Arizona Blue—Gunfighter [Episodes 1 thru 12]

Arizona Blue—Gunfighter





By Dennis L. Siluk


1) “Lady in White,” [1885]
2) “Wild Flower,” [1882]
3) “The Mexican Stand off,”
4) Meeting at the Red Dog [1884-85]
5) “Arizona-Blue, and the Wolf Nest” (in the North)
6) “Another Town,” [1878]
7) “Crazy Sam,” [1884]
8) “A Rough Year—1844”
9) In the Wagon [1844]
10) Purple, Gray Skies [1844]
11) Abilene-Lorato [1867]
12) A Fools Draw (1870s)



Index
*Two stories created by demand for the series to continue on…

1—Lady in White, [1885] Episode One, written 1990; revised 2001, published 2002; revised August, and November, 2005

2—Wild Flower, [1882] Episode Two; written l990; revised 2001, published 2002; revised 2005

3—Mexican Stand-off [1884] Episode Three; 2001; published 2002; revised July 2005; Deadwood, South Dakota

4--Meeting at the Red Dog [idea written out 1/2002; story written out 1 December, 2005] The Forgotten Episode

5—Wolves Nest [In the North Country] Episode five, written 2002, revised 2005 (Part of the North)

6—Another Town—l878 [1844] Episode Four; 2002/Revised July 2005;
Cheyenne, Wyoming

7—Crazy Sam 1884; Episode Six; written July 2005; Deadwood, South Dakota (lost chapter: story)

8—A Rough Year—1844 [1878] Episode Seven; Written August 2005; Cheyenne, Wyoming

9—In the Wagon (1844) 8/15/05

10—Purple, Gray Skies (1844-Falstaff, Arizona) 8/2005

*11—Abilene-Lorato (Arizona-Blue, l887) written 9/15/005

*12—A Fools Draw (1870s) written 11/29/05


∆


Arizona Blue—Gunfighter
A Rough Year—1844
[Episode Seven: August 2005]



Arizona Blue, remembering his family leaving their homestead in Quincy, Illinois, now looking down at Cheyenne, about to head on into town; it was a rough year, he told himself; looking at Dan, his horse. Cheyenne was just another town, no big thing. It was 1878; he leaned on the mane of his horse, thoughts coming to his mind. His mind was like a blackened out room, now it was filled with his youth.
It looked like a parade with the eight wagons, dogs, horses, children, livestock and all. A few folks came by to see them off, and then they were gone. His father at the time was 46-years old, his mother, a tiny woman, was twelve years younger. Grandpa was 70-years old. It was fathers 3rd marriage, and his best.
Blue, noticed the oxen didn’t seem too interested in the journey, as the teamster cracked his bullwhip, and the train started. Blue was a handsome lad, as was his father, in his younger day—that had a square jaw, which made his face handsome, and mannish. His face was well trimmed, his beard that is, and was fast with the gun, so people had said.
He used to drink a lot, mom said, and served time in the Kansas state Prison. He had a bent, or that damn broken nose, he looked more like a boxer than a gunfighter, retired gunfighter that is; mom made him stop, or gave him good reason to. Had a $500-Reward on him at onetime. His nickname was Scotch; he drank so much of it I guess. Someone said he robed an old lady, him and gang of other men, and was too drunk to hightail it out of town. The booze makes a man do stupid things I declare.
Blue’s mothers name was Margaret Teresa Dalton. And I suppose Scotch will do for his father. At that time, Scotch had a daughter from a previous marriage; she was 14-years old. And at that time people were itching to move west. Scotch had a horse named Dan and Scotch seemed to talk to him all the time. Matter-of-fact, sometimes he preferred to carry on a longer conversation with him, than with anyone else.
Sarah was the only young girl on the wagon train. Scotch and Blue drove one wagon; Scotch couldn’t see the road too well, so Blue became his navigator. Caddy and Margaret kept each other company in the back of the wagon; avoiding the flying dust, insects and prairie sounds.
“Farwell, my good friends,” Scotch said to the St. Clair’s, outside of Quincy, as he passed their farm.
There was a storm in the mid-afternoon; a flood of rain slapped against the wagon train, and the passageway was thickening with mud. It wasn’t long this second day they had to stop the wagon train —, it was sunset and 90F out. That old Mrs. Jason, everyone called her that, not sure if that was her husbands first name, or her last name, but everyone called her that; anyhow she died of a heatstroke, so I heard; no matter what it really was she died. She was 59-years old. She suffered it seemed (painfully) from the scorching heat: she was helping her husband drive the team of horses. It was my first time I saw death so close, so clear that is, like looking through ice and seeing a dead fish.
Yes, it was an arduous trip—the prairie travel, wagons, a drenching thunderstorm the second day, emigrants encamped here and there on their way to California, or Organ.
We left a sign back a-ways on the prairie road for Mrs. Jason, a headstone made out of wood, and an old family bible. It only read: ‘Mrs. Jason, l844’; nothing else.
Father liked to swear when things went wrong, and he was swearing like a chayote hollers throughout most of the trip, especially when we crossed the creek, and the wagon fell into it—: mud up to the wagon’s seats; it sunk like quicksand. It took a week to fix everything on it again and the family had to walk that week along side the wagon, run a bit, ride the oxen, and Dan. Some supplies were left in the mud behind. That was a rough year—1844, it would be my first year dad would teach me how to shoot.



Arizona Blue-Gunfighter
In: Another Town



[Cheyenne - l878]


The Man called Arizona-Blue

He was known as Arizona Blue because Arizona was where he came from and he had the deepest blue eyes any one had ever seen. In a gunfight he never blinked them once. It was amazing folks would say after watching him have a showdown with another gunfighter. It was as watching a bullfight; that is to say, Arizona being the picador and the matador: the wind would circle his feet, his hand would fly off, and the sun might even be in his way, but he never blinked, nor smiled, nor moved his hands once situated, unless to draw. That is what his opponents feared the most. No bluff.
He was a tall man, medium build, had broad shoulders and a wild look to his tan a muscular face with a bronze reddish-brown penny look.
He had big hands like John L. Sullivan, who he had met once in a barroom fight in Boston. He had just become Heavyweight Bare Knuckle Champion a year earlier. Blue liked following the news when he could; and he liked Sullivan because he claimed he could lick any man in the house, and he did. Although Sullivan was about 2 ½ inches taller then blue, Arizona could put up a good fight himself he felt with John L., but his forte was guns, not knuckles, he’d tell himself. And in a similar manner, like Sullivan, he claimed he could out draw anyone, anywhere; and he did. Therefore, he always felt they had something in common.
Arizona wore a buckskin coat and was clean shaven, but had thick long busy sideburns, the same as his hair, and thick eyebrows; He had deep-pitted eyes, high cheekbones, and a thick-looking jaw; he was mean, handsome and boisterous; a deadly combination in any town.
His horse, Dan, a solid creature with a long mane, was all a cowboy could ask for. He was brownish in color with legs like a deer and a heart that could outlast the best of any Indian horse. What Blue didn’t want was to ride into a feud between sheep and cattle ranchers, and homesteaders; and he knew each town had its demons.

—With such men came the tired look. As he sat on his horse, allowing himself to catch his breath before he entered the small Wyoming town in front of him; thus, he thought of the lonely journey he had coming up from Pueblo along the Continental Divide that stretched from Colorado to Canada. The Marianne Bow Mountains, he captured sight of and the long dusty cactus along the way. He was nasty dirty:

“Another Town,” he whispered to himself, as if waiting for old Dan to comment (his horse).

His eyes then made a half circle [18--degree circle]. He had seen his share of these dusty little towns in Montana, Arizona territories, and Wyoming; Deadwood in the Dakota’s; the old trail town of Cody; and of course Tombstone, to mention a few. This one he hadn’t been to, call Cheyenne. He knew it was a cattle area although. He had met some time ago, a woman called ‘Cattle Kate’ while in Cody. She was quite plane he thought, but had her charms, and Blue knew she’d have her day because she was always ending up with a few extra mavericks, but could never prove she was the rustler. Thoughts just circled his mind as he scanned the territory and town around him.
It was back in the l860s, the Homestead Act that allowed men to buy land as cheap as a $1.25 an acre; it made many a man rich. And still were making men rich. The thought of lots of jobs around this area crossed Blue’s mind as he looked up towards the hot summer sun, its blinding beams. He wiped the sweat off his brow. Moved a bit within on his saddle trying to catch a glimpse of a supply store—what the sign read on the building; his horse was wet with sweat, and thirsty. He looked down to the horse’s profile, and smiled. He didn’t smile much, but to old Dan he made it a point to do it often.

“Ok, old Dan,” said Blue, “let’s sees what the town has to offer!” And he kicked his horse lightly, and down the hill he rode, toward Main Street. He arched his back, his plaid shirt opened to catch the breeze as he rode down; he pulled a little tighter on the reins, to control his horse a ting; put a flat affect on his face, so no one could read him.







Arizona Blue—Gunfighter
Wild Flower

[Tombstone - 1882]



[Tombstone, Arizona—1882] Arizona-Blue wiped the dust off his pants as he dismounted his horse, Dan. Another town he said to himself. He hadn’t been back in Arizona going on four-years. It was nice to be back in Tombstone, it was a place he usually avoided though, because of the gunfighters and he loved them dearly, but when they got together in a town like Tombstone, or Deadwood, the law was never orderly. But why look for them, they’d find him if need be. He was like an alcoholic when it came to shoot outs, or show downs. He knew it. He couldn’t avoid a fight. So like a good alcoholic, he was a loner, it was best to be alone he’d tell himself: ‘…better to be alone than be caught in the grips of your fancy.’ But Tombstone was on his way to Wyoming. He had just left New Mexico. Things were pretty hot for him down there; after a shootout in a saloon that is. The bartender started a fight where four-men had lost their lives, he had shot one. They hung the saloonkeeper. It was best to get going before too many minds got together and thought of lynching him.
Tombstone sprawled across a treeless plateau in the southeastern part of Arizona. And Blue, remembering the cockfights held in a roped-off area on the outskirts of town from years back, and needing to make a few bucks, some spending money, it would be more favorable on him for reentering the town, broke. Maybe he could make a few more bucks. And maybe some of his old friends were around. He also needed to land a job for a season, and often times there was need for a man with his skills, and talents.
He remembered a few years back in l879, how the fever of the silver mines was in every ones conversations, and money was but a handshake away—like in Deadwood. Many mine owners needed guards, gunmen to protect them. In the surrounding hills there were many mines, and miners back then. But now he had heard of some mines that were yielding ore, and making the town even richer.
Blue pulled up to a wooden post in town, he tied his reigns to it, and started heading to a saloon but a few feet away. Three men were standing on the wooden sidewalk, one tall with a derby hat, long beard, white shirt and old suit jacket. The one in the middle wore kind of a conductors hat, and the one on his left, a bit taller than the one in the middle, mustache, and a small rounded hat, standing with his right hand in his pocket, like a chair ready to fall back at the least bit of wind. He stood with a hand in his pocket as if he it was frozen as he stared at Blue walking toward him on the wooden sidewalk.
Blue was close to five food nine inches tall a rugged looking fellow, especially when unshaven, with dusty close and hat. His gun hung heave on his side, and low. He wore his colt pistol tight against his body though, especially before he’d go into a down like this, so there’d be no flopping of his holster; cleaned shaved for most occasions, except for now, as he had just arrived in town—with his bushy auburn sideburns, natural waves to his hair; square chin, a good looking fellow most woman would say.
The saloon was next-door to a pawnshop—two, stories high. Blue looked up and down Allen Street, sizing up everything. A man with a tie and dressed in black was making his way across the muddy street to the other side, from Macalister & Company, not far from a shoe store. He was a natural for details. Maybe that was why he lived so long he thought. Thirty-four men he killed since he left home at the age of eighteen. He was considered the fastest gun alive. No exceptions to the past either.
The saloon had three windows in front, one on the right hand side and one above the door and another one on the left hand side of the building. He often liked not to be too close to windows. Too many people new his face in Arizona; and outside of Arizona, too many knew his name. And too many people would like to shoot him in the back, as they had done to Wild Bill Hickok, back in l876, in Deadwood. Blue remembered that well. He was in Deadwood that day, but missed the action he had already been shot. Matter-of-fact, he hadn’t been back there for a spell; he never liked the narrow streets, but he was thinking of heading on down there, or up there, he knew Lola, an old girlfriend.
Blue walked past the three men, slowly. The tall one whispered:
”Looks like one of the Masterson Brothers except for the mustache.”
The middleman turned to look; he caught Arizona’s eyes, and then quickly turned away:
“It’s Arizona-Blue, just look at his eyes, they’re as blue as the sky.”
The third man noted also, saying:
“Yaw, could be, could be, I saw him in town some years back—a loner, a mean kind of loner.”
Arizona swung the door to the saloon open, a few eyes from within turned towards him. He checked the place out as a matador would prior to entering a bullring or a prizefighter checking out his prey, just before the bell rang. The bartender stood behind the bar squint-eyed, trying to see if who the stranger was: cleaned shaved, white shirt, hair groomed with axel grease, about 5’9”, a vest of white and black silk, and a gun in a glass case behind him, as to imply he was ready in case of trouble.
To the right, a man was smoking a cigar, leaning in a chair with only two legs of the chair supporting him, as he laid his right hand on the table, the other dangling to his side. He was playing with some silver dollars, by himself. To his right, a card game was going on. Five fellows were playing, not paying much attention to the breeze coming through the door. Standing not too far from the card game another man watched the players as if checking out a few of the fellow’s hands.
Just then the tall man from outside looked in with another fellow, pointing at Blue:
“Yaw,” said the tall man’s friend, “that’s Blue all right.”
The words echoed into every ones ears in the bar. Even the card game stopped. Silence filled the long slim barroom. You could tell they had all heard of his reputation, and Tombstone was just a place where a crazy gunslinger could practice his trade with out too much trouble. It was just a year ago [1881] the gunfight took place at the OK Corral. Blue had met the Earp’s some years back. He was more of a shrewd businessman he had thought than a gunfighter. He thought it funny Wyatt made it out of the OK Corral alive.
Pulling his hat off, Arizona commented: “I’m just here for a drink, fellows, not looking for trouble.”
Blue starred at the bottles of whiskey across from him scotch to be exact.
“The names Jake, Mr. Blue,” said the saloonkeeper.
“Glad to meet you Jake,” replied Blue, “give me a double shot of the scotch, and beer to chase it down.”
From the backdoor, an Indian woman came in. She was caring some wood for the cast-iron stove that stood against the wall of the left side of the room. She was tall, taller thought Blue, taller than the average Indian woman. And he knew most of the tribes in the area.
She couldn’t be Sioux, or Chippewa; they were too far to the north. She didn’t look like a Comanche he told himself, because she wore buckskin. She had tinsel and beads as ornaments around her nick. She was very pretty, strong looking, and warrior like. There was grace in her movements, and pride he told himself, in her face. He liked looking at her, and he liked her make up.
As he stared at the Indian woman putting the firewood down, it brought him back to memories of his childhood. His father had beaten his first wife to death while drinking one night, he was a drunk—his mother was his third wife; and on a number of occasions swung at him, but missed most of the time, he was fast in the ducking. It was hard to keep your head up he remembered, after being hit a few times, but he died when Blue was fourteen, too much booze or something. His heart just stopped one day, and that was it. They were tough times then and after; he then went into the Civil War, he was 25-years old then. He was kinder to his mother than he was to his previous wives, he thought. He drank on occasions, but not like he had prior to meeting his mother. The love he wanted, he probably never got, but then he’d think, he could had been worse, he could had been born to one of his other wives and beat to death as a child, although he never beat his daughter Sarah, his step-sister.
It seemed to Blue, as he watched her every move; she was trying hard to get that respect also. She tried to keep her chin level with her shoulders, to show at one time she possessed dignity. But Blue noticed it fell short of what she wanted, as she glanced at his starring.
“Say Jake, who’s the Indian woman?”
“The squaw belongs to Todd Lukas, the gentleman sitting down over there.”
Blue looked. It was the man playing with the silver dollars, a checkered suit coat, vest, and timepiece with a golden chain hanging so everyone could see it: a big cigar in his mouth.
“A big shot, haw!” Blue mentioned lightly loud, somewhat under his breath, but enough to make a little echo. Todd looked towards the bar, not sure if he was or was-not, part of Blues conversation.
“Curiosity Mr. Blue,” said the bartender.
“You could say that. Can’t figure out what tribe she’s from.”
“Save you some time, she’s Osages,” said Todd Lukas. From afar, as if he had ears as sharp as Blue’s eyes.
“She does odd jobs around here,” said Jake the bartender, almost reluctantly, yet hoping there wouldn‘t be any trouble; as if he helped with the conversation so Blue’s mind would be off Lukas.
He added: “I pay” Jake hesitated, then commented: “Mr. Lukas for it.”
“I thought slavery went out in ‘65,” commented Blue.
“Well, if you must know mister,” replied Todd, “I own her, heart and soul. Ok!”
“How’s that?” asked Blue?
“That’s none of your business, even to you, gunslinger,” said Lukas as he stood up from his chair.
Blue look about, he noticed there wasn’t much room in the bar, and right by Jake was his cash register, and right by that his gun and rifle in the glass box; mirrors on each side. Blue took a quick look into Jakes eyes, made a little smile, almost a sneer, and Jake moved closer to the cash resister, and away from the guns. Blue then shifted his focus to Todd, although Jake knew Blue could still see him with his peripheral vision.
“I don’t, like your attitude, Mr. Lukas.”
Blue’s hand was already lowered to his holster. His double shot of whiskey was already finished. Blue added with a calm vice, as steady as a cats purr: “You better be fast mister,” adding, “I love to shoot, I’m like an alcoholic, can’t help taking the next step—early…eee.” and he slurred the early part of the word, like a cat.
Blue looked about the room. Everyone remained silent. No one moved. They knew the game. Any movements would be taken for assistance on Mr. Lukas’ behalf. And it looked to Blue; he didn’t have a lot of friends in the bar. Plus out of the several people in the bar, only a few had guns on anyway; and they looked more like farmers and ranchers than gunfighters. And he knew by the looks of things, they were not going to protect a vulture, not with their lives anyhow.
“You know how to use that Smith & Wesson Schofield .45?” asked Blue.
Todd was silent. And he did know how to use the gun. Todd was somewhat known throughout the area as not being afraid of Wyatt Earp, or for that matter Bat Masterson, but then Blue wasn’t either. Blue new the name Lukas, although he didn’t let on. To him he was simply another cowhand who thought he was quick with skinning his gun.
Todd looked at his gun on his hip took a step away from the table.
“You know Todd,” said Blue “Jesse James’s choice.” Todd looked dumfounded, not knowing what Blue was saying. “The gun mister,” said Blue as if insulting his knowledge about guns. Now Todd knew, Jesse hand the same kind of gun.
“So what,” said Todd with irritation? Than looked at Blue with burning eyes.
“Let’s get down to business, Mr. Lukas, go for it, and skin that gun. Go oooooooo!”
“Listen Blue,” said Todd with a shaky voice, “the sheriff in town is a good friend of mine…”
“He can die just as fast as you can,” responded Blue with a low voice, calm as still water.
“So walk away big man, but leave the girl behind, she’s free.”
“I can do that,” replied Todd.”
“Mr. Lukas,” commented Blue, “…it’s only money, and a woman. She’s not worth your life is she?”
“Maybe I can beat you,” said Todd.
Blue shock his head, said to himself: he took my grace as weakness.
Just about this time Todd got more confidence, and took another two steps to position himself according to his aim to be.
The woman looked sharp at Lukas—, almost wanting him to start shooting. At that moment, the woman ran to Jakes guns behind the bar, broke the glass with her hands, cutting them, and pulling a gun out, and dropped the pistil on the floor. She was full of tears, yelling:
“I want to kill him, let me!!”
The whole saloon was on edge now; the bartender still standing by the cash resister, the Indian woman bleeding at the end of the bar, looking at the gun on the floor. The card players looking at their hands, and making sure no one switched cards, as they watched the gunfight about to take place. And the two from outside the bar gawking through the crack of the door.
“Let’s go Mister Lukas, were loosing time, I need another shot, and some food, I had a long ride.”
“Answer question Mr. Blue,” asked Todd Lukas, “listen, there is really no need to fight. I’m not a gunfighter, although I’m not bad with a gun. I won the Indian down in a card game in Arkansas. She was married to a drunken Indian; I gave him $100, for her. She’s simply working the money off.”
“How long she was working the money off, Mr. Lukas?”
“That’s none of your business again,” said Mr. Lukas with a smirk.
“So she’s a married woman?” inferred Blue getting more irritated and about to push Lukas to shoot.
Now the whole bar was looking at Todd and Blue’s hands, as if one would surprise the other with a quick draw; perhaps thinking, Todd was talking to Blue to distract him, for they had seen him do that before.
Said the woman (with a crying voice):
“He killed my husband—he, he gave money to drink to my husband, he do, he-e drank much, he swell tongue in night. He took me then. My husband and I went to get supplies, Fort Gibson.”
“I saved you from that drunken bum, bitch!!” Said Todd, with a roaring voice.
“You save-me for you—for who-ore. My husband bad… but not bad-a like yu.” She stopped and wiped her eyes, kicked the gun away from her feet, as if to tell Blue, she was over her emotional hate. That she would not get in the way.
Blue looked into her deep black eyes. She had lovely features; long black hair. But she was tired. Worn to the point she looked ten years older then her 20’s, an unhealthy looking skin color, but strong features. There was now a little hope in the glitter of her eyes. She held herself up by the end of the wooden bar, as her legs seem to be like noodles fighting to gain strength, and tighten the elasticity—.
She was all of five foot seven inches tall; large bosom, and a shapely figure beyond that, if one looked beyond her silted clothing, and scabbed legs, and cut feet that is she was lovely. Her hair touched her waist, uneven, and with some snarls. She had strong looking hands; veins perturbing from her reddish-brown skin, coffee colored check bones.
“What’s your name?” asked Blue, as he pretended not to notice Todd, making him quite insufficient for the moment, and posing as being off guard; two could play the game he thought.
“It is Wild flower,” she responded with a half smile, as if it took all her energy to talk.
“And where is your tribe. I’ve heard of your band. Though they became extinct years ago, I thought?”
Responded Wild Flower, calmly, after catching her voice from all that was happening:
“Yes, we are not many; all that is left is one-hundred or so, maybe less. But many years ago, there were 5000-of us; maybe more, so many I could not count them all.” She coughed a little, got some more air into her lungs, and continued, “…small-pox killed many. War …and the tribe split, years ago. I was just a kid then. We were mighty warriors.” She ended proudly, pushing her chin back with the little strength she had left.
Blue had heard many things about her tribe, and what she had said was mostly true he thought. It is too bad he thought how a mighty tribe passes with the wind, as if time ate it up. As if it never was. Who would know?
“Well,” Blue said with a confirming voice: “you are free to go wherever you want, back to wherever, go Wild Flower…while you can.”
She looked at Todd. His face was as red as her lips. His eyes were filled with anger, hate, and revenge. Todd stared at Wild Flower as if his prize was being taken away. Blue could see all his movements from his peripheral vision, as he centered in the middle of his chest. Every twitch he made with his leg movements were caught by Blue.

“NO WAY…GUNFIGHTER!” [Screamed Todd] —then he went for his gun, as Blue’s stance was half to the girl, and half to Todd. But even before Todd could get his gun out of his holster, Blue had pivoted, lifting his holster upward slightly, which had a hole where the barrow of the gun was in the leather for a bullet to pass through without loosing any velocity. And his bullet raced across the room like a bolt of lightening, lodging straight in the upper part of the chest.
“It was a fare fight, short lived, but a fare one,” commented the bartender, as nervous as a squirrel with stolen nuts. He was so panicky; he was starting to stutter he was so wound up.
Then gathering up his composure, he said with a swallow:
“It’s a shame; it seems it didn’t have to end up this was, a… a darn shame. “

Then the tall man outside of the bar, talking loud to his friend now—a few spectators about, said:
“I told Todd just let this squaw go, tilled been-his death, and darn well it has been, damn, fool!”
“Yaw,” said Blue, taking a deep breath, as he often did after a gunfight. For two reason, one because he stopped breathing every time he went for his gun, it gave him better aim, and second, to capture the excitement, the moment, the high:
“Yaw,” he said again, “I suppose it was fare, as fare as his stealing the Indian woman.”
Blue looked at the Indian woman She didn’t move Blue knew she was a little in shock, disbelief She was free though
Wild Flower, it’s true, no one has a hold on you its best you find your way back home
With that, Wild Flower seemed to catch her breath. Put on a big smile, kicked the gun, and brushing her hair back with her hands—used as a brush—looking one last time around the dingy and narrow smelly bar. There was no goodbyes, she simply walked past the bartender, around Todd’s dead body, and stopped by Blue, not saying a word—, then out the door.
Blue, put a silver dollar on the bar counter, said Jake with a smile:
“What’s that for?”
“Tell the preacher man to bury him with a bible. Too bad he didn’t have time to read it before him drew.”
—Having said that, Blue walked out the door. As he looked about, Wild Flower was nowhere to be seen. Blue smiled—said to himself: Smart gal. Jumped on his saddled horse, and bid farewell to the tall man, and his friend. He knew the town had jumpy nerves after that, and it was best he be headed north.







Arizona Blue – Gunfighter:
The Mexican Standoff
[La Pelea del Mejicano]

Deadwood: Chickamauga




Writings of D.L Siluk
Revised From the 2002 version;
July 2005 [four chapters]




[Deadwood - l884]

Chapter One
The Mexican 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 he 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, mighty 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 some fine looking women, who didn’t ask any questions, could bath him.
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 demanding, 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.
“Señor, 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 were 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 hand was a little freer in case he needed it. The tall drunk’s friend, with a beard suggested they go before something else happens. The tall man just laughed, saying:
“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 bodyguards 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 Spanish:
“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 partner.” 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 voice:
“Gracias Señor,” 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 Deadwood.



Arizona Blue-Gunfighter
Showdown on Main Street
[Chapter Two, to: ‘Mexican Stand-off’]



Blue, he—after tending to his horse went down Main Street towards the end of town, where Lola’s Boarding House was. She had a fancy sign outside, and the extension she was working on some years back was already built. She was looking out her front bay window when Blue pulled up. The place had a walkway going halfway around the building now it hadn’t before. It was impressive, thought Blue.

As she noticed Blue standing outside looking in, she ran to the white picked-fence along side her wooden sidewalk, and opened up her arms to hug him, saying:
“OH Dios mío, mi amorcito volvio.”
After the hug, she commented:
“Que bueno verlo de nuevo señor Blue,” then shifted to English: “…do you plan on staying for a while, oh I hope so!” She was smiling with a tear in her right eye.
“Yes my dear pretty young española gal; for the winter months at least.”
Thought Blue as she let go from the hugging him: she really knows how to hug— “Do yaw hav a roo-mm far rent?”
“Sure enough do—tienes suficiente dinero para pagar el cuarto?”
“You do haw… (a murmur0 good!” replied Blue.
“Come on in, sírvete café, its still early. “
Replied Blue: “Gracias, querida”
And so Blue followed her into the house. As he looked about—sure enough, there was the Seth Thomas Clock he bought for her when she first opened up her house doors to the public; it was a fancy 1870 model, he was proud to see she had it hanging on the wall in the hallway.
“Do you miss Juneau?” asked Blue, which was the city in Alaska, where they first met.
“Sí, siempre extrañare Juneau, Mr. Blue, it was a beautiful place, and time, bonito lugar”
“Yaw, it sure was, especially that lovely glacier you liked. “
“You mean the Mandenhall?” asked Lola.
“Yaw, I guess that sounds like the thing, it was a lot of ice on ice. “

—They both sat in the kitchen having coffee. Lola was as happy as a ten-year old school girl who just got her first boyfriend; same her Negro help was in the barn with her father milking the cow and cleaning out the stalls. But Lola would tell them when they came in the good news, or perhaps not so good, as her father did not like gunslingers, in particular; but Lola was no dumbly; she knew he was a wanderer. He would never stay in one place too long, but it would be long enough for her she felt, plus she was lost in the moment. He was the fist man she had ever made love to—the very first. And she could never find another quite like him.
“Got to find a job before winter comes, and settle down for a spill, I guess,” said Blue.
“There’s a horse rancher outside of town cerca a dos millas de aquí, he seems always to be hiring and firing cowhands and so forth, you know repair men for the fences and all.”
Blue thought about the two cowboys in the saloon, “Yaw, I had a run in with a few guys in the…” before he could finish Lola commented:
“Todo listo…” she said [All ready?] Then she went quiet.
“I’ll show you to your room. Necesitas bañarte [both], Baja cuando estes listo, Calentare agua.”
“Where’s the wood kept now?” asked Blue. She laughed. He laughed.
“In my room?” [‘si quieres calentarte, tienes que ir alli’].
-–Blue smiled, saying: “Aw, you’re still my gal I see!”
“Blue, it’s always been you, sólo tú.” And she grabbed a key, and they walked to the second floor, room #4.
Blue fell, face first down unto the bed, fell to sleep like a dead mouse on the prairie, roasted by the sun. It was three hours later when he woke up; he heard some talking going on in the street. He looked out the window, up the street, there were five men chatting to a lady.
“Looks like trouble,” Blue mumbled somewhat to himself—, wiping his face with a hand towel; he looked about Lola must had went out for a spell.

As Blue readied himself to go up the block the makeshift-sheriff was standing in his office, about 200-feet from the happening, where the five men had cornered a Chinese woman in the middle of the street. It was an hour past noon, and they had just left the Gem Saloon. The sheriff didn’t budge from his window to get involved. Chinese were not the most protected to him, matter-of-fact, they were quite the opposite. Plus these guys were a bad bunch, as was the whole town, and his belief was, keep them off the streets or they are fair game for any drunk wanting a free whore, although she wasn’t a whore. But the way the town folks thought in Deadwood, was simple: there is no law, and so if I can I will, and if you can’t stop me, the entire better. They worked at the Golden T. Ranch, just outside of town. The one Lola had suggested Blue find a job at.
Lola now was standing out by her gate looking up the street. The men were pushing the Chinese woman around; she was but sixteen or seventeen thought Lola. She was tripping to her knees as they were having a game with her, pushing her, and grabbing her as they fell into their arms. She was getting bruised and dirty from the dusty road, thick with dried up mud. She was caught in the middle of their circle in the middle of the street, laughing, and pulling at her blouse and dress; saying:
“Give me a little.”
She didn’t understand what was happening, or what they were saying; but she was telling them something in Chinese. As Blue came out the door, Lola asked what is she saying, Blue listened he had been around enough dope houses to understand some Chinese and the woman kept yelling; said Blue to Lola in Spanish:
“Oh Dios mío too, me quieren violar, ayúdenme…ayúdenme, help me!” [Oh my God help me] Lola knew the woman was being rapped.
“She’s saying, ‘Oh my god…’ Blue,”
“I know.” Said Blue again, “The men are starting to rape her.”
“I know, “she started to cry, both Lola and the Chinese cried. He knew he shouldn’t get involved with the towns affairs, Chinese were to the whites were a lesser breed, and some may not take kindly to interfering. On the other hand, it was being done in public, and could start a little town war, for there was a section of Chinese, that could hold their own, perhaps not against the whole town though.
Blue stood still, not wanting to get involved, and Lola’s tears started coming down her cheeks. She couldn’t look at Blue, if she did, she knew he would go on her behalf and help the woman, and she really didn‘t want to be beholding to him in such a manner, and cause trouble. The men could burn her house down also, and that was her livelihood, burn it down after Blue left. The young lady was now on the dirt, dress half up, and the men closing in on the circle.
“I got to go get a shave, Lola, be back soon,” said Blue.
She couldn‘t say a word, she was stone still, beguile on the whole thing; there had been many rapes she heard about, but she was never so close to one, and helpless. As Blue walked up the street, about to walk past the circle in the middle of the street, the men had torn her blouse half off, her breasts were exposed, and another man had tripped her to where she had fallen back down again, for the umpteenth time, and another had opened his pants, and jumped on her as if he was ready.
Two of the men held her, one holding her head, another her two her legs, as the bearded one, tall and heavy, turned to look at his fellow comrades, with a smirk on his face about to say something, and she started screaming. Several women standing by watching with their husbands started pulling them away, in case they decided to help, or in anyway get involved.
Several other young men stood by in curiosity, but started to back off as Blue stepped in. No one helped. The man was doing what he came to do, as she screamed, as all the other four drunks were watching; now Blue came behind them. With one had he pulled the mans hair back and pistil whipped him, and the woman rolled over to her side, the man did not complete his task, and then as he lay bloody on the ground, he asked the other four drunks:
“Who’s next!” and shot a hole in the foot of one for saying “Me.” And the three ran like snakes that were being drowned out of their holes; jumping running falling as Blue shot two bullets past their heads. You could her breeze of the bullets.
The woman started to push her body up; she was thin, with long black silky hair; too young to be walking along Blue thought. She was breathing hard, but had spunk, she spit at the men as they ran, and at the man lying down pistol-whipped.
“Kick him!” Blue told the lady, and she scratched his eyes so bad they tore open the eyelids.
“Me name Ming,” she said, drying her tears with her long hair. Had she not been beaten so bad—thought Blue—she was a foxy looking young lady; but Blue was old enough to be her father, he was born the same year, Mark Twain was, 1835, so his mother used to tell him.

— “It’s about time sheriff, where yaw been, watching the show?” said Blue.
“That’s not even nice,” replied the young sheriff.
Right about now, Blue had enough of the sheriff and backtalk,
“You want some?” asked Blue, stepping back as to give them room for a shootout. The sheriff just looked. He was being called on. That was not what he expected. Blue turned a half-foot.
“I said you want some, sheriff.” Everyone looked; the man on the ground crawled as fast as a wounded squirrel to the nearest sidewalk.
“No, no, I guess I should have been out here, I, I…don’t know.” I mean, I get really don’t get paid, I mean the bar owners and a few of the city businesses own me, I’m no real sheriff, I’m just their secret image they want to show folks who come into town, like the government. This is all Indian land.”
Blue knew all this already, that is why he was calling him on, he was a nobody, trying to play a somebody, with it suited the businesses, or ranchers; and hungry gold suckers in the mountains; all illegally trespassing on Indian land.
“Well I do know you’re a coward, or a bad sheriff,” said Blue, to add more injury to the previous insult. But Thomas Adams knew well enough, he was not getting paid to fight a troubleshooting gunslinger that had been totting guns for twenty-five years. The name of the game was getting rich and staying alive. He knew Blue, like Wild Bill, and Billy the Kid, and the rest of the gunslingers would all have their day, he didn’t need to bring it on any sooner.
“I think I’m more of a bad sheriff, than the coward. But no one would want a showdown with you—that is, no one in their right mind.” Said Thomas.
The other men having heard that quickly left well enough alone also, for a few were thinking of stepping in. Plus, the white man was alive, and a good beating never hurt anyone, so was their new thinking.
Said the sheriff [with a low voice] “It’s best you boys are on your way now—” as he approached the three drunks, and he added, “Pick up your buddy on the way out, you can drink tomorrow when things are a little quieter, ok?” They didn’t answer, they just found their horses, and threw their buddy over his saddle, grabbed the reins, and left town.


—Lola came running up. “Estás bien? You ok, Blue?”
The sheriff now standing on the wooden sidewalk by his office a hundred feet or so from them, sarcastically said,
“He’s the only one ok,” and left to go into his office before Blue could retaliate.
“ Gracias Blue” Lola cried. “Nadie quería ayudarla” Right in the middle of day a rape, what is this place coming to…? Lola said with a kind of refreshing voice.

As Blue headed to the barber shop, he thought in his head, ‘when will this day ever end.’
“Blue!” called the Sheriff, “you need a job, be my deputy.”
“What,” said Blue? [Rhetorically]
“I’d make you sheriff, but it has to come by a vote of the town. But I’ll do as you say and we can both kind run the town, and get paid. This town is getting too wild for me and you need a job unless you want to dig for gold, or mend fences?”
“I’ll think about it,” said Blue.
“Please do,” said the sheriff, “I don’t like what happened, but sometimes you know if you step in you’re dead. And a dead sheriff only ends up on boot hill. “
Blue knew he made sense, but didn’t like the coward part of him,
“Yaw, perhaps, for four or five months—only.”
“Thanks come down to the office when you’re done. If you’re going to the barber, tell him to put it on the city’s tab.”
Blue smiled, it was the only thing other than Lola that was the good part of the day, and a free haircut and now he’d add a shave onto it. And being a lawman for a few months was better than running horses, or mending fences or digging for gold, and he wasn’t much of a gambler; a drinker he was. But he was just going through town, just needed a job for winter, around the corner. Plus his chance for working at the Golden T. Ranch was most likely in question now anyhow.”




Arizona Blue-Gunfighter
The Barber Shop
& Chickamauga
[Chapter Three to Mexican Standoff]



Blue had two guns he always carried. One a belt gun, keep snug up against his belly, a 1860 .44 caliber Colt Army revolver and a matching holster cut down to create a powerful but concealable belt weapon; and his sidearm, a Colt .45 single-action, l880’s model—which he got when they first came out in ‘84. His .44 he got while serving in the Army during the Civil War.
He was a soldier from 1860-to-l865 and fought at the battle of Chickamauga. As Blue sat in the barber’s chair, and the barber started to cut his hair, his mind went back to those army days. The barber stopped for a second to sharpen the raiser for his cut and shave, and then went back to cutting his hair.
He sometimes had old memories—flashbacks—of the battle at Chickamauga. It would bring him to having bad sweats. It was in Virginia his Company of one-hundred and sixty men had to march into many houses to inform the residents they were about to burn them out of their homes. Their faces were horrifying. It was one thing to kill a man on a belief they were fighting a war for the country they lived in, but to burn a person out of his whole life in front of him, especially if he was in his 50s or 60s, was against most anyone’s values.
—It was in August of l861, Blue was just a young man back then. Blue was with his friend Smiley, he was a good man he recalled. Said Blue to the Barber:
“Watch the razor!”

Then Blue started to relive the battle again:
“‘Smiley, he was a good man, soldier. I got him out of trouble. I was just a kid. I thought the world was coming to an end. Smiley didn’t make it to Gettysburg, but he did to Chickamauga, sure enough, with me. Too bad I lost track of Smile when I, I got assigned to go to Gettysburg…with—I just lost track of Smiley. I never could find him afterwards. Maybe he’s dead. In any case, Locust Gap, yaw, we marched into that didn’t we, sure did and took the damn train from there. Then word comes back while on the train, we were headed for Kentucky.
“On the train, Smiley was caught in-between two soldiers, I remember now. He wasn’t a fighter you know. I came along and asked if they wanted to test me out. Smiley was as happy as a hog to see me. He said to the two guys: ‘You’re not so brave now are yaw!’ The two knew I wasn’t a bluffer, yaw, that’s right, and decided to leave well enough alone. Smiley and I walk to another car, no sense in provoking trouble.
“Smiley got a hit [flesh wound] at the battle of Shiloh, I again was lucky, as always. But Chickamauga was different. It was a big fight. The bloodiest fight I had ever seen. I wish I had known Lola back then, I needed some comforting. If ever I thought I was going to die, and had an ounce of fear I didn’t want, it was then.
For some reason, winter always scared me since then. It was the only time of year I wanted to be safe and sound. Have a warm place—you know. Not take cold baths in the river, like at Chickamauga Creek, things like that stick with you for a life time.””

“You say something Mister Blue?” asked the barber.
“I must have been dreaming out loud.” Said Blue.
“You mentioned Chickamauga, I lost a brother there.” Said the barber.
“Is that what I said, yaw,” said Blue, adding “and I lost my youth there,” and then closed his eyes again.
War is war not matter what thought Blue. It is the battles you remember. The area was big—a few miles each way; he was now starting to relive it again: “North to South, and East to West. Smiley and I fought up and down the area. We came in, us Yankees on the 18th, the confederates, were already there. When the fight began, we fought for two days in the woods, straight; cedar ticket was dense, like my hair back then. Bullets were flying every which way. It seemed to be hitting every leave in every tree. You can hear them wheeze by you, you can even hear them coming; if you turn, you either turn into them or you’re saved by an inch, its best not to stand still.
Smiley woke me up, 2: OO AM the first night. You always sleep with one eye open; I was up in a heartbeat. ‘Yaw, Smiley,’ I said, ‘where are you?’ it was dark. ‘Right here blue.’ He said.
‘How many you think we’ve lost?’ Smiley asked me.
‘Too hard to tell in this dark thick abyss of a forest,’ I replied.
‘We’ll see each other in a few days, when it’s all over I suppose.’ I added.
That afternoon, we fought on Lafayette Road. It was another bloody hit. We had fought back and forth on the road all day long. Would it ever end…yaw, that’s what I was saying back then. We named the road afterwards Bloody Lane. Then morning came. Bragg knew where everyone was, it seemed. It was foggy that morning I remember— late in the morning, in and out of the woods, up and down. Would it ever end? The worse frighten was on my line, what they called Thomas’s Line. Thousands were being killed. Some soldier’s running back across the Ridge. But old Thomas stayed there like a rock.
“It seemed our Company was blown to smithereens (he moaned a bit, the barber started to tremble but calmed himself down)…scariest moment for both Smiley and me was when it was dark and we had to run right up to the muzzles of their guns. I didn’t mind dying, but I didn’t want one in my mouth either. We were told the next day to retreat to the nearest town. We were getting beaten pretty badly. At the end very few men came out of the woods alive. For a number of days I had not heard any birds singing. Now on that last day, the guns silent, I could hear the birds again. Maybe that was the best part of the battle, them damn birds singing again. Like Smiley said, ‘…when you’re wounded and thinking you’re about to die, the grass looks so much greener.’ It is all so strange now, so many years gone by”’.

“You ok, Mr. Blue,” said the sheriff as he walked through the door—the barber stopping instantly from shaving, still a little nervous.
“Blue,” said Blue franticly.
“Yes,” replied the sheriff jumping backwards and to the side. “I just came to see if you were still my deputy, and let the barber know he can put the bill on the cities counsels’ bill.”
Blue now opening up his eyes, sweating: “Yes, yes, yes…” don’t spook me.
Said Andy the barber, “I’ll fix the bill the way you said, but I think you best leave Mr. Blue alone, he’s been having some rough dreams, that Chickamauga battle Mr. Blue, it was a bad one.”
Blue rubbing his eyes, focusing them, commented: “Had an old dream, Chickamauga, yaw, that’s right…”
Said the Sheriff, “I heard it was quite the battle?”
“Sure was,” answered Blue—getting up from his shave. The barber was just going over a section of his face a second time. And Blue knew the barber was too scared now to continue.
“Hello Sheriff,” said Blue, “let’s go check the town out, I want to get drunk, maybe you got some more credit?”
“Sounds good, Mr. Blue, or should I say Deputy Blue?”



Arizona Blue-Gunfighter
The Rooming House
[Chapter Four to: Mexican Standoff]


It was a long day; Blue went to the Boarding House to get a good sleep. The Sheriff introduced him to everyone in town, as if it mattered, it was more for letting everyone know what Blue looked like, for few did, only his reputation preceded him. If anything, he didn’t seek notoriety. They seemed to be quite torn on giving him a badge, that it might go to his head, in the since of law and order, and they didn’t care for the law to be frank, only the order—and that was only for business. But it didn’t matter to Blue, a job was a job, and it paid for his room and board at the Boarding House, and his haircuts, and winter was coming along, thereafter he’d be on his way someplace. Thus, that evening Blue went to sleep for the first time in a long time, with his guns completely off, one under his pillow. He felt safe for on this one occasion; perchance, he thought—: there could be a few more.
In the morning, Blue came down about 9:30 AM. Breakfast was warm the rest of the house was at work, or gone someplace.
Said Lola,
“I was hoping you would get up early so we could talk. But I knew you were tired. Dormiste bien? “
“Just like a new born baby, Lola; I slept very well. Even with my guns off.” She smiled.
The coffee was black, strong, and hot. Just the way Blue liked it. He was now clean-shaven, and the tired look he brought with him, had on his face the day before was half gone, he even looked a ting younger. He was actually good looking. Lola eyed him up several times as she went back and forth in the kitchen, giving him some eggs over-easy, no butter on his toast, and some good old potatoes.
Said Lola in a low voice walking around the table:
“You goen to see me tonight or to work? —cuando salgas de tu trabajo?” Blue laughed, thinking (she always speaks in Spanish and English at the same time), then said:
“I’m no banker, Ill see yaw maybe some time this afternoon; got to see if the sheriff has any surprises for me, if truly he is a sheriff. ”




Arizona Blue-Gunfighter
Abilene-Lorato
[1867]

Questions plague a man all his life, one being: why was so much of it wasted.
—A rhetorical question at best.
As he rode into Abilene [he being: Arizona Blue], the heat increased on his face and hands especially on Dan. He had learned long ago how to live. Let the night, let the day, and let each minute form its own shape. Like a weed—yes, like a wild weed, let it grow naturally. When Arizona-Blue rode into town, he had not stuffed his head with things to do. He rode in slowly on his horse Dan; a worried man—NO!
“I was thinking,” he said to Dan—his fist and jaw extended over the saddle, leaning forward by Dan’s ears, “I reckon a man should be able to expect the best—Hoh! But it seems only a few get it.”
Dan’s eyes turned with his mane, to the right, not all the way, just a morsel, and a ‘HAUAoaa…’ came from his throat-juggled horse pipes.
“Here I thought you were asleep,” he stated to Dan. Then looking about he noticed a few women having a pleasant discussion as he rode by the hardware store. An old Mexican spit out some tobacco on the wooden sidewalk. The sun was low overhead, bright. His peripheral vision was sensitive and perfect. He noticed a few men walking about, went into a bar. The sheriff, he was standing out by his jail compound, the stables nearby. He did a double take on the sheriff, as the sheriff did a double take on him: they gave each other a lukewarm look. A thought amused him: the sheriff looked like Loreto, a foe from long ago. Long, long ago, when he was quite young, just out of the war, the Civil War, perhaps it was 1867, when they first met, if not, thereabouts. It was a hot day like this to, but it was in Wichita he met him: no, no he pondered, he thought: perhaps Phoenix: yah, he told himself, it was Phoenix
He was young back then, and he shot a postal out of his hands, out of the Mexican’s hands, the hands of Loreto. Had he not, he’d be dead: not riding down this dirt trotted street. But that is not where it stopped, oh no, not at all. Once he turned around, once Blue made a complete 180-degree turnabout, the Mexican tried to stab him, tried and failed. ‘Yes,’ he told himself, ‘that’s Loreto, and he’s baffled at who I am, or perhaps, wondering if I recognized him…’ it was twenty-years ago that that wrangle took place, or so—it was to too long ago to remember all the details, but he was not to be trusted too to dangerous.
As Blue got off his horse a voice said: “Buenos tardes, Senor!”
“Is that you Loreto?” asked Blue.
“It is me, senor, me, me, me, the ghost of yor past!”
“SO IT is,” Blue said bobbing his head a ting, twice, “so it is.”
“I by-you whiskey señor Blue, make thinks ok?” He hesitated, waited for a response, but Blue just tied his horse slowly, taking off the saddle now.
“No!” said Blue.
“A man learns young how unfair a world can be senor, I want to be friends, you, me, friends—no?”

“No,” replied Blue.
Loreto wiped the sweat off his face, a dirty rag with a sweaty dirty face, and a badge that he forgot he had on.
“You are she to cause me trouble señor?”
Blues foot steps strengthened.
“Satisfaction, you want satisfaction,” said Blue.
Loreto jerked his hand to his pistil, almost on his pistil, by his pistil, so close, you almost though it had touched it for a millisecond, and the lightening in Blues eyes put an awesome look of doom on Loreto’s face, and he went for his draw—Loreto went to skin his gun— Loreto’s stomach turned dark red: through his shirt, flesh and almost out his back—a hole was created. He then dropped to his knees, —said Blue in a bewildered way,
“Even you knew how poor you are in respect to my draw…” and again nodded his head in disbelief: in skepticism, not knowing, but acting out of some kind of automatic reflex, perhaps thinking about it for 20-years, he drew on me (murmured: Blue)— He was in disbelief, complete disbelief, that he’d even consider to draw with him.

9/15/05

Crazy Sam
Arizona Blue - Gunfighter

The lost, now found
Written July, 2005



[1884: Deadwood]


The Barn



“Yessam,” said Crazy Sam “you are tired, because I is. Don’t let dhem white folks work you da death!” Sam in the barn talking to a horse, moving a carriage away from Tasma.
“Keep me wake up till I get ya fed ol girl,” said Sam.
Sam jerked on the horse’s mouthpiece, to move Tasma away from the carriage, clutching her by the bridle.
Sam now paced the barn with his hands in his pockets, Tasma was not yet in her stall, which was open, “You ant git no free er,” Sam mumbled to Tasma.
The floor was dry, a few holes in the roof where you could see the sky, Sam looked up, and it was a star lit sky, a warm night.
“Come back this way,” Sam told the horse, but the horse was headed back outside. He walked the horse around the barn to slow her heartbeat, she was sweating (Lola had run the horse hard), and she still needed to cool down. The cow was in the back of the barn she was making noise. The wind came through the open door, rattled something, and spooked the cow, and then Tasma, both were uneasy.
Sam looked over the horse to see if she was cooled down, “Dhem foks hit you sho! Loa, she dhink ya can fly…. You com her and et,”
Crazy Sam, as he was known, started singing some old southern songs (he was originally from Alabama); said Sam as he fed Tasma again, “I goes my way and lets white folks go dheirs; I reckon.” Sam was born in 1823. He’d always tell folks he was born before the Mexicans shot up the Alamo.
“Dhey still dhink dhey own us,” Sam told the horse; now the barn door just shut, “Cant nobody hear down here, from dhe house, no-ways and folks dhink I is crazy anyhow; taint no joke in it, cus I talks to myself all dhe time.”
The cow was making noise again, as Sam put the horse in the stall, again; then all of a sudden, Lola’s voice could be heard:
“Sam, Sam!”
“I sho doneit now; I declare if I aint in trouble. Shut up that cow,” said Crazy Sam, annoyed.

The Rocking Chair


Sam was sitting back in his rocking chair, on the porch of his small shack of a house, in back of the livery stable he worked; Lola’s house, in the front, she owned the huge barn that was now used for a stable. It was in years past, a miners house, with a shaft, for streams of water to sort the gold from the dirt, with the water running down through the wooden shaft; now it was just horses, cows and whatever someone wanted to leave for a day or so, to be fed, bathed or rubbed down; or a combination of all.
Arizona Blue was in town and folks were talking about him, Crazy Sam had met him, a few years back, Lola had dated him. Lola owned a boarding house that was also connected onto the barn, and in back of it, fenced in corral, with a cow in it; and in back of that, Sam’s shack. She had done well for herself in the years past.
Sam was sitting back in his rocking chair, had finished most of his chores: his little shack was in back of the corral, he had two kids, older kids, one sixteen the other seventeen; it was Sunday and his wife and two children had just arrived back from church.
“Hush up,” said Sam’s wife, “go fetch your papas whisky jug, by his rocker, he’s had enough for Sunday morning,” she told the older boy (Matter).
Said Sissy, “Come on in the house Sam!”
“No, I’m going to the creek.”
“Whys that…?” said Sissy.
“dhey git company,” Sam said.
“Who is dhey…!?” said Sissy.
“Dhe town got that gunman back, yous know, Arizona Blue, and when hes in town, threes no tellin what goin to happen. Best ya stay indoors to.”
“I reckon we can plan on Lola seeing him haw pa?” said the younger boy.
“I don’t care,” Sam replied.
“I’m hungry Sissy,” said Sam, pausing to look at his old Negro wife, forgetting the creek.
She didn’t say a word, she was tired, and then they both saw Blue and Lola walking up the walk; Blue smiled at them as he checked his back, as often he did, he liked Sam and Sissy, and the kids, it was something he would have liked to have, a family. Blue’s figure was a blur for the old Negro though.
“Yah, that’s him alright,” said Sam, adding: “I’ll eit super out her tonight.”
“Whers my stew, my Sunday stew!” yelped Sam (getting irritated).
“Shhhh,” said Sissy. And she brought out a bowel of steaming hot stew for her husband. “Eit yor dinner now!” she looked about, said (looking at Cotton, her younger boy): “Git his spoon, “the steam of the stew was going up his nostrils, and some dripping from his lips.

Stew

Crazy Sam now was humming and rocking back and forth in his chair by his wife’s side, she in a stationary chair; then suddenly she got up and walked to the corral to check on the cow: normally Sam would do it, but he was half asleep.
“Ya’ll eat yor supper now,” she commented, while in motion, to her kids inside of the shack sitting at the table.
Cotton mumbled in the kitchen, ’I dont want anymore,’ and pushed it back out of his bowl, and it broke the cast-iron cooking pot over the heath.
When Sissy came back, it was now dark, the air was cool: said Sam as he stood up, “git yor nightie on, I wants to go to bed early, got to fix that wall clock in the moron….” Then they both walked into the shack, together.
In side, Cotton was cleaning fish, and the older son, Matter was playing on a bingo, “Dont ya come pesterin, ya hear me boys…?” Sam said as they went into the bedroom; both boys looking at one another; Sam never looking back to see if they heard.
Said the older boy to Cotton, “…yous got to tune up that bingo some!”
“Its too early to stop playing,” said Cotton, adding, “I thought I did tuned it up.”
“You is tonight,” said Matter.





Meeting at the Red Dog
Arizona Blue - Gunfighter

Forgotten Episode


Writings of Dennis L. Siluk
Compiled and written 1/2002
[Finished 1 December 2005]




[Juneau, Alaska - l884-85]


The Man called Arizona - Blue


The man called Arizona Blue was a man by himself and before him laid another town, this time in Juneau, Alaska. Behind him were scars and memories. Each one had a name. He forgot them, but he remembered the count. It was thirty-six dead. He was known as the fastest gunfighter that ever lived.
He had come up river from Seattle, heard about some gold up in the hills, over in the Yukon, area. He figured it would all become bigger as time went on: should someone hit a big strike, then half of San Francisco and Seattle both would cross the ocean to get here. In any case, he was now in Juneau, and would get supplies in a week or so, cross the Canadian boarder and find his way. But first things first he said, to the Red Dog Saloon.
He had not been in Juneau for more than a few hours and had noticed bears lingering out the outskirts of town, eating garbage from a few neighbors’ garbage cans. Brown bears. He was a gunfighter, but panning for gold could be a new beginning, so he thought: thinking if a farmer really put his mind to it, he could be a bank president, maybe, in any case he’d find out. So to the Red Dog he went. Not many people up her he told himself should have heard of him, this was a new beginning.
Tammy Oakley was in the back kitchen making breakfast for the few of the hunters.
“Close the door,” said the bartender to Blue, as he waked in, leaving the door opened a bit and the cold air come in. “Can’t you fellow’s ever read the damn sign,” said the bartender. Blue looked around, no one paid any attention to him, or what the bartender said.
“Sorry,” said Blue, with cough, hoping no one would recognize Him, trying not to make a disturbs, lest he be the spot light, and he had too more of that in his life time.
“What can I get you stranger?” said the bartender.
Tammy nodded to Henry, the barkeep, saying: “here, here’s the food, got to get the rest ready, come and get it…” it wasn’t his job of course to dish out the food, but he had a yearning for Tammy, and didn’t mind helping.
“You think a moment what you want stranger, and I’ll be with you in a minute.” And Henry went to fetch the dishes and handed them to the hunters sitting at a table nearby.
“Oh, now what were you going to have?” asked Henry to Blue.
He looked at Tammy, Tammy looked at him, Henry looked at both of them, thinking, here we go, more grief has been caused by such smiles and looks than gossip.
“Does it concern Tammy, because if it does, you best hightail it out of her stranger!” said Henry.
Blue looked into the bartenders eyes, there was no fear there, and he didn’t know Blue, in a way, Blue liked his reputation: it got in his way, but he liked it, and now would he have to tell him who he was? I mean this was not expected, no peers here, or fearing someone. Tammy didn’t say anything. Should he say he was “Arizona Blue,” they might laugh and put some of those big guns in front of his face.
“No Mister Bartender, it only concerns my two shots of whisky, and where can I buy some equipment for going north to the Yukon to pan for gold?”
“Well, here’s the whiskey,” he said “and as for the information, find it in another bar, after you’re done drinking these two drinks.”
“Another whisky,” said Blue.
“You didn’t here me stranger, beat it”
“You mean you’re involved with Tammy?” Blue said, rudely, looking him straight in the eyes; His hand by his gun. Henry’s face got all red, several of the guys in the bar looked at Henry, started laughing: said a voice, “Even strangers got you figured out, but not Tammy yet.”
“Get out of here strange,” Said Henry, “before I…”
“What?” said Blue?
Henry went for his gun under the bar, and put it in Blue face. Now the bar was looking at Blue, and Henry, and no one was laughing.
“Better beat it Mister, Henry is pretty good with that gun, and started laughing.” At this point Blue had to face the question, is it worth it, thinking about it, the man started to pull back the hammer; scandalous it could be, thought Blue; if I kill him, the hunters could kill me, follow me up to the Yukon. Blue shook his head, and with the long part of his eye saw the hunters, and when Henry went to blink his eyes, Blue pulled his gun out so fast no one saw it coming, and shot Henry in the head. The several folks in the bar looked about to see who was with Blue to have done the shooting, and noticed his gun smoking. They started to shift their rifles, and Blue, shot a hole through one of the palms of the hunters, and everyone throw their rifles and guns on the wooden floor.
Said that same voice, “It was self defense, stranger, but we liked Henry I’d not go up to the Yukon if I was you.”
Blue walked out of the Red Dog, and just narrowly caught the same boat going back to Seattle, and got a ticket. Said Blue to himself: perhaps a farmer can never be a banker.


















End of the Episodes

1) “Lady in White,”
2) “Wild Flower,”
3) “The Mexican Stand off”
4) “At The Red Dog”
5) “Arizona-Blue, and the Wolf Nest” (in the North)
6) “Another Town,”
7) “Crazy Sam,”
8) “A Rough Year—1844”
9) In the Wagon
10) Purple, Gray Skies
11) Abilene-Lorato
12) A Fools Draw (1870s)

Notes on the making of: The Arizona-Blue stories: first I imagined, wrote in l990, the first two stories, for the most part put to rest, them two being, 1) “Lady in White,” being the first of the two, although if I recall right, in 2001, and 2002, I reconstructed it a little, not much. And the second one was 2) “Wild Flower,” which was not its originally name; it was really part of the first and original story. Then he wrote the third in 2001, and completed it in 2002 called “Deadwood,” he added as a subtitle 3) “The Mexican Stand off,” and in July 2005, he added to the four part story, about 2500-more words, making the four parts more of four short stories, instead of one interconnecting long story, which it is in essence. In the third story, “Deadwood,” Chickamauga was added to the story. The rock of Chickamauga was put in after review of the battle. The author during his stay in Germany, prior to going to the war in Vietnam, in 1970-71, was stationed at a military base, called Reese Kasarine, in Augsburg, Germany 1/36 Artillery, where there was a huge rock their with the inscription, “In Memory of the Battle of Chickamauga”. And so out of respect and memory he added it to his story. The author spent 11-years in the military service. In the first part of August 2002, when he was editing the three stories for the book “Everyday’s An Adventure,” of which 21 of his short stories were put in the book, his wife Rosa of 3-years, liked the stories so much, Dennis wrote his forth story, called 4) 4) “Arizona-Blue, and the Wolf Nest (in the North). He completed it except for the conclusion, which it was already designed out in part one but was suppose to linger on in part two, which now the author feels is not necessary. Thus, it was revised, and is as you see it now; which surfaced August of 2005. He did start to write another Arizona-Blue story, his fifth, called 5) “Another Town,” in 2001, but it was just an outline and until this day, has never surfaced beyond that; in July of 2005, he did revised it and added about 300-words. Thus, all the stories are new for the most part, with the same themes or topic, and plot, but perhaps, better motifs [or designs]. July, 2005, added the sixth story to the ongoing series, 6) “Crazy Sam,” and in August, 2005 (which he wrote on a napkin and can’t find), added number seven, 7) “A Rough Year—1844” which was really an extension of “Another Town,” and “Crazy Sam,” an extension of “The Mexican Stand-off” 8) Purple, Gray Skies (1844—Flagstaff, Arizona) 8/2005; 9) In the Wagon (1844) 8/15/05; 10) Abilene-Lorato (Arizona-Blue, 1887) written 9/15/05 and 11) A Fools Draw (1870s) Written 11/29/05. 12) “At the Red Dog,” was rediscovered 1 December, 2005, the idea was planned out on the computer 1/2005, but never fully constructed; when discovered in file #2 out of #9 files Dennis keeps his stories, and perhaps a several hundred inner files, he discovered a story he had put away almost four years ago.


Notes by Rosa Peñaloza: Writings by Dennis Siluk/2001; unpublished; number four of the series of five episodes. Three episodes published in the book, “Everyday’s an Adventure”2002. This one was taken out of mothballs, and rewritten; it was supposed to have been the first of the series, four years ago, and not fully completed. The author is still looking for number two, which also has not been previously published and would compliment this one I expect. 7/2005 Revised. As with most of Mr. Siluk’s stories, he was in Cheyenne, in l969, and that is a story of its own. What I remember him telling me was: “I was on my way back with a friend from California to Minnesota, we stopped and picked up a few other friends in some desert town and John was drunk all the time. When we got to Cheyenne, he was walking down main street urinating on the side walk, by a grocery store, it was noon or so, and I had to grab him so the police would not put us all in jail for being stupid kids, I was 20-years old, and was traveling around the country; he just happened to go with me this time.” There is more to the story but that was the funny part I thought.