[Dodge City"1867] Arizona Blue had no chance to pull out his six shooter in Dodge City's main saloon, leaning against the bar a little tight from the several shots of whisky he had, looked at the tall heavy set man next to him"perhaps five feet away, he stood next to a short stubby looking man he called his 'manager' better dressed than he: the big palooka, had a hairy chest, big hands, smashed in nose, ugly, but tough looking, also confident looking, too confident for his own good thought Blue, and they caught each others eyes; and Blue just stared at him, noticed he had no gun, and the man, the palooka, took it for sizing him up for a fight. Thus, Doug Lindamen, the San Francisco Hammer, short tempered as he was, stared back at him; this gave him reason enough to take it an inch further, it triggered something in the big man's brain, perhaps he thought he was back in the San Francisco ring ready to fight again: instead of on his way to New York City for a title match. The short stubby man, looked at the two staring, pulled Doug by his massive biceps, "Nothing to prove here, he's just a drunk stranger, no time to waste here, let's drink and get back to the hotel, got to get up early, head on out... he said. The big man listened closely, but Blue was too drunk to turn about, and stood looking, not staring anymore, just looking at the two fellows, shifting his eyes a little up and own, but mostly at them. "No gun," he said quietly. Everyone in the bar knew Blue's reputation, everyone but these two fellows that is, and I suppose most wished he'd get his due someday, and was silently hoping it was today. Blue had come to the notion, he was perhaps a boxer of some sort, never heard the name before today, then as the big guy looked in the mirror behind the bartender, seeing Blue was still somewhat staring, it triggered the palooka, and like a bull, he turned about and hit Blue square in the jaw, as if a fifty pound hammer at a hundred miles an hour hit him, Blue took the full impact of the punch, blood spurted out of his mouth and nose: the stubby man went to grab his fighter, but it did no good, he pushed him out of the way like a horse swatting a fly with his tall, off his ass. The punch was a surprised, Blue was wide open now, and the fighter saw this, and hit him hard, very hard in the ribs, you could her one crack, snap, like a whale bone after someone hammered on it with a slug hammer, surprisingly he was still standing, his skin like rawhide absorbed the punch also, and he fell to one knee. He groaned, and staggered back up to his feet, trying to find some kind of balance; some one in the bar crowd looked unemotionally and said, "It's about time that gunfighter got his due!" The fighter was about to hit Blue again, when his manager had over heard that statement, and quickly grabbed his arms hoping to stop the fight, and Doug turned about as if to listen to him, and as he started to say something "He's a..." he just pushed him away again, which was a mistake, for Blue pulled out his six shooter... And as the man started to turn about to face Blue again, things had changed: Arizona was hurt, hurt badly, and had pulled out his pistol, now you could hear it go: smash, smash, smash! On the turning head of the fighter: the flashing pistol ripped open the backside of the giants quivering head. The bar folks looked on with amazement and freight, one man said, "No man could survive through this." The way Arizona Blue hit the fighter, was likened to an iron hammer pumping away, across the head, now the jaw went his pistol, he broke his jaw and it sounded as if a oak rib had busted. Still the fighter stood up, no one had ever knocked this rock of man to his knees (his manager was now running from table to table crying for someone to help his fighter: lest he get killed in a damn bar brawl and not make it to New York City for the big one; but no one dared, they looked at this little man as if he was crazy, one man said," You know who that blued eye fellow is...if you did you'd not be asking such a dumb question.") Blue's opponent saw through the blood and mist of his mind, and eyes, as he looked in Blues: death speaking, approaching, not an inch pulling back, as Blue's hand slugged away with the butt end of his gun at the raw face of this fighter, kicked his ribs, iron ribs he had, thought Blue; none would break, deeper and deeper into his flesh his boots went, but the boxer still stood. No one dared to step forward to stop the fight, caution thrown to the wind, every one remained stone still, and they had been yelling for the fighter, now it was for Blue. Everyone knew it wasn't a fair fight, but then it wasn't when the fighter first hit Blue either. And a good fight, with a bottle of whisky, and a good cigar, was worth its weight in gold so why stop it: especially with the fasted gun alive, and a boxer that was going for a title shot: these would have been priceless tickets, had they been sold. The big mans arms were down, like great timbers, they had lost there strength, then he fell to his knees, as he weakened little by little, his eyes rolling upward: he looked at his manager, for the last time, and fell face down, flat on the floor. "I saw it all, a fair fight considering," said the bartender to Blue, as Blue leaned against the bar, grabbing the bottle of whiskey out of his hands. "I should have shot the giant," said Blue, "he had rawhide and whale bones," said Blue, as the bar now cheered him. 6/20/2006 |
