Arizona Blue – Gunslinger, in – The Lima Shooter (1881)

Trailer: Everyone had gathered outside along Main Street, Abilene was the town: Amos, from New Orleans, had just arrived in town, heard the commotion, was about to start a gunfight, stood by his horse , he held on tight to his bridle, and Bill, the Bartender from the local pub, was standing there scratching his thick neck, and Zelda, the hooker, was hanging over the balcony, trying to concentrate after a long drunken night, it was morning. , and a cold darkness, a silence slipped down the muddy street, through the thick sky…(It was the day his father died, which was July 1, 1844, at that time he was only 46 years old. His mother, Margaret Teresa Dalton, had to raise him then It was a difficult childhood, coming west from Quincy, Illinois, he couldn’t remember the exact year he was born, thought his father once said it was 1832 (he would die in 1885), now standing in the sun, he felt as the boy told him, ‘old’, he was 49, to the best of his knowledge, older than most gunslingers would ever be (Wyatt Earp, he would age, but not much as he did, he had met him once in Tombstone). Anyway, it was a hot day in Abilene today, and a guy from the far south had come by way of Mexico, said he was from Peru, Lima to be exact, and had just killed someone at the bar. But Arizona was really thinking about her father and his mother, but not for long, not after the boy hit him.

[The Shooter from Lima] Wearing a dress shirt, the young shooter from Lima, his long, lean, muscular legs planted wide apart in the mud, in the middle of the street, he shook his head from side to side as he lay (the tall man he called ). have a shootout with ((His name was Manual something… no one knew his last name, they just called him, ‘The shooter from Lima)).

Interestingly (at least for Arizona Blue), the Peruvian said in English
“Go ahead sir!” then he added “Mister Blue…or whatever they call you!”

Blue muttered ‘I’ll kill you, Sunny… go while you can to wherever that place called Lima is…!’

And the Shooter laughed, laughed slowly, and Arizona said in her whispery voice, ‘Enough of this nonsense…!’ and like a drummer, he shot himself four holes in his chest, faster than one could blink; the shooter barely pulled his gun out of his holster.

As Blue’s bullets reached their climax in a thunderous push, plunging the boy into the mud, steadily piercing through flesh, bone, and internal organs, Manual’s voice rang out in a faint but produced vocal cry: “Actually I I’m dying…!” He said. The young man’s laughter became less and less as Blue got closer to him: the demonstration was over, complete, Arizona told herself. The shooter from Lima was dying, slowly.

His lips turned yellow, his face expressionless, his feet shaking as Blue approached him with her rawhide gaze, he had come a long drive from Mexico to Abilene, and he was tired, the wind and the sun burned him, and now he seemed to produce a fascinating Grimes, as he stood over the dying boy, “Old man, you say, haw…” Blue commented to the dying man. “I see you have no more profanity for me.”

The Peruvian puffed softly as he lay, gasping internally, powerless with mining gestures, and Azul, ruthless with grace; there, Blue turned to enter the bar, delicately letting the shooter out of abstracted interest, her last wish, silently and quickly removed the gun from under her leg, with a burning in her chest, and in her legs. Last few efforts, he raised the gun a few inches, fired, and a bullet lodged in the back of Blue’s left thigh. He stopped, hesitated, then, not acknowledging the wound, walked into the bar casually, ordered a drink (he, the boy, and the spectators would not be allowed a show… he would take care of it later). , and suffer the pain now).

After: The Sheriff was in his office looking out the window, holding a curtain in his left hand, and outside his office was Judas, the town drunk sweeping the wooden sidewalk clean, and around the pole, his attraction–rage . The sheriff shook his head and muttered, “If the young man hadn’t learned a lesson in the bar, when he nearly drew his gun and shot the old Zulu, and then bumped into Blue and called out to him, Zulu wasn’t half as fast.” that he”. Arizona Blue, alas, no one advised the Boy from Lima.

Written in Lima, Peru, 5-6-2007