Blood-Crazed in St. Louis [Arizona Blue—Gunfighter] Episode: #26
Blood-Crazed in St. Louis
Arizona Blue—Gunfighter
Episode: #26
Part Three to: Roofless Hades
[Missouri, St. Louis—1870] Arizona Blue, he made aimless motions with dazed eyes, he fixed them on his assailant, they blazed with fury of a killer, and a killer he was.
A crowd started building up by him he was in St. Louis Missouri, just passing through, perhaps do a little gambling, some light drinking, when he had rode up near the Capitol, a blast from a gun went off and his horse fell under his feet, dead, Blue was stunned; sober and stunned—sober for a year, and this was to be his new lease on life, not to drink so much, but St. Louis was full of bars, and he had intentions to test out a few of them, if he had time, but not like in Mexico, or Laredo; those days were gone, so he told himself.
A young Mexican man, wavy dark hair, and deep dark rooted eyes, about five foot six inches tall, with a smoking pistol made a hurried retreat, as Blue grabbed for his guns, and quickly shot off two rounds: one bullet grazed his chin, to the point of lifting it up, as he pulled his head back to the side, right in the pathway of the second bullet (on the other side of his face), which smashed alongside his jawbone, crashing his face taking with it flesh to the point you could see inside his mouth, his upper and lower teeth showed, leaving a hole in the backside of his jaw (flesh hanging loosely like old laundry); lipped he fell against a pole, wobbled a bit and fell onto the wooded sidewalk, on his knees.
Blue was moving like a man in a trance, walked slowly over to his young attacker, his horse dead, blood oozing out of its head: the horse had fallen so quickly and suddenly, it went under Blue’s feet, but over an old man and his grandson, bystanders, the crowd didn’t know who to blame, and everyone was in a daze, shock. Blue’s iron hands gripped the young man’s face—under his chin, lifting it to get a good look at the boy, no more than fourteen years old: it resembled someone he saw, someplace, then it dawned on him, it was the Mexican boy he saw in the boarder town when he shot the three Mexicans
Arizona Blue—Gunfighter
Episode: #26
Part Three to: Roofless Hades
[Missouri, St. Louis—1870] Arizona Blue, he made aimless motions with dazed eyes, he fixed them on his assailant, they blazed with fury of a killer, and a killer he was.
A crowd started building up by him he was in St. Louis Missouri, just passing through, perhaps do a little gambling, some light drinking, when he had rode up near the Capitol, a blast from a gun went off and his horse fell under his feet, dead, Blue was stunned; sober and stunned—sober for a year, and this was to be his new lease on life, not to drink so much, but St. Louis was full of bars, and he had intentions to test out a few of them, if he had time, but not like in Mexico, or Laredo; those days were gone, so he told himself.
A young Mexican man, wavy dark hair, and deep dark rooted eyes, about five foot six inches tall, with a smoking pistol made a hurried retreat, as Blue grabbed for his guns, and quickly shot off two rounds: one bullet grazed his chin, to the point of lifting it up, as he pulled his head back to the side, right in the pathway of the second bullet (on the other side of his face), which smashed alongside his jawbone, crashing his face taking with it flesh to the point you could see inside his mouth, his upper and lower teeth showed, leaving a hole in the backside of his jaw (flesh hanging loosely like old laundry); lipped he fell against a pole, wobbled a bit and fell onto the wooded sidewalk, on his knees.
Blue was moving like a man in a trance, walked slowly over to his young attacker, his horse dead, blood oozing out of its head: the horse had fallen so quickly and suddenly, it went under Blue’s feet, but over an old man and his grandson, bystanders, the crowd didn’t know who to blame, and everyone was in a daze, shock. Blue’s iron hands gripped the young man’s face—under his chin, lifting it to get a good look at the boy, no more than fourteen years old: it resembled someone he saw, someplace, then it dawned on him, it was the Mexican boy he saw in the boarder town when he shot the three Mexicans
posted by Dennis and Rosa Siluk at 9:56 AM
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