Arizona Blue—Gunfighter, in: Colorado Death-jackal

Arizona Blue—Gunfighter, in: Colorado Death –jackal


((1869)(Colorado Territory, by Mesa Verde)) It was a dim, cold night, not excessively cold, perhaps five above,--and the moon seemed to diffuse within the mist of its light, which covered up a good portion of the stars. The ground was a pale-greenish brown, from the dim radiance which exhaled its due. As the night creped on, it ploughed overhead into a heavy ghostly blacker descent, almost like ash. A commotion was nearing, a twisted one, with an angry roaring to it, the sky all around seemed to brood, right and left, under his feet, then came a silence, and several howls, long drawn out howls, that would have brought shivers to most men. The man in him was aware of the Colorado lands, the wolfs, and tornados or twisters the dark nights, the cold it produced, the vague whispers, and shadows that appeared out of nowhere and vanished, as if burning up with the stars.
Ebbing was the beast as if to the rhythm of Blue’s his heart, a glimpse now and them from the luminous fragments of light from the moon, into the campsite. The canopy of purple mist mixed with a deep purple-blended in, interwoven around the man, as the night flourished. Even he was airily shaken. As he looked up from his spot, there seemed to be a dome over head, immense, and the stars blinked one by one, the sounds of he wolf-beast mourned once more. He was a wanderer like Blue.
Arizona Blue, was only a gunfighter, bred of a long line of shooters, mean and carnivores, and his ethics were as crude and simple as his any jackal. And his long periods of no-contact with civilization had given him an insight into the ways of a contemptuous secret world, the Indians and the lone gypsies, and other gunfighters, and gamblers, he knew their secret soul, and perhaps even the wolfs and jackals. He had previously worked for many ranchers in one way or another, response to the hard times, and needed money. He was perhaps considered at times lax but vigilant. He was all this and more, and the wolf that neared his campsite, was his equal, at least under these circumstances.
Ha-how, is what he named the large circling jackal (more like a wolf), it looked up and down his camp, and at him, their the heavy veil of mist of the night made them both barely distinguishable to each other, yet the beast could smell his flesh, but could not see his eyes, while his hat looked like a hood to the wolf, effectually concealing his eyes.
On the other hand, all Blue could see was the outline of the beast, it was huge, perhaps six feet on all its fours, a few more feet if it leaped backwards onto its hind legs; it had a long dark black body, slim with a powerful chest, and large head, and saber teeth, incased, and rooted deeply into its gums, and ascended upwards, drooping inches outward.
The jackal passed again, looked cunningly at the campgrounds, as if looking for a crack, one that would allow him a moments advantage; on the other hand, Blue not too familiar in the vague outline of the beast, tried to keep focused on its eyes, once the light of the fire hit it, they looked a deep glowing red, and he learned the unmistakable pose of the beasts head when it bobbed back into a fixed position as if it was zeroing in on him, for a shot in the dark, thus, Blue moved so he was not a standing target.
Then Ha-how’s eyes went blank, dark, it fled into the thick of the foliage, running around the camp wild like, inspecting to see if life would emerge. Blue’s own brain soared in a disorder of confusion, his emotions were bewildering, abstractions—nothing but marred facts, and unerringly he moved back closer to the fire expecting the beast to leap out of the woods and onto him, at any time, his gun in hand.
Blue was now talking to the beast, but could not see it, informed the beast he was ready for a showdown (he talked like a gunfighter, perhaps he was thinking like one, maybe this was not good, possibly the beast knew this), but the beast would now show himself. With even and friendly tones Blue beckoned the beast to come and fight get it over with.
“Much better we go this way quickly, than sit around waiting,” informed Blue to the Ha-how, as if he was human. Then he added, “Much better if you go,” and repeated, stolidly.
The beast scowled from the woods, as if it was taunting Blue. Perhaps was thinking also, who was this man to think he is the superior race at this moment; Blue, he had not shaken off the grip he had on the handle of his gun. The beast simply took notice of it, and started running again around the inner rim of the camp. Blue glanced expectantly at the wolf-jackal in dismay. Gripping the gun, wanting to aim it, but not quite knowing where, and even when.
Ha-how grunted, and howled, for he could not withhold it anymore—a haunting sound it was, and the beast knew it brought shivers to mankind. And Blue shot a bullet in that direction; it fell to the ground, but got back up. An accident or wound thought Blue. Did the sound startle the beast, I mean, they don’t reason—right?
In the next sweep, the vision of the beast dimmed, and it fell again, and Blue shot again. And again, Blue thought: another accident, or another wound? He extended his body closer to see, the foreground was empty of foliage, just dainty grass, sweat rolling off his forehead, his nostrils sucking in the cool night air, his own boyhood rose up in front of him, and smote him as he turned his head, bleak eyed to every nook and corner of the woods.
“I’m glad you came,” Blue was saying, “But do come out of the cold and get some warm heat from my fire, please.” So he said, almost sarcastically, as he looked into the woods, yet, all he could think of was how thick it was, and perhaps he could use the beast for its fur after he killed it. Thus, he was counting on the shrewdness he had learned in life, and I suppose, he figured the beast never got any brighter beyond its incapable limits, one that God Himself put upon beast, and gave to man.
The beast now sank down into a low –seated posture, with grace almost, he did not want his prey to escape, and it was the beauty of the kill, the capture that was enthralling: it was warrior against warrior; seldom did Blue or even the Beast find a good opponent, an equal. And with a proud pose head sticking out of the woods, silent eyes, tongue, inside its mouth, it listened for the movements of Blue, the seconds ticked away; both observed one another, almost in amusement, painful toil.
“What have you come for…?” asked Blue; for usually such beasts would simply move on. A slip, Blue fell on one knee; he had stepped on ice, and then resumed to get up. The beast could sense Blue’s warm blood, and vulnerable moment, and leaped its sleek body across the unfathomable gap, from the woods to the nearby fire, onto Blue.
Abruptly, the beast’s face was unheralded into a grinning form, over Blue’s, and Blue’s hand quaver, dropping the gun, sailing three feet in back of him, next to the fire.
It all happened in less than a minute, Blue’s mind flooded with definitions, on what he did wrong, those black red rosy eyes rosy and perturbing tongue, in front of him, over him, in a point of immobilization, its teeth next to his neck.
Then the beast moved back off Blue, it’s faced blazed. As if to say, I have a heart.
Blue stood up warmly, slowly, left his gun where it laid. When Blue looked at his gun, the beast sneered. He had won the battle fairly, thought Blue, both now clear-eyed. Blue tapped a finger to his forehead, as if to wipe sweat off it. The beast moved backward into the woods, and that was that.

Perhaps the Beast sensed Blue was a wonderer like him, a warrior like him, or perhaps it had seen him before, but it didn’t kill him, it was in essence telling him, he was on his territory I would think, and it was just a useless test of dominance, and perhaps the beast knew Blue was not afraid of death per se, for who ever lives like Blue or the Beast, lives more lives than one, and thus must die more times than one, die each time until death captures him completely. Whatever, Blue learned (for in 1869, he was young, and just out of the Army four years), pride comes before destruction.


Notes: it might be of interest to the reader, that in most every story Dennis writes, or poems, he himself has visited that area; to include Colorado a number of times, and Mesa Verde, once (Written 8-12-2007 (10:00 PM) Huancayo, Peru). Episode No: 38

Arizona Blue—Gunfighter, in: Stranger at Pig's Eye

Arizona Blue rode old Dan along the banks of the Mississippi from St. Louis, to St. Paul, Minnesota, better known to old timers as Pig’s Eye, it was November, 1885. The last time he had been in Minnesota was back in 1877, in the far north country, in the dead of winter.
The air was filled with smoke, and there had been a break in the water, the ice had thinned, and some flooding was taking place, it was unusual, in that flooding took place in Spring, but it was a early winter, and December was around the corner, and Indian Summer had crept in late, it would last a few weeks, then the harsh winter would roll back to stay until March or so. The levee was flooded with ice water, and the sixty or so homes on it seemed to be packed in among the mud. Carriages were hard to pull even with two horses in front. The mud was soaking into everyone’s shoes except for the high rubber ones.
It was a bad summer also, bad harvest, there would be a shortage of corn, wheat and sugar this year, things looked a little bleak. His quick eye saw two Indians canoeing down the Mississippi. The whole river would freeze over by the end of December, or early part of January.
A few folks were fishing on the banks of the River, ice fishing, the high cliffs behind them, and the city on the mesa above the cliffs. He greeted a few passers-by, and he was sure no one in this part of the country knew him by sight, perhaps by reputation; he had been in most every paper in the country at one time or another.
In the bottom of his jacket pocket, he had a leather pouch; it was filled with silver and gold, perhaps five-hundred dollars worth. On the back of his horse, he had a sack, it had some grub left in it, and a coffee pot, and a frying pan. He knew he had to find a place quick to warm up; his hands were numb, cold as the ice on the river. He saw a wooden sign, it read “Pig’s Eye Trading Post,” under the sign was anther one, that said, ‘Hot whisky and food…!”

“Whiskey Stranger,” said a giant of man behind the wooden bar, he must had been 250’pounds of muscle, “Big Ace is the name,” the barkeeper said.
“Yup…!” replied Blue, a whisky sounded good, it would warm up his insides, “and how about some soup?”
“Sure,” Ace said, pouring whisky in one small glass, and handing a hot glass of water to wash it down, Blue pulled out a twenty dollar gold piece, grabbed the whiskey, and walked over by the wooden stove that was in the middle of the saloon, and warmed himself up, drinking from the bottle.
The bartender kept a close eye on him, he wasn’t from Minnesota, he knew that, and therefore, was suspicious.
“The bluffs around here are pretty high,” commented Blue. Ace shook his head as if to agree. To Ace, the first omen was he simply walked away with the bottle, he looked like trouble to him, and he could handle trouble. But as Blue opened up his jacket, he noticed he had two revolvers, one on the right hand side of him, the other in a holster upper left-hand side of his belt, a bit slanted so he could make a quick draw with his left right hand either way.
The barmaid brought the soup over to Blue, moved a table over by the stove, so he could sit down and eat, she did a double take on him, Blue barely noticed her, but he did notice she was checking him out, and it wasn’t the face of a whore, or prostitute. She went to serve a few other folks, but kept looking back a Blue, and Ace kept looking at her looking at the stranger.
Blue took another look as she walked around the stove slowly, staring, she was in her late 30s or early 40s he guessed. A shapely woman for her age, and still some beauty in her face, but she had scares he could tell, a hardness to her eyes, and chin, as if suspicious, or guarded.
The bar was filled with the levee folks, Italians and the Irish, not a good combination when they got drunk. An Indian and his wife were also at the end of the bar drinking some beer, perhaps 20-folks in this early morning bar, on Saturday. It was half past ten AM.

Blue’s body was becoming unthawed, his hands no longer numb. The soup was gone, and the once full bottle was half gone. Again the woman looked at Blue, a glimpse here, there. He stood back up, put his hands closer to the stove, also his knees, and feet, then he took his boots off, sat back down to warm his feet up, socks and all.
She now was starting to look familiar (he had saved her life back in the winter of 1877, and perhaps she saved his also, it was an Indian raid in the north of Minnesota).
‘Yes,’ she said to herself: I know this man…then as if she had awaken from a dream, a spark flooded her insides, and she leaped on Blue, who was standing by the fire, and put him into a bear-hug, saying “It’s me, Feba, you know, the one with the wolves nest…” Then it dawned on him, yes, it was her alright, and he started thinking while in that bear-hug:

((Blue thinking)(Winter of 1877)) As Blue reached for his thoughts, he now remembered her, Feba, from the Northern Country of Minnesota, it was the winter of 1877 when they met, when her and her husband gave him shelter, as he had rode through the thick of the snow of the woodlands, he had come to a cabin, up in an area where the deer was running wild—to and fro—; he remembered smelling the smoke from a nearby chimney. He was a hundred and fifty plus miles north of St. Paul at that time, but it seemed like he was in the Artic. He had asked Feba at that time, why she kept wolves and she had said, “I raise them. They can come in handy.” It was Indian country, Chippewa’s, and he supposed it made sense. In the back of their cabin was where they kept a nest of wolves. Yes, he remembered her quite well, and her boy, Tony, whom the Indians killed. It was near Christmas time he recalled. Many of the Indians had burned the cabins of neighbors. Her whole family was dead, and they had to make it back to civilization in the middle of winter. Yes indeed, those memories were flooding his cerebellum.’

“Gentlemen,” she screamed loud, her giant of a husband behind the bar, Ace, who was almost ready to jump over the counter, but was unsure who to battle with for his wife was the aggressor. She then said with a trembling lip, “This is my friend, my dear, dear friend who saved me …” everyone seemed to know what she was talking about, and there was great pride on her face, and Ace stepped back from the bar to catch his breath. Blue put a comrade smile on his face, and for that following moment, everyone seemed to know Blue better than he knows himself.
“Mr. Blue…” said Ace, “catch,” and he threw the gold piece he gave him back to him, “Your money is no good here, you can have what you want, you saved my little wife from…” and he had to wipe his eyes.

The bear-hug was over, and Blue just stood there idle moment thinking, how well she mended her wounds. I mean she had lost a boy, a husband, a home, everything. Somehow in Blue’s mind he was not surprised in Feba’s recovery, he had classified women into three categories, Good, Evil, and half good and evil, and usually the half turned into the full evil if you allow it to; and women were strong when it came to survival after a grieving process, they cried it out, men usually got angry and tried to battle it out, and it took much longer, if ever to get over it. Another one of his beliefs were: good or bad women wanted to change good or bad men into incontestable men, but they liked to marry the strong and demanding man usually in the beginning, fickle he called them.
Thus, he said cordially, “I need to check on my horse Dan; he needs to be fed and put up for the night…”
Feba responded by saying, “You will be our guest here as long as you wish; we can talk about old times.”
And he walked out to his horse, never to return, lest he parish, for no man wants competition.

Blue had strange ideas, he figured life is given to every person with so much energy to spend, and once used up on one thing, there usually is none left for the other. He was not true to his thinking, but he made his escape, he felt people are usually good because of the circumstances, evil because of opportunity, envy, and jealousy. And who can read a man’s pretense. He had fought over the air he breathed ever since he was a child, thus, he had not cared to have his energy spent on Feba where would it go, at his age now, and there was no surplus energy, and why uncover old wounds, she had healed well, and so he felt, leave well enough alone.


Note: St. Paul, Minnesota was referred to (for many years) as ‘Pig’s Eye,’ dating back to the 1840s thru the ‘60s, when a saloon owner opened up one on the banks along the cliffs of the Mississippi, first in a cave like abode, and then as time went on into a wooden structure. It was a drinking place, as well as a trading post of sorts. Thus, the name has stuck onto the city. Now there resides a dump that is referred to Pig’s Eye, in the lower part of the city. As the city grew in the 1870s and 1880s, Pig’s Eye, now refereeing often to the city of St. Paul, created a levee to slow down the Mississippi, and on this levee, Italians lived, and at one time the Irish. In the early 1960s, the last house was torn down, because of the constant flooding, plus the levee was not useful any longer, for dams were built to control the water flow. Mark Twain visited St. Paul in the 1880s, saying in essence: what a growing city. Well, likewise, Arizona Blue visited the city in 1885, it was for a short period of time, but he was there.

Written 7-30-2007, Huancayo, Peru on the Platform.