Jeremiah Creed: The Broken Spur

By Otis Morphew

From mumblety peg, to throwing his father’s hunting knives, pocket knife, butcher, or paring knives, little did an eight year old son of a wealthy Planta-tion owner in North Central Louisiana know that one day, he would become very accurate and lethal with a knife of any size and shape….But he was.
From shooting rabbit and squirrel with a slingshot, to firing his father’s flint-lock firearms, little did an eight year old Jeremiah Creed know that he would one day be very accurate and lethal with a firearm of any caliber and size…But he was.
He also did not know that one day he would become quite famous…He was that, too. This is the whole story, the life and future legend of a man that some-day would become the old West’s very first fast-draw Gunfighter…JEREMIAH CREED

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669836209

Otis Morphew

As I have always been a believer in life on other worlds, this is my first attempt at a novel of this kind. Hope you like it! Of course it is of a western genre, as I love the old west, and love writing western novels. Check them out by using Google, Yahoo, etc., type in Otis Morphew and go to my site. Or go to books and type in title. Thanks, Otis

Book preview

JEREMIAH

CREED

The Broken Spur

OTIS MORPHEW

Copyright © 2022 by Otis Morphew.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 07/06/2022

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

844626

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

JEREMIAH CREED

The broken spur

PROLOGUE

What goes through a twenty year, old, educated, wealth, pampered and tantrum-throwing adult man-boy that would prompt him to up and leave home, and a very fine, plush home, it was, just because his father punished him, depriving him of his money, or seeing his friends for six long months. All he did was allow those friends to goad him into a duel of honor over a girl. He killed a boy younger that himself, and at the time, without remorse.

This would turn out to be Jeremiah’s long term dilemma, for after his punishment, he packed his personal belongings and rode away from all that wealth, love, and safely, to a life of thievery, and robbery to survive. He realized the mistake very quickly, but youthful pride denied his return home.

But why go to Texas, it was owned by Mexico, and the air was filled with threats of revolution, with war, a promising outcome. Too late, he realized that mistake, too, for now, he was a wanted man, an outlaw, and could never go home again.

He was left with only one choice, to live. The other option was out of the question, and it was 1830, in a land still in it’s infancy, wild, foreboding and dangerous. Was fate his friend, the future, his destiny? Will he live long enough to become the man tough enough to survive, one that can overcome his youthful ways, and thinking?

Only time, and a gun will tell, for without enough of one, the other is useless, then again, enough of both could very well make the man that for now, still lay hidden inside of him, come out. Or will the outlaw that he made of himself, be his destruction?

This is a time when history is barely out of it’s diapers in America, a time of fear and expectation, of envy and greed, life and mortality.

This is the life, and eventual legend of one Jeremiah Creed, the man that could very possibly American old west’s very first quick-draw gunfighter.

Hope you like it.

Thanks, OTIS MORPHEW

1.jpg

CHAPTER ONE

How far is it, Jonah? He asked excitedly, shading his eyes from the sun and staring past the approaching field hand.

The large black man was still some twenty feet away and walking toward him as he spoke, but didn’t answer him until he was only a few feet away.

Near ’bout three hunert yards, this time. He replied, looking back the way he had come. Wind up too, it be from de South today.

Guess we should have put a bigger jug down there. He sighed, as Jonah was moving in alongside him to face toward the distant target. I barely can see the thing.

Yes suh, it be little allright.

He raised the long barreled, heavy flintlock rifle to his shoulder, steadied it for a second, raised the barrel slightly above and then South of the target, and pulled the trigger, the shock of the explosion forced him back a few feet, but he managed to keep his balance as the black powder smoke engulfed them both, and after a minute or so, wiped at his eyes.

Did I hit it, Jonah? He gasped, squinting through the drifting smoke.

You sho’nuff did. He said excitedly. I seen de water splash when de jug blowed up.

Okay then. He laughed, reaching to massage his right shoulder. He leaned the rifle against the corral fence and grinned at Jonah. You bring the gloves?

Sho’nuff did. He said, going behind him to pick them up, then giving a pair to Ezra. You sho is wantin’ to learn fightin’ real bad, Masta’, Ezra... I done knocked you down a bunch a times.

"I know that, Jonah, that’s what I want you to do. The pain helps me learn how to defend myself.

so don’t hold back, you hear, cause I won’t.... And again, do not call me Master, Jonah, you’re a free man, you, and the others work for us for wages, we don’t own you."

I keep fergettin’ ‘at, been a slave a lot a years, me and de others, too.

Well, not any more, Jonah, we’re all friends here, You’re employees now, all of you.

I knows ‘at,...yall is a God-send. He grinned then. Put ’em up, I’m coming’ fer ya.

*        *        *

Ezra July Sugg was the only child born to Eli and Hope Sugg. Thus, the name July, as he was born the 21st. day of that month in 1800. Now a boy of 17 who, along with his father and sixteen black field hands worked a large, very prosperous cotton farm a few miles inside the Mexican territory of Texas, from the border with the territory of Louisiana.

The Sugg family, by the time Ezra had his 16th birthday, were quite wealthy from the sales of cotton through a European conglomerate buyer, who came in by ship to the port in baytown. He would then ship the fluffy white gold to buyers in France and England. The Suggs were paid in gold and silver coin upon delivery of the entire crop to the shipping docks at Baytown, a two week journey for the heavily loaded wagons to the cotton gin there. The gin was a fairly new way to separate the seeds from the cotton and pack the cotton into bales for easier handling.

Young Ezra was a rare son at that age, when most young men his age had already grown to hate farm life, and some had even left home already to get away from it, he loved the long days of hard work, and was quite the pride and joy of his mother and father. They openly rejoiced in the knowledge that he had no thoughts of ever leaving the farm.

He had no thoughts of ever getting married either, or for the most part, girls in general, being too involved with his dream of a large farm of his own someday, or one day owning this one, which he was sure to inherit some day. He was content with it all, even when all the recreation he and his father had was their frequent hunting and fishing trips to the near by wooded areas with the cool running creeks and lakes.

The flintlock rifles, however, to Ezra seemed far too heavy to lug around all day hunting, he had much rather fish, and let his father tote the rifle when they went. Besides, aside from rare skirmishes with the Atakapa, or the Karankawa Indians, who were coastal, nomadic tribes that seasonally moved inland, or occasionally, derelict white men with the intentions to rob them would try an attack on the farm. But his father, and field hands were much more than they all would bargain for.

Ezra had just turned 17 in July of 1821, when he met, and fell in love with 16 year old Faith Angelica Hill, the beautiful daughter of Ethan and Mildred Hill. The family had come to the Sugg farm for directions to a long abandoned section of farmland they had purchased from a Mexican land owner in Baytown. As it happened, the land in question was that adjoining theirs. The farm house and all and been vacant since the owners moved somewhere further North. Both families, at that time became fast friends, almost as if it were meant to be.

As time went on, both Eli, and Ethan could see what was taking place between the two young people, and did their level best to keep them apart, to no avail, because less than a year later, amid protests, the two fathers sent for the nearest padre, and they were married. A meant to be meeting of the two families,...or was it fate?

Soon after, with the help of both their parents, and the Sugg field hands, they built their house on a section of land provided them by Ezra’s father, and they settled into the life of farmers, raising crops of corn, wheat and cotton, and soon, children. On April 10, 1822, baby Elias July Sugg was born, and by June of ‘23, came baby, Harmony Anjelica Sugg. Happy times were in store for both their families, as they both shared prosperity, becoming more and more prominent in Jasper County. And it was not until the winter of 1825 that tragedy called on both families, as well as a large part of Texas, and the territories to the North.

Both families fell sick from what the doctors called Cholera, a disease that had now spread across a large part of the world, rumored to have started in the Ganges Delta of India. It was also called the blue death, as the skin would turn bluish from the extreme loss of fluids.

Ezra had no idea what to do, his parents were sick, vomiting, diarrhea, constantly thirsty, and as their skin appeared to turn a bluish color, he became scared and sent for the Doctor, in the village that was called Galveston, who by now, was caring for so many patients that he failed to show up at all. He was heart broken when his mother passed away, and he spent hours between digging graves in the family plot and caring for his father, and now, his wife, who was having the same symptoms quickly became almost too weak to care for the children. He had no sooner buried his mother, than his father succumbed to the disease.

Word came then that Mister and Mrs. Hill were sick too. It was at this time of torment that Jonah, his wife and fifteen other field hands left the farm with nothing but a wave of hand from Jonah, who stopped some twenty yards away, afraid to come any closer. He leaned tiredly on the shovel’s handle to watch them go before continuing his wife’s grave.

It was the Christmas season when he lost his children to the dreaded disease and now, he was nothing more than a grieving wreck of a man. He was filled with sorrow and hate toward a disease he couldn’t whip, and a God he had consequently lost faith in and now, he sat on folded legs at the foot of the three graves and cried mournfully until the dawn of the following day, before finally forcing himself to his feet and all but crawling back to the house and his rocking chair on the front porch, where he sat and stared at the graves until almost dusk before going inside, and in the dim light from a coal oil lamp, made pork sandwiches from a roast he had cooked before his wife passed. He ate hungrily before taking sandwiches and jug of home made liquor back to the chair on the porch.

Opening his eyes to the rooster’s morning song, he stared longingly at the graves once more, again feeling the pain stabbing at his heart. But he knew what had to be done. He knew he could in no way be able to remain on the farm now and sighing, he left the porch, and after another long look at the graves, trudged off to the barn, hitched four of the plow mules up to the large Saratoga wagon, his father had moved to his place for keeping, spread the large tarpaulin over the tall hooped ribs and soon had the cover tied in place.

Hands on hips, he stood to look out over the acres of unplowed, half overgrown cotton fields and thought of his loss of family and wasted dreams before looking over the dozens of plows and discs, the large iron wheels of planters, and at the farm’s empty wagons, still lined in a row along the length of the field. He stared at the empty bunkhouse, and the house they had built for Jonah and his wife, all empty and forlorn.

Shaking his head, and with eyes filled with tears, he wiped at them and entered the barn, grabbed the two good saddles, he and Faith had used to ride across the acreage, and the bridles, throwing them over the sideboards in front of the wagon, then climbing aboard to arrange them for more storage room behind the seat. He went back for ax, hatchet, grinding wheel, and several knives that were used for skinning hogs, deer and other varmints, storing them all with the saddles. He took more bridals, wagon reins and halters, spare harness, shoes for the horses, followed by several sacks of oats, grain, flour, meal and feed bags to feed them with, rake, pitchfork, and four arm-loads of hay, spreading all of this midway in the wagon for a dry place to sleep when it rained,…or snowed.

Back in the barn, he took his, and her horse from the stall and tied them to the rear of the wagon, spread horse blankets over their backs and tied them in place. He went back and opened all the stalls, releasing the mules and several other horses to roam free. He opened the pasture and corral gates, tying them open, allowing the few head of cattle, goats and sheep to go free. He watched the animals move out onto the tall grass of the fields for a moment, then climbed to the wagon seat and moved the wagon to the front of the house.

Taking two tin wash tubs to the wagon, he made room for them, then went to the smoke house, took down two slabs of salt cured beef, three of salt bacon, one of ham, two racks of salt cured pork and beef ribs, three skin-filled tubes of sausage, putting all of these in the washtubs, then went back for his clothes, socks, boots, long overcoat, wading boots and short waisted sheepskin mackinaw, storing them in the wagon.

After gathering up his few flintlock rifles and pistols, powder, and shot, he used coal oil to set fire to both barn, and the house then drove to his parent’s house, where he gathered his fathers rifles and handguns, along with powder and shot. These he placed beneath the wagon seat with his weapons. Then, sighing heavily, crawled up to sit and painstakingly load the four, of what his father had called, Pirate’s pistols, placing them within reach if need be, then loaded two of the rifles before sitting to look the place over lovingly. Sighing, he climbed down and reentered the house, emptied coal oil on the living room floor, then dropped a burning match on it before driving the wagon to his father’s barn where he loosed all the livestock there before burning it. He climbed to the seat and clucked the mules up the long road to, and through the arch covered gate, turned east bound toward the border with Louisiana, and never looked back.

The rest of that first day, he spent on the seat of the slow moving wagon, thinking of his life, his parents, his wife and children, and grieving off and on the entire afternoon, sometimes having to stop the wagon and get off to to walk and calm himself enough to think clearly, before continuing. He knew he had done the right thing in leaving, there would be no way he could stay there and work the farm, not with those kind of memories, and the fact that he could see their eyes, and hear their cries for the help he couldn’t give them. He relived every segment of his life in his mind, good times and bad, the highlights, his learning to shoot, the hunting trips with his father, learning to fight with Jonah, that, and wondering why Jonah and the other hands had not come down with the disease like everyone else, and lastly, hoping they fared well on their on.

He camped early that day, pulling the wagon out of sight in a grove of evergreen trees, made his camp, warmed himself by the fire while he fried his meat for supper, and boiled his coffee. The meat tasted good, as he was quite hungry, and when he was done, poured and drank his coffee to watch the sun go down, and soon was in darkness of the trees until full nightfall. He used feedbags to grain the animals, then staked them out to graze on the lush prairie grass just inside the trees, made his bed beneath the wagon and turned in. This worried him at first, and not until he remembered what his father had said about a mule’s warning when friend or foe would approach them, did he finally fade off to sleep.

He spent the next day in the hot sun, where he used large rocks to slice and dry the salty beef in the first stage of preparing jerky, next step would be the cold nights where they would all but freeze, then to start over again the following day until done He was sure this had to be done, because, even though the meat was salt cured an smoked, it would not last him in the wagon’s bed for any great length of time, and he was not sure yet where he was going. Besides, the jerky had no strong aroma like the salt cured did, to help keep the predators away, he hoped.

Spending the biggest part of two days at this, he was all loaded up and preparing to leave, when the mules snorted, causing unrest among the other two horses and wary, he climbed up to the seat and retrieved the two flintlock pistols and was standing beside the, still smoking remnants of camp fire as the two ragged looking men rode into camp to sit their horses and stare at him. He took this time to look them over, noting that both wore faded, filthy khaki pants, the leggings of which were stuffed into knee high boots, their shirts couldn’t be seen as they both wore deerskin jackets. But the bulky looking flintlock pistols in their sashes were unmistakable. They were both dirty with heavy beards and mustaches, eyebrows that all but covered their eyes, as they looked over the wagon and horses. Long thick hair protruded from they noses, causing him to wonder where they had been for so long.? But, he was also sure that they did not mean him any good will, so he stood, both heavy pistols in his waist band, and waited.

What’s on you fella’s mind? He asked in an even, friendly tone, causing both to lean forward on their horse’s necks and stare at him.

What ya got in da wagin? This, from the larger man, lifting his hand to push the ragged hat back onto his shaggy head a bit.

Stuff that belongs to me, why you asking?

We in need a some stuff. Grinned the smaller man, showing dark, stained teeth in a wide grin.

‘At’s right. Said the bigger man, Horse flesh, too….Whut’s yer price?

Ezra stared at them a moment, disbelief at their assumption that he would sell his belongings to them readily, and without argument.

More than you can pay,…now, if you don’t mind, be on your way, I was just preparing to leave here myself.

You bein’ a mite unfriendly here, aint ya?. Came the big man in a somewhat surly manner. All I done was ask you a question?

Friendly-like, too. Came the other.

Okay. Returned Ezra. I’m in no particular mood to stand here and chat with you….As a matter a fact, I’m in a pretty dangerous mood right now,…and that’s for reasons you wouldn’t understand, so listen close,…Get the hell out a here, so I can be on my way. I got nothing to sell, and you’ve got no money to buy it with, so leave,…now!

The two looked at each other for a moment, then nodded, and went for their pistols.

Ezra chose the instant they looked away, to pull his own, and as the two were pulling their weapons, he fired both pistols, knocking them both from the saddle, to lay inert in the tall grass.

He stared at them for a moment, then bent to throw up his breakfast of beef and coffee. This being his first time to kill a man, the first time to even talk with one other than Jonah, or his father and field hands. He slowly found strength enough to catch up the two men’s horses, unsaddle them, remove the bridals and shoo them out away from the trees, where they quickly began eating the grass, and slowly moved away from the area. He gathered the weapons and tossed them into the wagon, climbed aboard to sit and breathe the cold air until he felt calm again, then left the grove of trees.

Satisfied that with his ability to think quickly, he would be able to survive long enough to get to where he was going, where-ever that might be, as long as it was far away from there. He clucked the mules to a fast walk through the tall prairie grass as the sun climbed higher and began to warm him up a bit. He had noticed, the couple of days before, the dangers that lay beneath the tall grass, having had to doctor a cut on one of the moles. That being the case, he was now more aware of the surroundings and began watching for the protruding enemies in the grass.

CHAPTER TWO

In the latter part of the seventeen hundreds, the Creed Plantation covered several sections of lush acreage used for Cotton, Wheat, Barley and corn. The home, itself was nestled in countless Fir, Pecan and White oak trees that surrounded the entire front, except for the long gravel covered roadway leading to the front steps. The property was fenced in front, both ways as one approached, and the front entrance was only five miles or so Northwest of the city of Natchitoches, Louisiana of which, by the way, happened to be the oldest town in the Louisiana Purchase.

The Plantation was a magnificent, two storied, white structure, it’s wide, wraparound porch reached across the front and both sides of the structure, encased behind an Oak railing all around. Tall Decorative columns stood from porch to the second floor, some twelve to fifteen feet tall, and ten feet apart along the front, and on both sides of the marble steps leading up to the porch. A thick carpet mat was laid from the top step to the wide, Cherrywood, double doors.

Large double windows adorned the entire second floor, and most of the downstairs exterior. except for the thick, glass door leading out from the second floor, to the veranda, of which covered the entire top of the porch below, and was also encased behind the Oakwood railing. This was the perfect setting for the night time wine and other social activities.

Johnathan Creed had been, and still was a shrewd business man and slave owner, having twenty-four field hands to tend his cotton fields, and other crops at harvest time, seventeen ranch hands to care for his cattle, horses and lesser livestock, half were cowboys on his payroll, the rest were also slaves. Four young black women lived and worked in the main house, to do the cleaning, laundry and cooking, leaving nothing for Rose Ellen Creed, Johnathan’s wife, to do but sit and sew, or as they say, twiddle her thumbs all day. Bored most of the time, she began having the other Plantation wives over for tea, even invited the upper class ladies from in, and around the town to join them. this was a past-time she loved, looked forward to each day. She became the talked-about hostess, as rumored, when not hosting her parties, she was planning one.

Johnathan Creed was highly respected in the Parish, as well as the city, being on the city council, and a deacon in the church. this all because he owned more slaves than anyone else in the Parish. Viola May Creed, their only daughter, was twelve years old and spent most of her time, when not in school, in her room, or on the veranda, when not in use.

Jeremiah Creed, their only son, was a tall six feet and one inch, and was a dark headed, fun loving, hell raising young man, turning nineteen years old in 1830. He possessed a devil-may-care smile, flashing dark eyes, and long wavy hair, which he kept knotted in a pony-tail at back of his head. He was quite adept already with the Queen Anne flintlock pistol, called that because it was during her reign that it was introduced. He began shooting as a teenager.

At nineteen, he was quite a dresser too, dark trousers, the legs, of which, were stuffed into the tops of his almost, knee-high boots. He wore, most times, a white, silk, loose fitting shirt, under a dark mid-waist jacket, topped off with his Queen Anne Pistol stuck into his brightly-colored sash around his waist.

He was most always in town, having a following of most of the young men in town, and was quite the lady’s man, one in particular, a beautiful young thing that served drinks in one of the four localized saloons in town of which, two years earlier, he had caught her at a table sharing drinks fondly with another dapper young man. He made a scene that day, ordering her away from the table, and bringing the angry young man to his feet in protest. One thing had led to another until he used a glove and slapped the young man in the face, which was the age old way of challenging another to a pistol duel. His challenge was accepted, and an hour later stood facing the young man in a grove of trees just outside the town’s limits.

As each of them had their own pistol, they ignored the legality of the fight, allowing an older man, chosen from among the growing crowd of spectators to examine the two pistols and see that they were loaded and ready to fire. The pistols were then returned and the two men turned their backs to each other, and when the older man began counting, they began walking away from each other. Once he reached the number twenty, they both turned and fired, and as the challenged young man was thrown back from the force of the fifty calibre shot-ball, to fall sprawling on the hard turf, Jeremiah Creed returned his pistol to the sash around his waist, turned, went down on one knee and vomited before being escorted back to town by his back-slapping, cheering followers.

Upon returning to town, they were met by the Sheriff, and one Constable and he was arrested, only to be released before dark, as his father’s reputation, and prominence in the town’s politics, kept him out of trouble with the law. His father forgave him, with only a reprimand. The second, and third shootings, a year later, however, was not forgiven, and brought down the wrath of his father, who ordered his son to under-go house arrest for six months, no outside activity at all.

As hard as it was for him to undertake the task, he did as he was told, but the day after, while his father was in the fields, he went to the gun cabinet, took his father’s pistol, which would make him twice as dangerous, powder flask, and a sack full of musket shot and stowed it all behind the saddle of his favorite horse in a toe sack, took supplies from the pantry, salt, side of bacon, fry pan and hog lard, tying all that in place behind the saddle, he then kissed his mother, hugged his sister, mounted and left at a gallop.

He left home, thus beginning his career as a gunman, a killer of men, who were no match in his use of the bulky flintlock pistol. He had begun a life as road agent, highwayman, and killer within a short period of time, and over the next several months, was pursued time and again by large posses of armed men after committing a hold up. His descriptive likeness had already began showing up on wanted posters in Louisiana, and after a late night visit to his mother, he said good bye and after another month of the hit and run life, crossed the border into the territory of Texas to continue his reputation.

*        *        *

June ninth, 1831, twenty-one year old Jeremiah Creed stood on the elevated stoop of the false-fronted, well built, and very popular saloon. The porch, of which, was crowded, as well as inside the front windows with eagerly expectant faces of spectators of both, white and Mexican descent, faces pressed against the stained glass, eyes glued to the young Gringo out on the porch, and the Mexican in the street, who was half drunk and mouthing his threatening obscenities.

Jeremiah stood calmly, hands at his side, and watched the Mexican’s eyes, as well as quick glances at the pedestrians in the muddy street for unseen enemies. Onlookers had also gathered on the boardwalks across the wide expanse of roadway through town, as well as the boardwalk along his side of the street, all gathered to watch what they knew was sure to happen at any time, and the waiting was nerve-wracking, as the town was already in distress.

*        *        *

The relations between Texas and Mexico was fast falling apart and most every resident in Nacogdoches was in fear that another revolution was at hand, all feared for their future, especially with the growing hostile efforts of the Mexican Garrison to keep them in line. Soldiers were on constant patrol, accosting white and Mexican citizens alike, holding them at rifle point, asking non-meaningful questions, making arrests for no reason at all. It was a tension ready to explode.

TheTexas relationship began to spiral out of control, slowly at first, after the Mexican revolution of 1821 when they successfully ousted the Spanish from Texas, forcing them to ceed ownership of this great state. Now, with that success under their belts, Mexico wanted to oust the Texan’s hold on it. The residents feared it was going to happen right there in Nacogdoches, and soon.

Jeremiah had heard all this by listening to talk in the saloon, and by watching the roving Mexican soldiers, put there on orders from the garrison’s Commandant. But it being no concern of his, had continued his drink and meal of fried beans, rice and tortillas. He was particularly watching the largest Mexican, who was almost drunk and waving a half empty bottle of tequila as he pushed white men around and mouthed obscenities at them. This alone made him ill at ease, and wanting to finish his meal and leave.

But fate is fickle, he was only half finished, when that same Mexican staggered against a man walking past his table, but the man stood his ground, causing the soldier to stagger backward to careen into his table, upending it and spilling the remainder of his meal on the floor. The Mexican, in his stupor, righted himself only to stand, somewhat unsteadily, and glare at him.

Hijo de Puta! He spat nastily, angrily throwing the table aside and glare menacingly at him……… Cab’ron. He hissed. See what you do, de perra?

Knowing exactly what cab’ron meant, he lashed out with his right fist, knocking the Mexican into the table behind him crashing it to the floor. That’s when the other Mexicans rushed in to grab the man, along with two white men, all ushering him out of the saloon, with him yelling, El hijo de puta!

He watched them for a minute, finally bringing his instant anger under control, and began wiping at his trouser legs to see if any of his meal had landed there.

Are you okay, friend? Asked the wide-eyed bartender, as he rushed over.

I’m okay. He replied. "What was that asshole doin’ in here, anyway,…and why was everyone letting’ th’