Arizona Blue-Gunfighter:
A Rough Year-1844
Arizona Blue, remembering his family leaving their homestead in Quincy, Illinois, now looking down at Cheyenne, about to head on into town; it was a rough year, he told himself; looking at Dan, his horse. Cheyenne was just another town, no big thing. It was 1878; he leaned on the mane of his horse, thoughts coming to his mind. His mind was like a blackened out room, now it was filled with his youth.
It looked like a parade with the eight wagons, dogs, horses, children, livestock and all. A few folks came by to see them off, and then they were gone. His father at the time was forty-six years old, his mother, a tiny woman, was twelve years younger. Grandpa was seventy-years old. It was his father’s 3rd marriage, and his best.
Blue, noticed the oxen didn’t seem too interested in the journey, as the teamster cracked his bullwhip, and the train started. Blue was a handsome lad, as was his father, in his younger day—that had a square jaw, which made his face generous, and mannish. His face was well-trimmed, his beard that is, and he was fast with the gun, so people had said, a quick draw and a quick aim.
He used to drink a lot, mom said, and served time in the Kansas State Prison. He had a bent, or that damn broken nose, he looked more like a boxer than a gunfighter, retired gunfighter that is; mom made him stop, or gave him good reason to. Had a $500-Reward on him at onetime. His nickname was Scotch; he drank so much of it I guess. Someone said he robbed an old lady, him and a gang of other men, and was too drunk to hightail it out of town. The booze makes a man do stupid things I declare.
Blue’s mother’s name was Margaret Teresa Dalton. And I suppose Scotch will do for his father. At that time, Scotch had a daughter from a previous marriage; she was fourteen-years old. And at that time people were itching to move west. Scotch had a horse named Dan and Scotch seemed to talk to him all the time. Matter-of-fact, sometimes he preferred to carry on a longer conversation with him, than with anyone else.
Sarah was the only young girl on the wagon train. Scotch and Blue drove one wagon; Scotch couldn’t see the road too well, so Blue became his navigator. Caddy and Margaret kept each other company in the back of the wagon; avoiding the flying dust, insects and prairie sounds.
“Farwell, my good friends,” Scotch said to the St. Clair’s, outside of Quincy, as he passed their farm.
There was a storm in the mid-afternoon, a flood of rain slapped against the wagon train, and the passageway was thickening with mud. It was a long second day when they had to stop the wagon train —, it was near sunset and it was so hot you could fry an egg on a hard granite rock. That old Mrs. Jason, everyone called her that, not sure if that was her husbands first name, or her last name, but everyone called her that; anyhow she died of a heatstroke, so I heard; no matter what it really was she died. She was fifty-nine years old. She suffered it seemed (painfully) from the scorching heat: she was helping her husband drive the team of horses. It was my first time I saw death so close, so clear that is, like looking through ice and seeing a dead fish.
Yes, it was an arduous trip—the prairie travel, wagons, a drenching thunderstorm the second day, emigrants encamped here and there on their way to California, some heading to Organ.
We left a sign back a-ways on the prairie road for Mrs. Jason, a headstone made out of wood, and an old family bible. It only read: ‘Mrs. Jason, 1844’; nothing else.
Father liked to swear when things went wrong, and he was swearing like a chayote hollers throughout most of the trip, especially when we crossed the creek, and the wagon fell into it—: mud up to the wagon’s seats; it sunk like quicksand. It took a week to fix everything on it again, as it once had been, perhaps not as sturdy as it once had been, and the family had to walk that week alongside the wagon, run a bit at times, ride the oxen, and Dan, he was trotting alongside us all, with pa on his back. Some supplies were left in the mud behind—couldn’t be helped. That was a rough year—a real rough year in, 1844, it would be my first year dad would teach me how to shoot—and he’d teach me good.
[Episode Seven: August, 2005]
Reedited, 8-2010
A Rough Year-1844
Arizona Blue, remembering his family leaving their homestead in Quincy, Illinois, now looking down at Cheyenne, about to head on into town; it was a rough year, he told himself; looking at Dan, his horse. Cheyenne was just another town, no big thing. It was 1878; he leaned on the mane of his horse, thoughts coming to his mind. His mind was like a blackened out room, now it was filled with his youth.
It looked like a parade with the eight wagons, dogs, horses, children, livestock and all. A few folks came by to see them off, and then they were gone. His father at the time was forty-six years old, his mother, a tiny woman, was twelve years younger. Grandpa was seventy-years old. It was his father’s 3rd marriage, and his best.
Blue, noticed the oxen didn’t seem too interested in the journey, as the teamster cracked his bullwhip, and the train started. Blue was a handsome lad, as was his father, in his younger day—that had a square jaw, which made his face generous, and mannish. His face was well-trimmed, his beard that is, and he was fast with the gun, so people had said, a quick draw and a quick aim.
He used to drink a lot, mom said, and served time in the Kansas State Prison. He had a bent, or that damn broken nose, he looked more like a boxer than a gunfighter, retired gunfighter that is; mom made him stop, or gave him good reason to. Had a $500-Reward on him at onetime. His nickname was Scotch; he drank so much of it I guess. Someone said he robbed an old lady, him and a gang of other men, and was too drunk to hightail it out of town. The booze makes a man do stupid things I declare.
Blue’s mother’s name was Margaret Teresa Dalton. And I suppose Scotch will do for his father. At that time, Scotch had a daughter from a previous marriage; she was fourteen-years old. And at that time people were itching to move west. Scotch had a horse named Dan and Scotch seemed to talk to him all the time. Matter-of-fact, sometimes he preferred to carry on a longer conversation with him, than with anyone else.
Sarah was the only young girl on the wagon train. Scotch and Blue drove one wagon; Scotch couldn’t see the road too well, so Blue became his navigator. Caddy and Margaret kept each other company in the back of the wagon; avoiding the flying dust, insects and prairie sounds.
“Farwell, my good friends,” Scotch said to the St. Clair’s, outside of Quincy, as he passed their farm.
There was a storm in the mid-afternoon, a flood of rain slapped against the wagon train, and the passageway was thickening with mud. It was a long second day when they had to stop the wagon train —, it was near sunset and it was so hot you could fry an egg on a hard granite rock. That old Mrs. Jason, everyone called her that, not sure if that was her husbands first name, or her last name, but everyone called her that; anyhow she died of a heatstroke, so I heard; no matter what it really was she died. She was fifty-nine years old. She suffered it seemed (painfully) from the scorching heat: she was helping her husband drive the team of horses. It was my first time I saw death so close, so clear that is, like looking through ice and seeing a dead fish.
Yes, it was an arduous trip—the prairie travel, wagons, a drenching thunderstorm the second day, emigrants encamped here and there on their way to California, some heading to Organ.
We left a sign back a-ways on the prairie road for Mrs. Jason, a headstone made out of wood, and an old family bible. It only read: ‘Mrs. Jason, 1844’; nothing else.
Father liked to swear when things went wrong, and he was swearing like a chayote hollers throughout most of the trip, especially when we crossed the creek, and the wagon fell into it—: mud up to the wagon’s seats; it sunk like quicksand. It took a week to fix everything on it again, as it once had been, perhaps not as sturdy as it once had been, and the family had to walk that week alongside the wagon, run a bit at times, ride the oxen, and Dan, he was trotting alongside us all, with pa on his back. Some supplies were left in the mud behind—couldn’t be helped. That was a rough year—a real rough year in, 1844, it would be my first year dad would teach me how to shoot—and he’d teach me good.
[Episode Seven: August, 2005]
Reedited, 8-2010
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