(1885) The man called Arizona Blue was a man by himself and before him laid a town in Wyoming. Behind him were scars and memories. Each one had a name. He forgot them, but he remembered the count. It was thirty-six dead. Most all of them shot though the heart, except for a few in the head. He was known as the fastest gunfighter that ever lived.

The gunfighter didn't mind his aloneness or fear of it. He did although ponder on his loneliness. He was 44, middle aged, a gunfighter from the age of nineteen, onwards to this very day; when he shot his first of thirty-six, he got his real, I mean real first high. He became so fast he could shoot a rattler in the head at twenty-five yards before the rattler stuck his tongue out a second time.

Some men were addicted to sex, others whiskey, and still others money but not Blue, he liked them all, but was really addicted to the showdown, the quick draw that ran like alcohol in his veins; it was his climax if you will.

Women were like a newspapers to him: cheap, easy to get and throw away, and he did just that: they could never compare to a good showdown; nonetheless, he remembered his upbringing, and respected them, or at least gave them regards, and kept his distance.

He was known as Arizona Blue because Arizona was where he came from and he had the deepest blue eyes any man ever had.

He had a lucky streak as well, for picking up quick money. He was a bounty hunter, sheriff, deputy, ranch hand, foremen, and anything that it took a swift gunslinger to do.

He stood six feet tall, had broad shoulders and a wild look to his tan, muscular face. He had big hands with a grip like a wolf's. He wore a buckskin coat and was clean-shaven but had thick long busy sideburns, the same as his hair, and thick eyebrows. He had deep-pitted eyes, high cheekbones, and a thick-looking jaw.

His horse, Dan, a solid creature with a long mane, was all a cowboy could ask for. He was brownish in color with legs like a deer and a heart that could outlast the best of the Indian horses.

With such men came the tired look. As he sat on his horse, allowing himself to catch his breath before he entered the small Wyoming town, he thought of the lonely journey he had coming up from Pueblo along the Continental Divide that stretched from Colorado to Canada. The mountains he captured sight of and the long dusty cactus along the way.

"Another town," he whispered to himself and old Dan, as his eyes made a one hundred eighty degree circle. He had seen most of them in the Montana, Wyoming, Arizona territories; this town he hadn't been to.

As he looked up towards the hot summer sun, he thought of his old friends in his life though he knew none of them personally. There was John Wesley Hardin, like him, a loner, and a profligate killer.

'They say he shot 44-men' he mumbled. 'More than me,' Blue grinned at the sky. He had heard he went to prison in '78, some years back.

Then there was that wild kid he met down in Mexico called Billy. He too was a loner of sorts, who shot most of his prey in an ambush setting or else they were unarmed. Not my style he thought.

There was Doc Holiday and the Earp's of Tombstone and Dodge City and Black Jack Bill and Six Towed Pete, and Three Fingered Dave, and that wild Indian turned gunsmith from bank robber, Ted Christie. He met them all.

Then he thought of the new breed of gunfighters like Billy the Kid, that ambusher, or Bob Ford, who shot Jesse James in the back. He'll get his some day thought Blue.

"How yaw doing Dan," said Blue patting him on the thigh. "We'll be headed in shortly."

He checked his holster on his right side: tight against his upper leg an embossed holster that held a Colt 44 ivory handled revolver, silver-plated, scroll engraved. It was a classic from the 60s, thought Blue but it had served it purpose. It had killed thirty-four of the thirty-six men he out drew.

As he looked down Main Street, he looked at all the several building to his left and a dozen on his right. The street was of hardened dirt that looked like a dried up river bed with its mounds. It had just rained the day before so the sides of the street had streams running along it by the sidewalk.

He noticed a bar, an old school house, and a brick building at the end of Main Street on his left side. Many of the other wooden frame buildings had porches. The right side of the street was more residential with houses and fences. There were several wagons on the street.

"We're bound for here, old Dan. This will be home for awhile, more likely than not."

Thus, he continued to ride down Main Street.

"Seems a drifter is coming in," said old Hank, the town's stable owner and blacksmith who was sitting outside the one of the main saloons on the left side of town.

"Looks Spanish," said George.

"No, he's just sunburned and weather beaten. He's a..."

"Say, Hank, looks like he could be a gunman. He rides prouder than he should for a simple stranger all beaten to hell."

Blue dismounted his horse, tied it to a pole, and walked towards the two gentlemen.

"His eyes are sunken in and when he gets close I bet they're as blue as the river."

"He's coming, George."

Blue was the best of the gunfighters and all who knew his reputation knew of his eyes. The difference was Blue could do all the time what all the others gunfighters could only do on a special day; that is, have a fast draw and aim next to perfect all the time.

Blue wasn't a bragger like most of them. He didn't shy away and let his reputation build by some ominous situation like it did for Wyatt Earp at the OK Corral. He didn't like shooting, he craved it.

"George," said Hank, "he's no tenderfoot."

"I'm going to talk to him," said Hank to George.

"Be careful, he could be in a nasty mood, looks like he's got some dust on his face."

"Hi fell a," said Blue.

"It's really him, George, Blue," said Hank.

"Mr. Blue, it is you, isn't it?" asked Hank [softly].

"Sure is, "replied Blue, with a smile.

"Saw you in Cheyenne some ten years back, a gunfight with the three Conley brothers. Seen pictures of them after you killed them; one bullet hole in the upper chest, one square in the heart and one in the upper part of his arm (he hesitated, looked at blue than added:) something like that."

"Yaw," said Blue. The first one moved a little quick for me that day." The two chuckled, and then asked, "You going in for a whisky?"

"Yaw, I could use a whiskey," responded Blue.

"Well," said Hank, "Ben is a real nice bartender. He serves a good shot of whiskey."

A smile filled Blue's face as he entered the saloon. As he held the door open, he noticed a female, young, in her mid-twenties, had walked up to Hank. He called her Ella. Whom were you talking to?" She asked.

"Arizona Blue," replied Hank.

"What started it."? She asked again.

"Just simple conversation, honey," Hank replied. And he let go of the door, and it closed.

That must be his daughter thought Blue; a pretty one at that with short curly hair with circles like bangs covering most of the upper part of her forehead. She had thick eyebrows that got smaller as they curved downward, and a light creamy complexion with an oval shape to her jaw and chin. Her eyes were big and her nose straight and short. There was a peaceful strength to her countenance. Her neck was covered with a feminine dress of white lace.

Blue's eyes wandered over the drab and low lit saloon. A picture filled the upper portion of the three walls some of gunfighters, bullfighters, presidents, and women.

A banjo picker was sitting to the left of Blue with his knee over the arm of a chair. Three men were around a pool table, smoking. The one with a cigar was pondering his shot. Four men were to the left at a table playing cards and Ben stood behind the bar. He had on a derby hat and a cigar in his mouth also.

Blue walked up to the bar. "What yaw going to have, stranger? "Asked Ben.

"Whiskey, a double shot," said Blue.

Ben started to pour the shots putting them in two separate shot glasses, catching a glimpse of his pistol and trying to figure out just who this person was.

As Blue looked to the left of Ben, he noticed newspaper clippings on the wall. They were of gunfighters, such as, Bat Materson, the Younger boys, John Marshall, Jesse James, clay Allison. Then, to his surprise, there he was, a picture taken of him several years ago; when he was a deputy for a U.S. Marshall in Indian Territory. The caption read:

"Arizona Blue uses his quick gun for against outlaws."

He remembered that year well. He used his gun that next year though, with the outlaws, kind of a turnabout. It was the only year he went against the law though. He didn't like prison so he got out of the business of robbing trains, although his part had only been that of a backup gun incase things got too hot.

Ben caught Blue, looking at his picture but didn't say a word. He figured if he wanted his name exposed he'd do it himself.

A wiry man with a strong grip grabbed Blue by he shoulder, "Buy me a drink stranger," said the rough-rustic voice. He was hard looking, like a lumberjack coming out of the woods. He caught Blues eyes, and starred as if nothing could harm him. "I said a drink mister...now...!"

Blue stepped back away from the bar, "No," he said, "but you can buy me one." Blue lowered his right hand to the side of his holster. "Now, big man," said Blue with a simple whisper, starring towards the middle of the man's chest to see every movement of his body, it was his way to a close draw. No distractions from his opponent's eyes. No one moved in the bar, it is like everyone was frozen; --as if they all wanted to know when the firing started which way to run, that being the other way of the bullets.

The wiry heavy set, six foot-two man, tried to look into Blue's eyes, but could only find his forehead. "Johnny Barton is my name stranger. I'm pretty good with my Colt, Mister. I dont wants to kill yu over a drink, "he said with his heighten voice, as if to tell the world, and now coward out of the fight. But sweat was starting to roll down the sides of his ears. Blue was as calm as a bird on a branch.

Replied Blue, "I really don't mind dying for one -Draw!"

Johnny starred at the man's face, his buckskin jacket and his fancy gun with a name in copper across its handle imbedded into the wood. Then all of a sudden Blue raised his head a fraction of an inch, and Johnny caught his blue eyes, as bright as the sky. He knew now it was Arizona Blue:

"Good, good god," he sighed from the upper part of his chest to his stomach, trying to catch his wind, "Blue, it's Arizona Blue," he said out loud. "...if I kill you, I'll be famous."

Blue smiled. "Go for it,' he commented; adding, "You'll be famous and dead. The whole bar started hugging the walls, and whispering to one another. The name Blue came out a half dozen time within the following twenty-seconds.

"He's a big one," said one of the pool players.

"Join him if you think he's got a chance, mister," responded Blue without moving an eyelash. "Right where you stand; both of you go for your guns."

The pool shark laughed. "Just who do you think you are?" He said sarcastically.

"He's Blue, mister, unbeatable; I suggest you move away from Johnny, and fast," said Ben with a lump in his throat.

The pool shark stepped back a foot, "Listen, mister, I'm sorry. I don't want to be next." Then he put his pool stick down and ran to the door and into the street.

"Hell, why not, "said Johnny. "I don't want to fight you; you might be able to beat me."

"You're a dead man," said Blue. The big man fell to his knees, tears started coming from his eyes, and he started pleading. "Really mister, I don't want to fight; I'm a coward."

"Didn't think he was a wimp," said a man who was playing cards.

"You want to join him, whoever said that," said Blue. Not a sound was heard. Blue shifted his body back to the bar and picked up his whiskey with his left hand, taking his eyes off Johnny. He could still see him in the dark mirrored reflection of a picture.

Kneeling, Johnny quickly went for his gun. Blue caught the hand movement, leaned his left hand against the bar. Lifting his right leg up and to the side, he shot through his holster and caught the wiry man thorough the upper part of his heart.

"It was a fair shooting," said the man who had previously made a negative remark, as if he didn't want to be on his black list.

"Why?" The bartender said shaking his head.

The Meeting of the Lady in White Chapter Two