Arizona Blue-Gunfighter
Abilene-Lorato
Questions haunt a man his entire life, one of which is: why was so much wasted?
– a rhetorical question at best.
As I rode to Abilene [he being: Arizona Blue], the heat increased in his face and hands, especially in Dan. He had long ago learned to live. Let the night, let the day, and each minute form its own shape. Like a weed, yes, like a wild weed, let it grow naturally. When Arizona-Blue came to town, he hadn’t filled his head with things to do. He slowly got on his horse Dan; a worried man – NO!
“I was thinking,” he told Dan, fist and jaw extended over the chair, leaning forward next to Dan’s ears, “I think a man should be able to hope for the best … Hoh! But it seems like only a few succeed. ” “
Dan’s eyes turned with his mane, to the right, not quite, just one bite, and a ‘HAUAoaa …’ came out of his horse pipes juggling his throat.
“Here I thought you were asleep,” he told Dan. Then, as he looked around, he noticed that some women were having a pleasant conversation as he passed the hardware store. An old Mexican spit tobacco on the wooden sidewalk. The sun was low overhead, bright. His peripheral vision was sensitive and perfect. He noticed some men walking and went into a bar. The sheriff, was standing next to his jail compound, the stables nearby. He did a double look on the sheriff, as the sheriff did a double reaction on him: they looked at each other warmly. One thought amused him: the sheriff resembled Loreto, an enemy of yesteryear. A long, long time ago, when he was quite young, fresh out of the war, the Civil War, maybe it was in 1867, when they met, if not around. It was a hot day like this, but it was in Wichita that he met him: no, he didn’t reflect, he thought: maybe Phoenix: yah, he told himself, it was Phoenix.
He was young at the time, and he shot a postcard from his hands, from the hands of the Mexican, from the hands of Loreto. If I hadn’t, I’d be dead: not riding down this dirt road. But that’s not where it stopped, oh no, not at all. Once he turned around, once Azul made a full 180 degree turn, the Mexican tried to stab him, tried and failed. “ Yes, ” he said to himself, “ that’s Loreto, and he’s puzzled by who I am, or perhaps wondering if I recognized him … ” It was twenty years ago that this dispute took place, or something like that, it was for too long ago to remember all the details, but it shouldn’t be overly trusted.
When Azul got off his horse, a voice said: “Good morning, sir!”
“Are you Loreto?” asked Blue.
“It’s me, sir, me, me, me, the ghost of your past!”
“That’s right,” Blue said, shaking her head a little, twice, “that’s right.”
“I for-you whiskey Mr. Blue, do you think well?” He hesitated, waited for an answer, but Blue just tethered his horse slowly and now he’s removed his saddle.
“No!” Blue said.
“A young man learns how unfair a world can be sir, I want to be friends, you, me, friends, right?”
“No,” Blue replied.
Loreto wiped the sweat from his face, a dirty rag with a dirty and sweaty face and a badge that he forgot he was wearing.
“Are you her to cause me trouble, sir?”
Reinforced blue steps.
“Satisfaction, you want satisfaction,” Blue said.
Loreto put his hand on the pistil, almost on the pistil, by the pistil, so close that you almost thought he had touched it for a thousandth of a second, and the sparkle in Blues’s eyes put a terrible look of doom on his face. Loreto, and he went to his drawing – Loreto went to skin his weapon – Loreto’s stomach turned dark red: through his shirt, flesh and almost down his back – a hole was made. Then he fell to his knees, – said Blue in a puzzled way,
“Even you knew how poor you are regarding my drawing …” and again he nodded in disbelief: skeptically, not knowing, but acting on some kind of automatic reflex, perhaps thinking about it for 20 years, drew on me (muttered: blue) – I was in disbelief, total disbelief, that I would even consider drawing with him.