Snowboarder Collides with Blimp

(Crested Butte) An insurgent snowboarder sustained slight injuries today after crashing into the famous Goodyear Blimp high above town.

According to unreliable but amusing ski patrol sources the snowboarder lost control while “negotiating the totally hairy Macadamian Grunge Spinal Sequence at about 3 in the afternoon”. Missing his reentry coordinates by inches due to early ice buildup, the shredder was hurled through immediate space, slamming hard into the right side of the blimp.

The airship was present in local skies to monitor weather patterns, validate USFS drone use and to support law enforcement in its attempts to arrest everyone. Until this morning it had been disguised as a large prune so as not to alarm the local, mega-superstitious tribes that reside here in smoky river redoubts and burgeoning lice cave bivouacs.

“The blimp is fine and the kid would have been OK too if he hadn’t insisted on returning to earth,” snickered a patrolman below the scene. “Gravity can be nasty business.”

The snowboarder, here on vacation from Gunnison, called it his best day ever on the mountain. Still unidentified, he had cut afternoon classes at Western and hitched to the Butte.

“They don’t teach you about these kinds of experiences in physics class,” said the snowboarder.

According to spatial experts the chances of the wreck were all but mathematically impossible.

This episode marks yet another bizarre accident on the slopes this year. Why just last week second gnome owner and Oklahoma skier, Jimmy Jeff Gland ran head-on into a cow elk on East River Lift. Both survived despite a childish fistfight that broke out between macho lift operators and a herd of irritated bull elk that had arrived on the scene. Back in December Bebel Mateus, an attractive, exotic dancer/skier from Rio, was reportedly snatched from the Paradise Headwall (just as the lifts closed for the day) by dark, murky beings thought to be aliens from another galaxy or something.

– Fred Zeppelin

 

Aliens to gain legal status through jury duty

(El Lay) Immigrants of various genres can gain quick citizenship by performing jury duty according to the department of Naturalization and Meltdown officials here. The alpha program has been approved by the Congress, after a slight filibuster by House GOP stalwarts, and signed into law by the President so as to avoid a shutdown of the legal system.

“The Congress was anxious to get on with vacation and Barack, caught off guard by the non-partisan action, signed it as part of a compromise aimed at implementing a host of future free trade fantasies generated from White House.

Proponents of the action say that most Americans would rather take a beating than sit on a jury. The new arrangement not only fills this void but allows aliens a new path to citizenship and a chance to gain respect in their new country.

Critics insist it is just another way to avoid the responsibilities of Democracy.

“It’s like buying your way out of military service or sending someone else to the ballot box to do one’s bidding,” said a representative from Louisiana who voted against the measure.

Sponsors of the legislation say that the access to legal codes and procedures helps new arrivals assimilate faster. They agree that language barriers would have to be overcome and a redefining of what constitutes a peer group might need revamping. For the first few months sign language will be implemented, then translators next to the court reporters.

“The immigrant seeks acceptance,” said one senator that favors the changes. “We feel that the presence of warm bodies in the jury is better than no jury at all. At least it looks better than empty seats. Let’s face the facts for a change. Do we want a jury of malcontents playing with their cell phones or a jury of frightened immigrants intent on making it in a new culture?”

The senator went on to say that she favors trading deadbeat Americans for motivated immigrants any day of the week.

“Many Americans have lost sight of what made the country in the first place. They think they are owed something for nothing,” she explained. “I assure you,” she smiled, “immigrants do not fall into this category. The continued rise in no-shows has the legal community baffled. Despite threats of fines and even jail time many of us see jury duty as inconvenience rather than a right and responsibility. If you were on trial wouldn’t you want a jury of attentive and motivated peers?” she asked.

Often prospective jurors see a loss of income this justice for all business. Although employees are generally compensated the self-employed are not. Contrary to most current theories the unemployed often see jury duty as a chance to get out and do something. They see the stipend as a way to buy lunch for the day. It appears to boil down to a lackl

uster populace shirking its duty while new arrivals are anxious to prove their worth.

Meanwhile critics, who offer no other viable solution to the void, continue to paint a picture of ethnic and cultural chaos if aliens are brought into the courtroom at this capacity. They fear that the definitions applied here might invite participation by far more exotic and bizarre aliens from other planets, stars and galaxies yet to be discovered.

“Imagine a jury made up of people from Mexico and Mars!” said a representative from Arizona, knuckles one with the pavement. “We don’t like it. We prefer to ignore the problems and embrace fairy tale endings on social issues.”

One particularly vocal senator slammed the negative impacts of floundering while the system caves in from its own imbalances.

“I’ve seen every episode of Star Trek 15 times and have read the Martian Chronicles twice,” he said. “My brother was involved in the Apollo Mission from the outset and my dad was big into telescopes and experimental kites back in the Fifties. We should begin looking at all these alien types as resources and not threats. I myself have had numerous brushes with astral travel so don’t get cosmic with me in this chamber!”

– Sergio Jingles

Evolution halted say genetic researchers

(Darwin) Scientists operating on Colorado’s Front Range claim to have chronicled the termination of evolution in some humans. The process, which was well on its way before the beginning of the project, is now concluded, leaving the species “hanging in mid-air” according to painstakingly collected data.

“No one will notice that growth has ceased, at least for now,” said Archibald Cliffe, author of an assortment of works (Lemmings of the 21st Century and Foreheads I Have Known) that suggest that even forgotten organisms are in constant change. “In a few years the static nature of humans will become apparent, even to non-believers.”

Cliffe told The Horseshoe that people who adhere to other “leisure” theories as to the nature of man would be the first to experience the lack of growth. He said that most have stopped evolving altogether and have “remained in the semi-Neanderthal state of denial while the world flies by.

“The concept of evolution does not conflict with theories of genetics or even spirituality,” added Cliffe. “but we are convinced that people who fail to grasp the changes around them are doomed not to evolve. There are a multitude of cases that indicate this stagnation. We have observed the erratic behavior common to the Front Range of Colorado since 1970 and, while factoring in the effects of overpopulation and air pollution; we can clearly see the arrest of development.”

Others working with Cliffe have expressed concern regarding his evolution as well. They feel that too many hours in a biology laboratory may have negative implications.

“Either way we are experiencing a Huxleyesque journey to another brave, new world,” said one fellow scientist, “and it threatens to leave many of the serfs sitting on their thumbs.” – Gabby Haze 

 

Legalized Pot Sees Rise in Violet Crime

Special from your good neighbors over at the Pharmaceutical Industry

(Silverton) The recent legalization of marijuana has spurned a host of criminal activity here and all over the Western Slope according to authorities attending a police seminar in San Juan County. Violet crime being the major concern has shot up 35% with incidents ranging from loitering to singing in the street. Fistfights have not been the norm in front of dispensaries and medical clinics as users resort to friendliness aimed at peaceful passersby even in daylight hours.

“The place has turned to total anarchy and revolting chaos with standup citizens unable to sit down or leave their homes for fear of being exposed to resin from the highly addictive drug called marijuana,” said someone.

After just a few brief months authorities are reporting a shortage of brownie and cookie mixes at the groceries. Cigarette papers are also in short supply leaving legitimate, tobacco smokers out on a limb. Prices for a VW Micro-Van have gone through the pop-up roof. Incense is all but impossible to find and Hendrix vinyl is selling well. Tibetan prayer flags are all but impossible to acquire locally anymore. And it’s getting uglier.

Perhaps the most indicting behavior came last week as thousands rioted over an interruption in the Oreo cookie supply. Sales have recently skyrocketed and suppliers have been overtaxed by demand. The disturbances, centered at a major Oreo Factory in Wimpton Shores left 13 people fed and another 200 hindered.

“And what would Colorado do if they ran out of pot and they gad to deal with dope fiends in the street?” asked a woman aglow from combined segments of Faux News.

And if that’s not bad enough, smuggling has reared its ugly head while Colorado officials turn a blind eye, preferring to focus on tax coffers that are just now beginning to expand. Utah, Nebraska and Wyoming have already fortified their state borders in an attempt to turn back the evil tide of cannabis-fueled crime. Kansas has petitioned the federal government to intercede in the form of millions of dollars of worthless thank you tickets from the burned out War on Slugs. Many fear the foul-smelling herb will get into the water supply.

Meanwhile long lines remain at pharmacies all over this great land as more and more Americans become addicted to legal drugs that, although presented in neat, beautiful colors, are both often harmful and expensive.

“These legal drug addicts damn sure should not be driving a car,” said one marijuana smoker.

“With all the marijuana violets in the street it’s virtually impossible for me to get to the pharmacy for my legal fix,” said one citizen. “I’d take public transportation but all those people are socialists and probably high as a kite to boot.”

Footnote #1: Marijuana: A foreign and frightening name, marijuana, created by William Randolph Hearst and his henchmen in an attempt to scare Americans about Mexican drug encroachments while they eyeballed Cuba and instigated the Spanish-American War. 

Footnote # 2: Marijuana Reference: Pancho Villa’s revolutionary seizure of forests owned by W.R. Hearst in Mexico, the association of cannabis (hemp was a competitor) and abnormal behavior as part of the entry drug domino theory advanced by the Yellow Journalists and gobbled up by the simple-hearted public.

 

Crested Butte Extends Liquor Licenses

(Gothic) In an attempt to relieve the tight housing crunch, the Town of Crested Butte has issued 24-hour liquor licenses to many wet establishments here. The move is aimed at giving the houseless a place to spend the night.

“Let’s not confuse the houseless with the homeless,” said Darci Vega, originator of the controversial plan. “These local poor souls are simply inconvenienced for the time being and will probably find accommodations in a few weeks while the homeless are those other people who are not affected by seasonal considerations.”

The plan is expected to increase the tax base significantly while keeping folks off the streets on cold nights.

“Some people never knew when to go home before,” said Bill Dickerson, former Mt. C.B. burgermeister and recent proprietor of the Talk of the Town pub. “With the new proposal that decision has been made much easier for them. We support the idea, even though we’ve been forced to put on another shift. You just haven’t lived until you watch a customer scarf down a chili dog with his corn flakes at 6 o’clock in the morning.”

– Mel Toole

 

IRS TARGETS ALUMINUM CAN COLLECTORS

(Washington) The Internal Revenue Service is concerned with aluminum cans. Actually it is more concerned with the evasive tendencies of those engaged in the gathering of these treasures, alleging that the government has not been cut in on the action.

“These criminals are not paying their fair share on the profits generated in this lucrative exchange,” said Otto B. Broke of the IRS. “We only want what’s coming to us.”

Broke assured us that his agency had already taken steps to insure that this behavior would cease and that these tax dodgers would be brought to justice.

“Even if we have to post an agent at every dumpster in every town in America, we will nip this conspiracy in the bud,” he insisted.

A new federal tax form, number 1199, has been issued and persons who fail to file a return and comply with the newest regulations could be deported. Broke said the country is losing over $600 per aluminum can operation per annum and added that there may be as many as 4 million Americans engaged in this dumpster-diving trade.

“We even had a case where one aluminum enthusiast attempted to write off his shabby clothing as a uniform, declared his cardboard shack to be his office and claimed each individual can as a dependent”, laughed Broke.

“The guy was so shifty, so creative that we hired him and he now works for us! There are criminals everywhere blending in with the peasant population. Don’t these people realize that we need their mandatory fiscal contributions to keep the country running smoothly?” -Kashmir Horseshoe

 

 

LIFT TICKETS REPLACED BY TATOOS

(Crested Butte) In keeping with a pledge to save paper and aluminum, CBMR will replace the traditional lift ticket with a tattoo next year. According to a marketing source, the actual substitution will come in the form of designated tattoos and/or a combination of the marks.

People who buy a Gold Pass will receive a gold tattoo designed to last through the April closing date. This tattoo will allow them to board lifts on any date during the season. Persons purchasing a Silver Pass will likewise receive a silver tattoo which slightly limits access to the mountain. The Bronze Pass will be replaced by a bronze tattoo, in keeping with corporate uniformity.

Single and multiple day skiers will receive a temporary “I Actually paid full price” tattoo on the arm or leg when they arrive to ski. Designs likely to be popular include the ever-popular “Mom”, the multi-colored butterfly, “Hell’s Angels-Frisco”, GAP, the Coors Lite logo, the marijuana leaf, the Denver Broncos or various military insignias.

Tattoos on the posterior will not be accepted for lift access on holiday weekends or during spring break.

“Move over Free Skiing!” exclaimed the CBMR source. “Once again we find ourselves as the prototype of skiing in the 21st Century. Just wait until Aspen and Vail find out what we’re up to. They’ll shit a brick.”

Although sources here admit that things could get chaotic at first, they feel the new system has many merits. Beginning in June, several hundred tattoo artists from 17 states and 12 foreign countries will attend a week of seminars aimed a facilitating the move. Then, in July lift operators will undergo two weeks of concentrated instruction on the ancient art of tattooing. They will then prick and ingrain their co-workers with an assortment of tattoos ranging from lift op to ski patrol to food service.

By August most employees will be tattooed and the slope faithful will be scheduled, not for pass photos, but for seasonal tattoos of their own.

“We are certain the idea will fly,” said the source. “The tattoos will no doubt become status symbols and if the snow is scarce, one can still show off his or her design in the bars or on some faraway Caribbean beach.”

-Dude Skuldiver

 

—APOLOGY—

Last month the San Juan Horseshoe incorrectly reported that residents of Crested Butte, Lake Irwin, Gothic and Jack’s Cabin could receive their annual giardia shots at Crested Butte Veterinary Clinic on Mondays and Wednesdays from 9 am till noon on March 6. The release should have read Mondays and Tuesdays through March 13. Sorry for any inconvenience. The baby journalist who filed the story has been fired, her ancestral home at Meridian Lake burned to the ground. Patients are again reminded to shun alcoholic beverages for at least three weeks prior to subjecting themselves to this litigious and experimental witchcraft. Residents of Mt. Crested Butte, CB South, Rosebud Gulch, Pittsburg and Elkton can procure giardia shots for a nominal fee at any of the St. Roscoe clinics in the Upper Gunnison Valley. These lucky few are not required to avoid alcohol in any form, in fact they are encouraged to drink large quantities of the stuff prior to the immunization. More on this when it becomes available.

 

My Favorite Beach Towns in South America

Anybody can spend a boatload of cash and go to Rio. Another option is to fork out for a brochure secure, mono-cultural, claustrophobic cruise where passengers can rub elbows with same bedfellows in a sterilized atmosphere.

Sure Rio has great beaches…and exorbitant prices, crowds and lots of pickpockets. The violence is cordoned off from the favelas (slums) to the beaches but enough seeps through to create separation from the hunger dens. Before you go ask yourself: “Why would anyone with any sense go to Rio when there are so many other gorgeous, untamed and idyllic beaches within a bus or boat ride up and down this magnificent coastline.

Having spent a good deal of time beating feet in South America I have seen a lot of empanadas and a lot of sand. The following beach towns were chosen to review because they were beautiful and culturally enlightening. They are places that, due to access, overgrazing, sprawl, weather and pollution are disappearing in North America and many parts of Central America

In South America, where life moves a bit slower and a precarious adventure could be right around the next palm tree, the beaches represent a lifestyle that has not gone away. Whether you watch people drink mate in Uruguay or rum on the Colombian Caribbean a Neptune connection is clear. There are still seascapes seemingly untouched by man. There is undisturbed sand. There is warm, salty peace in the middle of the day.

 

 

Santa Cruz Cabralia, Brasil

Here is where Pedro Alvaras Cabral and his Portuguese thugs made the initial landing in the New World, although nobody seems to give a damn. There is little plaque, a 16^th Century church and a great little restaurant called Cabralia 1500. Otherwise it’s just a sleepy beach town of surprising dimension.

Only half an hour by bus from the airport at Porto Seguro, two large families, one white and one black, who take care of problems quickly and efficiently, effectively monitor Cabralia. As a result there is no noticeable crime (I never even saw a cop in three weeks) and an overall atmosphere of tranquility.

The beaches that run on empty for miles and miles are of fluffy sand, peppered with baraca bars, eateries and houses to rent for the season. The surf is pleasantly gentle after spending time on the Pacific. The fishing is good.

Besides the drama of the Atlantic at one’s feet, visitors will enjoy wide-eyed Rio Joao de Tiba. A primitive ferry connects Cabralia to the even more serene beaches of Santo Andre and Santo Antonio to the north.

Time for lunch? Bahian cuisine is wonderful if not varied. Yesterday I had fish with beans and rice and salad. Tomorrow I will enjoy fish with beans and rice and salad. Today? I’ll have the fish with beans and rice and salad. No need for a menu but nobody’s complaining. And if you want to sling a few compliments on the way out the door mention the beans. That is the pride. Anyone can make fish, rice and salad. It is the steaming frijoles that separate the mystic from the mortal in the kitchen.

Monkeys up river, lobster boats bobbing in the bay, smiling people, cold beer and samba…and the experts at Lonely Planet “don’t think it’s worth staying overnight”. In a sense they were right. I spent three weeks.

If you want to head further north to the amazing city of Salvador from here you can take a series of inland waterways and buses until you reach Olivenca and Itacare two more developed, yet incredible beach stops as well.

Tayrona, Colombia

Perhaps the most beautiful beaches on the continent can be found in the state of Magdalena at Tayrona National Park, which skirts the Caribbean and the Sierra Madre de Santa Marta. The lowland heat can be sweltering but the mountains (less than 35 miles from the Caribbean) reach 18,000 feet in elevation, Tayrona is made up of over 20 superb beaches such as Playa Cristal, Bahia Concha, and Palmarito. Along with the eye piercing landscape these locales also feature a healthy mosquito population in rainy season. The rest of the year (November through April) basic precautions should be taken at feeding time (except in the case of travelling, cold-blooded vampires).

The park, with its rainforests and classic tropical beaches can be reached by boat from Taganga, a questionable pseudo-hippie town where bad pot and petty theft reign. Go early in the morning before everyone’s awake.

On the other side of Santa Marta there is Rodadero, the up-market strip of sand with high-rise hotels and a reasonable beach scene. It’s a great place to get away from all this infringing nature that can certainly be overwhelming. Typical of most civilized beach scenes in South America, Rodadero beats the Santa Marta town beach/harbor, which, unless you enjoy trash in the sand and last night’s stale aromas, is best avoided.

The evening in Santa Marta features a slew of great restaurants and plazas, impromptu music, venders, dancing and stray dogs sadly looking for a meal. Santa Marta is the oldest city in Colombia and the second oldest in South America.

One exhilarating side trip is the lovely village of Minca, which sits at about 2000 feet above sea level and offers some respite from the heat. The no-see-ums await your arrival with a baptism of fire but citronella keeps them off. Near Minca are several hikes to waterfalls, coffee farms, world-class bird watching and anthropological jaunts that further showcase the contrasts of nature and remarkable bio-diversity. Pico Simon Bolivar at 18,946 feet is part of the highest coastal range in the world but due to inversions, storm clouds, and tight proximity is almost never visible.

Back to the beaches (mountain people have to spend some time talking about the mountains too) the tide is in and it’s time for a swim.

The warm water waves at Playa Las Pocitas run 24 hours offering surfers and swimmers a paradise of sand and sun. Solitude (depending on the season) is just a ten-minute tuk-tuk ride from Mancora.

Mancora, Peru

On the Peruvian coast, near Ecuador, where the Humboldt Current finally turns out to sea, we find warm Pacific water and arguably the best   langostinas (prawns) in the world. The surfing is free and you can take home a kilo of these giant shrimp for $7 (if you get to know the local fishmonger). A distinctly young crowd is drawn to this spot where 4-meter waves are not uncommon but safe swimming is the norm.

What may not be so secure is a cab ride from Tumbes (closest airport) about 80 km north. My driver, a likeable fellow named Jesus, sped through town after town at 70 to 80 miles per hour on the way down the night time coast. He only slowed down to 50, so as to point out a few landmarks, when we passed though his village.

Upon arrival in Mancora it is apparent that the Pan-American Highway runs the show. One can actually sit at an outdoor locale and dangle his flip-flopped feet onto the highway – just watch out for the big rigs coming up from Lima!

But back to the beach: My bungalow is located in a serene spot on Playa Las Pocitas (with a pool just five feet from the sand), a 75-cent tuk-tuk ride into town. The beach here is excellent and there are no people in my dreamy post-Semana Santa destination. Just me and the fish (and a few fishermen who insist on selling me fresh lobster for $2.50 a pound).

One night I prepared shrimp scampi for two restaurant owners, a Miraflores cooking show host and a food critic for the Lima daily paper. Nobody had much too say after the plates hit the table. I’ve always been told that was a good sign. Note: Several of the diners are still alive today!

Near my digs is Donde Teresa Restaurant, which serves creative cuisine and has a nice pool, just steps from the bar. Diversions include tropical cocktails and maybe even a knife fight with the owner over his beautiful wife.

35 km down the coast at Lobitos the ocean water is colder than the beer. Turning east one enters a massive desert that doesn’t look as if it could support so much as a horny toad.

Inside info: The Kon Tiki, way up on the hill with views of the whole area is hands down the best lodging bet for the weary traveler.

 

 

Quintay, Chile

Only 25 km collectivo ride from Valparaiso, Quintay offers a complete escape from the hectic pace of Santiago and the coastal cities. The countryside is beyond belief with endless cliffs and pine forests feeding into surreal panoramas of the sea. The collectivo driver dropped me two miles north of town and told me I’d love the walk into the village which is one-street pleasant and sells everything from live chickens to tacky beach towels.

Most of the other tourists are Chilean with a few western Argentines thrown in. Long walks await the visitor in search of solitude while the ocean dictates tomorrow’s priorities. Although the beaches are wonderful the water is very cold.

Better to enjoy las frutas del mar than to wade into in her icy waters. The surfing is best south but be sure to wear two or three wet suits. Great restaurants (the best I found in Chile) await the hungry at with exceptional service and ultra-fresh yellow fin tuna and an assortment of local shellfish.

The black eel ceviche is beyond words, especially with a freshly baked baguette and a cold beer. Besides the fine eateries, and some little kids selling shells on the overlook, there is little commerce going on today.

Probably the least spoiled of all the beaches in the region, Quintay remains in the sphere of Valparaiso, which, due to the construction of the Panama Canal fell from favor in the shipping industry and has never fully recovered. In downtown Valparaiso be attentive as there are lots of people standing around wondering what you are carrying in your backpack or suitcase.

Up on the Ceros it is all quite cosmetic nouveau leaving very few barrios in the middle. You’re either rich or poor with little in the center. Valparaiso looks and feels a bit like San Francisco or Vancouver. Quintay offers its own salty reality.

Punta del Diablo, Uruguay

There are no less than 9 magnificent beaches within an hour’s walk from the central grocery store here in this now discovered gem. Four and a half hours by bus from Montevideo and 45 km from the Brasilian frontier the town is called “poco rustico” by smiling natives. The catch runs from white corvina to shrimp and everyone serves overpriced pizza. Tip: Try the Milonesa and the empanadas at what was the Ruta del Sol old bus station. Relax and digest, then take a walk to the old lighthouse (one hour) or journey to the unspoiled Playa Esmeralda or Santa Teresa National Park, roughly two-hour hikes away.

Once a fishing town and artist colony, this fragile place gets mobbed in January and February by mindless youth from Argentina and Brasil. The best time to enjoy the place in a normal state is December and March when all the restaurants are open but the tourist impact is lightest. After Easter the place rolls up the sidewalks (which it has not yet built), boards up the windows and goes back to Montevideo to watch futbal and eat red meat for the winter.

Getting around is best by motorcycle but me feets be me only carriage and all the walking sure didn’t hurt my physique. Bikes work well as to large sticks to discourage aggressive dogs after dark.

Yes, the surfing is good. Rivero is safer. LaViuda (riptides) is a good way to end up in China before breakfast. Young, thin, female novice surfers in need of instruction should contact: Tom Thompson, Certified LSMFT, early in the day.

With a year-round community this might be nice place to live. Interestingly the pavement ends near town and the streets remain dirt at last report. If this place had trees near the beach it would be perfect. Don’t buy into the South part of South Atlantic, since the winter temperatures drop to 40 degrees and the influence of the constant sea “breeze” puts one to wishing for those balmy February days in Gunnison.

Budget lodging suggestion: Hostel de La Viuda. Great owners, pool, about 15 minute walk from two superior beaches.

Wyatt Earp in Gunnison

The bent mustache figure lurched at his small desk amid faro tables, frontier ash trays and clouded, empty glasses. He had been a lawman, better the law, from Dodge City to Tombstone for the past 30 years. Now he wore spectacles, they stabbed into the thin residue of his gray-haired temples. It all seemed a badge-less blur. The once quick-triggered stagecoach guard turned deputized gunslinger was now proprietor of a struggling gambling enterprise in Gunnison, Colorado.

Some days it all closed in. He had been a feared United States Marshal. Now it had come to this. His dreams of days as a buffalo hunter on the Kansas plains were interrupted by loud clopping on the back stairs.

The door opened and a shaky voice said: “Earp, I’m calling you out!”

Earp peered around the corner and focused on a tall lanky kid whose Colt revolver anchored him to the stairs like a skeleton whaler in a winter gale.

“Did you hear, Earp? I’m calling you out. Just you and me in the street…”

Not another one, Earp thought. This was getting old. It was up to more than two a week in the summer. Did these punks really expect  to gain instant fame by gunning down this grandfather gunfighter? It’s 1903. The classic gunfights were ages ago. Even though the kid probably couldn’t shoot cans off a tree stump, that formidable revolver, and the nervous stance made him a valid threat so early in the morning.

“Not so fast, kid,” grumbled Earp. “I haven’t even had coffee. Why don’t you go home and sleep it off. I’m sure your momma has chores for you to do.”

Earp felt the need to push the kid a little just to see how far he intended to take this challenge. No sense getting shot in his own faro parlor or worse making the trek down to the dusty street of the mining town just to fall prey to the twists of a desperate nipper.

The kid was fresh from momma’s kitchen by way of a full length bedroom mirror where he had carefully practiced his facetiously fatal lines.

“Go for your gun, Earp,” he had mouthed just moments before, his holster hung loosely off his hip, his white handles glowing in the first light. He had practiced his lines for weeks now, driven by a wish for that first notch in his gun barrel. After shooting Wyatt Earp his career as a terrible gunslinger would take off. He would be somebody, not some punk kid from the back alleys of Gunnison. People would show a new found respect for the man who had gunned down the infamous Wyatt Earp.

Despite fears that he would panic and back down or botch his well rehearsed lines if he didn’t take immediate action, the kid faltered. Earp stared.

“You’re the one come a callin’, pushed the old lawman. “Now maybe we can settle this whole matter easily. Why don’t you run down to Sally’s and fetch me a cup of coffee, black, and two or three of those cheroots…”

“I said I’m gonna shoot you! Dammit, didn’t you hear me? Now get up off your ass and meet me down in the street before…”

“Before you lose your nerve? Just go quietly and we’ll forget anything happened. And watch your language. This is a family faro parlor. Go home.”

Just then another stumbler hit the door. This time it was Doc Holiday, already well pressed and oiled from the night before. He stumbled then stuttered his words into a burped sentence that resembled Good morning gentlemen. Whether his presence was any advantage to Earp was unclear since he did not pick up on the scene at first. Then he saw the kid’s revolver.

“Who’s your buddy, Wyatt?” said Holiday putting his arm around the kid’s shoulder. Hey, kid, you wanna cut the cards for fifty bucks? How about a little black jack?”

Holiday’s breath was enough to herd sheep and the kid backed up.

Educated in the profession of dentistry, Holiday had long ago opted for the more lucrative career as gunman. It was easy to see that he would have more customers at 40 paces than he might crouched over some miserable creature, his whiskey breath reeking.

Eyeballing the pistol, Holiday continued his affront, his arm affectionately slung across the kid’s shoulder. He was now hanging on him and effectively blowing the kid’s intricate presentation. Suddenly the kid took a deep breath and bolted from the room and down the stairs. Wyatt pulled his six-gun from his lap under the desk and looked at Holiday.

“Just how drunk are you, Doc? he asked.

“Not that drunk,” said Holiday.

The two shared an induced laugh, reassuring each other that surely the kid would not be back.

“I’m getting tired of these interruptions,” said Earp recounting the number of challenges he tolerated since arriving in Gunnison some months before. He had come north from Pima County to retire, not to baby sit belligerent shavelings. Although his draw was still more than enough to drop the kid in his boots, he sought peace. Along with Holiday and the dapper Bat Masterson he had opened the faro parlor near the booming mining districts of the Elks and the eastern San Juans.

“Maybe I need something a little less conspicuous, out of the mainstream, Doc,” said Earp.

“Running this joint up here in the sagebrush is about as invisible as Wyatt Earp can get,” said Holiday. “Don’t let the kid rattle your nerves. You’ve been through a whole lot worse.”

 

Meanwhile on the other side of town the rawboned gladiator fingered his Colt. He had been embarrassed and would seek revenge, this time, on both Earp and Holiday. He could corner the two on the street that night and fire off six deadly rounds while they were caught off-guard, digesting their dinner. In one evening’s surprise he would shed his baby face for the life of an icy, callous gunslinger. No sun to contend with if he approached from the west on Tomichi. He plotted things out in his swirling head. Then he methodically planned out his moves once more, for good measure.

He had to let them go for their guns, though, or he’d be spending his time in the territorial prison or, more likely, at the end of some improvised noose, a poker-faced mob watching him dangle from the town’s landmark oak. But why the preoccupation with failure? He had accomplished nothing since his less that remarkable birth in 1886, five years after the Earp Brothers murdered/dispatched the Clanton Gang at Tombstone. Now he stood at the threshold of fame, and maybe even fortune. All he had to do is shoot Holiday and Earp.

That evening moments before the sun slid behind the Antelope Hills he called out.

“I’m gunning for you, both of you. Now let’s make it simple. Go for your guns.”

That sounded pretty good plus there were a few local toughs in earshot since the kid had chosen a communal spot in front of the pool hall for his performance. They dropped their faces and their cues and backed up into the doorway.

“Not you again,” muttered Earp under his breath spreading his coat back to access his revolver. Holiday too was tense. The kid was now facing them in the street and may pull his pistol at any provocation. It looked like someone would find himself face down in the dust.

“Go for your gun!” prodded the kid, showing his good teeth, glaring at the two from the lightly shaded street. “I’m gonna…”

“You’re gonna come home and finish your chores before dark,” said a female voice to Earp’s right flank. “You’re as worthless as your father. I should let these men shoot you down but then I’d have to hire a man to build fence next spring.”

The heavy-set the woman walked fearlessly between the shooters and lunged at the kid, grabbing his neck via his ear and dragging him off onto a side street.

Earp and Holiday could only laugh, shaken by the knowledge that this recent affront had come dangerously close to a deadbolt gunfight.

“As long as he’s packing, we ain’t safe,” said Holiday moments later. Masterson still has a badge. He’s still a sheriff’s deputy up in Leadville. Maybe we could have the kid arrested before somebody gets hurt.”

An rattled Earp thought the idea a bit cowardly. Years before he would have simply dispatched the weedy warrior, flicking him away like a flea, leaving him crying for his mother in the blood and the dust. But things were more civilized now and if he wanted to enjoy the his later years he had better listen to Holiday. Masterson was consulted.

* * *

“That badge is from Cripple Creek,” quacked Masterson, but I’ll talk to the kid if you want. You say he’s carrying a Colt like the one we took off Les Dalton in Dodge? Can he shoot straight?”

Masterson would confront the kid on the main street with his dog, Jubal, at his side. He had named the dog after the Confederate general, Jubal Early, for no apparent reason, saying that the dog needed a name and Jubal was as good as any other.

“I’ll be staying in clear view of witnesses for our little conference to be sure,” quipped Masterson, “and I’ll bring Jubal for backup. He’s got more sense than most men and the natural instinct to see a problem coming down.”

After about an hour of searching Masterson found the kid near the livery stable saddling his mare.

“Going someplace, kid?” sassed Masterson. “Maybe that’s best considering…”

“Considering what? said the kid fingering his holster. From the looks of it he had been crying.

“Did the old men make a monkey out of you?” asked Masterson, pushing just a little more. “It could’ve been a whole lot worse. I know those two and you’re lucky to be breathing.”

Masterson then asked the kid to explain his behavior and instead was met with threats of the same kind that had plagued Earp and Holiday. At one point Masterson thought seriously about pulling his gun and ending the standoff for good, but he held back.

“You’re nuts, kid,” said Masterson. “And unless you get some sense real quick you’re gonna be dead.”

“I’ll shoot all three of you in a row at sundown!” fumed the kid. “You just be there!”

Then, as he turned toward his horse Jubal bit him hard in the butt, tearing through his jeans and drawing blood.

“Jubal!” cried Masterson. “Down boy! There’s no call for violence!”

The green gunman scurried off cursing Masterson and Jubal. Masterson set off to report to Earp, but turning the corner near the pool hall he saw the kid sneaking up the same back steps to Earp’s office, his pistol drawn.

“You go one step further and I’ll shoot you, bushwhacker,” cried Masterson. “Drop it or I’ll drop you.” The kid complied, dropping his weapon just as all the commotion brought Earp and Holiday out onto the landing.

“Are you one of those shirttail Tombstone relatives?” a frustrated Earp asked, shoving the cornered kid, “or have you just tired of living? This is your final chance. Now come in here and let’s have a drink and forget this whole matter. I’m warning you, Doc here has reached the end of his patience and even I’m getting in a foul mood!”

“I don’t drink,” said the kid. “My mother says it’s sinful. If she saw me take a drink she’d…”

Now let me get this straight,” smiled Earp. “You’re more than willing to shoot down a man you don’t even know, but drinking’s a sin? That makes no sense. You think your momma’s gonna welcome you back home with blood on your hands? Your gonna shoot Doc and I, and for all I know Bat Masterson too, but a go-round with demon rum is out of the question?

“I think we’ll just flip a coin to see who shoots you,” said Holiday. “It’s getting on to opening time and we can’t have all these distractions. The day miners are about to get off shift and we don’t seem to have a bartender for the evening.”

“We’re trying to run a business here,” said Holiday, “and you, my friend, are becoming a major annoyance. But unfortunately you’re not the only one. Just in the past week I’ve had three baby gunmen challenging me to a fight. When push comes to shove somebody’s going to be dead.”

“Has that dog had his shots?” quizzed Earp on the way back up the stairs. “I don’t know about the dog but I could sure use one,” he laughed.

“Heh, kid,” Holiday chuckled, “Are you old enough to tend bar? We’re a little shorthanded here and the pay ain’t bad.”

“Yeah, you can just sit around and watch us on our way to the whiskey grave,” he added, “without firing a shot from that cannon you’re hauling around.

“I won’t shoot you,” said the kid, “but I’m sure not gonna work for you either.”

“But you don’t know the job,” entered Masterson. “Wyatt here doesn’t need a bartender. He needs an executive secretary. You could fit the bill.”

“What do you mean…”

“I mean a sort of body guard,” continued Masterson, someone to ride shotgun when punks to thinking about shooting the famous Wyatt Earp.”

The kid, along with Earp and Holiday sat stunned at the suggestion.

“Wyatt, what do you think?” asked Masterson.

Earp sat pondering the situation. He did not answer.

“What about you, Doc?” he continued. “You could use a little organization in your life. A secretary might be just the thing.”

“Ain’t secretaries girls?” prodded the kid. “I ain’t no secretary…”

“Hang on, kid. Nobody’s saying you gotta take dictation. If you can shoot straight you can be the secretary/body guard/ hired gun in the employment of this faro parlor. Your clients are sitting right here in front of you. If you can keep these punks off our back we can pay you a healthy salary. Now you think about it. Would you rather be in long wooden box or working for Wyatt Earp?”

The kid shook his head.

“You wanted fame,” said Holiday. “You wanted to kill Wyatt Earp and be a famous fellow over at the pool hall. Well now you have the chance to be just as famous without all the blood.”

Holiday was clearly onto something. The kid thought about his friends in town and how they might see him as a hired gunman in the service of such a cast of characters.

“What would I have to do?” he asked.

“Quit asking questions for starters,” picked up Earp. “The job is simple. I don’t want to deal with every young pistolero that hits town. I don’t want nobody sneaking up my stairs. I don’t want to have to shoot anyone anymore. I don’t want no more trouble.”

“So I’d be the go-between? The peace keeper of the faro tables? I’d be paid to watch the backs of you three?” he asked. “I have to admit I could use the work. Would I get a badge?”

“You could use this badge,” gestured Masterson exposing his Cripple Creek star, “but you had better keep it under your shirt for the time being.”

And that’s how it happened. The kid took the job and quit sneaking up stairs, gunning for the infamous. Earp and Holiday went back to the business of separating ore from miners “bucking the tiger” at the high stakes faro tables. Masterson, with Jubal by his side, wandered back to Dodge City where he established a successful photo studio, specializing in portraits of recently shot but still warm desperadoes. Some of his cold clients included Cold Cut Johnny, Three Fingered Pete, Ned Christie and Cole Estes.

Years passed with Holiday passing on from consumption and Masterson following closely behind, a victim of pneumonia. Earp lived until 1929 dying in his bed at 81. The kid left Gunnison after a few years working for the faro enterprise, moving to Denver where he was elected state senator in 1916. He died in 1950.

– Kashmir Horseshoe