Arizona Blue-Gunfighter: Abilene-Lorato

Arizona Blue-Gunfighter

Abilene-Lorato

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 confront 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 side walk. The sun was low over head, 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 confront, a dirty rag with a sweaty dirty confront, and a badge that he forgot he had on.

“You are her 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 confront, and he went for his draw–Loreto went to skin his gun– Loreto’s stomach turned dark red: by his shirt, flesh and almost out his back–a hole was produced. He then dropped to his knees, –said Blue in a bewildered way,

“already 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 already consider to draw with him.

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