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[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, yes he was in the bar, sitting at a table by one of he men. The boy must be related, followed him all the way to St. Louis, he told himself.
The boy gasped, “No wonder,” Blue mumbled unnerved, “whom did I kill?” he asked he boy. “Mi papa!” said the young lad. He figured so; no one would go out of his or her way for less. The boy rose, a fist crashed twice into Blue’s face, against his jaw: not iron hard, but hard enough to make Blue off balance, his hands trying to hold onto his shooter. The boy tried to snatch the gun out of Blue’s hand; as he fell backwards, the crowd sensing some kind of injustice, somewhere in all this, listening, watching; it was as if they were trying to pick their favorite, and it didn’t look like Blue, even though the horse that crushed into and over two pedestrians, that were still under the horse, that only a leg and a arm was showing, still the favorite was the boy, if indeed one could read their eyes correctly.
The crowd surged into a circle, as if to corner boy the attacked and attacker, horse and all, lest they get away before the police came, it now was a show. Blue looked for the nearest exit, but the circle was tight, closed, but heÂ’d push his way through if need be he told himself, or kill a few more bystanders trying to escape.
The young Mexican sprang forth with his knife toward Blue, and Blue pulled his second gun out, one had fallen to the ground when the boy had hit him: the boy wildly laughing as if he was on local weed; Blue then shot the boy dead, as the circle dispersed in panic—everywhichway. Thus, turmoil prevailed, and shouts echoed up and own the streets as they say Blue walking away, in a fast pace, no one trailed him, no one dared, he ducked into an alley, and made his way down to the docks along the Mississippi, jumped on a ferry going to St. Paul, Minnesota; as the police looked high and low for this stranger they could not identify.
Written at La Favorita (cafe0, 6/27/06 Lima, Peru
See Dennis’ web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com
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