away, because it was a white man against a Mexican, it would stir up the town should he not do something, yet he did not want a court or any kind of jail time for the Mexican. Either kill him or hind him. Blue said:

“Not today my little makeshift sheriff.” Blue knew the rules of the town: order only to keep the business going, no more than that. The sheriff had intentions of killing the Mexican once he got him in his office, but this restricted matters. The owner of the bar was not happy, business had stopped, and the musical piano had stopped playing; nobody was buying whores or drinking.

“What’s that Mexican to you?” asked the sheriff, not knowing it was the notorious Blue. The bartender just shook his head, knowing more sparks were coming. The sheriff caught the sight of that. Blue didn’t know this young sheriff from Adam, and didn’t care to get to know him, and then he added:

“Self defense I seen it all. He killed the Mexican over here, he had no gun. And when he went to get his rifle, to take his brother out, or pal or whoever he was, the tall one stood up to shoot him; revenge and self-defense—you understand Sheriff?”

The other drunk stood up:

“Liar, “he said, “He came through the doors with the rifle aiming to kill my Coach Cross-Body Bags.” The sheriff then looked at the bartender:

“Sam, you had to see it all, which way was it?” Sam didn’t care for Indians, Chinese or Mexicans, but he did for his life, and responded accordingly:

“It was as the man said self-defense.” The owner still looking down from his office on the second floor, laughed a bit, knowing who Blue was, and the bartender trying to save his life by backing up Blue’s statement. He didn’t care one-way or the other, he just wanted business to start up again.

Having said that, the other drunk went for his gun to put a bullet into the Mexicans head; thus, as he lowered the gun, and as quick as an eye can blink, Blue shot the gun out of the hand of the drunk, leaving a hole in the middle of his palm, and the drunks eyes wide open like an owls.

Said the Sheriff to Blue:

“That’s some good shooting stranger.”

“That’s Arizona Blue, sheriff,” said Sam.

Even the sheriff knew of him, he just didn’t know how he looked, and so did the drunken man standing at still at the end of the bar looking at his hand know of Blue. But when his name was announced, they both looked at him as if life was about to end. Both saying at the same time:

“Arizona Blue…!” The bar tender nodding his head, yes, as if it was about time.

“Well,” said the sheriff, as the drunk ran out of the saloon holding his hand, “I’m glad to meet yaw, I’ve heard a lot about you. God knows I can’t outdraw yaw so I hope we can be friends?” [He said smiling].

Said Blue with a returned smile: “I’m here for a spill, got to get some rest. I wasn’t looking for trouble; just trying to help up with the times.”

The Mexican said with a soft Coach Discount Handbags:

“Gracias Se?or,” and asked the sheriff if it was ok for him to leave, and take his brother. And the sheriff nodded, ok

As Blue walked out of the saloon to take his horse to the stables, and have Dan attended to, he whispered to Sam:

“Not bad for the first day in town, Haw?” Sam’s eyebrows went up, but he never made a sound.

Lola

As blue walked to the stables, his mind got full of Lola: it was a year or so since he’d seen her, but she never left his mind when he wanted female companionship—; she was short, long black hair, had a little Spanish blood in her, and some say a little Chinese blood. She spoke both English and Spanish. And boy could she kiss. She was as pretty as the day was long—never ever, married. Was a business woman, who owned a boarding house; the last time he saw her she was having an extension put on to it—and was renting cats out for boarders who wanted such company; surprisingly many wanted a cat with a room, and she’d charge fifty cent a day more. Blue could never figure out how she could make money doing that, but she did.

She would cook their meals, and wash their cloths. You could pay by the day, week or month. She took a three room house and made it into nine-sleeping rooms, a nice size boarding house. And with that extension, it looked more like a hotel now then a house. But she worked hard, and Blue respected that. Why she liked him, he never new; maybe because he met her in Alaska, once, and saved her hide; and then again twice in Coach Hobos.

4 Kommentare 10.3.12 08:01, kommentieren