ablelaz

Cactus Jack by ablelaz

He walked out of the desert one day back in eighteen seventy five. Just a slip of a boy, couldn’t have been any more than fourteen. He had a knife on his belt that was almost as big as he was. It wasn’t stylish, just a plain looking butcher knife near as I could see.

It was late July and nobody went out in the desert at that time of the year, unless they had a screw loose.

The desert was hot as Hades, especially in the day light hours; still I can’t say he looked like he was suffering all that much.

“What’s your name boy?--and where do you hail from?”

“Out there.” He shrugged, pointing out into the desert. “My name is Jack.”

“Jack what?—man needs two names, what’s your last name?”

“I guess I don’t got one.”

“Man needs a last name, what was your father called?”

“Jack, him called Jack, same like me.”

“Okay,” I threw my hands up. “Since you came from the cactus patch, we’ll call you Cactus Jack.”

“Cactus Jack—yeah I like that.”

His eyes wandered over to the watering trough. “Who owns the water?”

“No-body; it’s a community well, the water’s for whoever needs it.”

“Well! I guess that’s me.” He moved toward the trough, the movement seemed strangely effortless. He wore a pair of britches that were made from some kind of animal skin, a low crown hat that must have been white once. A piece of cloth was tied around his neck at one end and draped down over his shoulders to about waist length. Keenly alert eyes swept over his surroundings, missing nothing. A half smile played at the corners of his mouth, not threatening, but strangely mocking. He rinsed his hat out and was just washing his arms when a roar, interrupted his task.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? That’s my drinking water, you’re muddying.”

Buck Olson was a big man, strong as an ox and with the general disposition of an enraged water buffalo.

“You might as well be pissing on my dinner plate, you stupid Indian.”

“Water tastes good, Mr. Whiteman.” Jack scooped out a handful and drank it.

No one could fault Buck for jumping to the conclusion, this youngster was Indian. His skin was the color of polished mahogany, the way he dressed certainly leaned toward Indian and his life style was Indian. Most people thought if someone looks like an Indian and acts like an Indian, they are probably an Indian. I kept my opinion to myself; I had seen the keen, piercing, blue, eyes of the youngster, when he first entered our community and I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen a blue eyed Indian.

Buck seemed intent on pushing this incident to a fight, for reason known only to him. I knew I could stop this encounter even before it got started, but for some perverted reason I wanted to see how this youngster would handle the situation. I had in my younger days, developed a bit of a rep with the gun. Though I hadn’t done anything in quite a while to enforce that idea, Buck just kept the thing alive. Confident I could stop it when ever I wanted to, I chose to sit and watch.

Buck Olson’s approach to a fight never varied, full speed ahead and batter anything that’s standing in your way, to the ground. The problem seemed to arise when he attempted to deliver one of his bone crushing blows. Buck’s first try was basic, the swing started way out in the nether lands and it carried every ounce of Buck’s right shoulder behind it. The problem is that by the time Buck’s fist arrived at its target, the target wasn’t there. The momentum behind that swing was awesome and with nothing there to absorb it, it became a force to reckon with. Buck did his best to control it, but the damn thing had him off balance and then, he was in the dust on his back.

He looked the crowed over carefully, as if looking for anyone who appeared to be having too much pleasure at his expense. As he rolled over onto his knees and started to rise, I think he had all, but forgotten about the youngster. The kick delivered to his ass was timed perfectly with that instant when one is most vulnerable, from a balance point of view and it sent Buck sprawling in the dust a second time. As Buck regained his feet the light of reason left his eyes replaced now by manic hatred. He glared at his victim turned antagonist.

“I’m going to cripple you, boy.”

“Come on Mr. Whiteman; you said you wanted to play.”

Buck brought the battle to a new level by drawing a thirty eight revolver from his overall’s pocket. The move caught everyone by surprise; Buck was no gunman, in fact no one could ever remember him resorting to the gun.

Everyone seemed to be stunned into a sort of a trance, everyone that is except Cactus Jack. He charged right at the confused Buck, who desperately tried to cock the pistol. Just as he accomplished that Jack disappeared under his left arm, I saw the glint of sunlight on steel and the left strap of Buck’s braces went limp. He turned around trying to locate his foe, holding up his pants with his left hand, while lifting the cocked pistol high with his right.

Suddenly the big awkward knife severed the right brace, and Jack popped up right in front of Buck. With his pants now forgotten in a heap around his ankles, Buck did the thing he knew best. He brought the cocked gun straight down at Jacks head, which was less than two feet away.

The look of disbelieve on Buck’s face, gave way to one of despair. The target had once again vanished, the instant before impacted. Buck knew the gun would hit his leg and he steeled himself against the pain he knew was inevitable. The gun smashed into his right knee with incredible force, but not a hint of the pain, he must have been suffering, showed on his face.

To add insult to injury the gun discharged upon contact with the knee, sending a bullet into the top of Buck’s left foot.

On a wounded foot and a damaged knee, Buck Olson stood in the middle of the village square, dressed in nothing more than a badly soiled pair of under shorts and a pair of boots. A puddle of blood was forming round his left foot and his right knee had already attained monstrous proportions.

He stuck his hand out toward Jack. “Son you just fought a hell of a battle and you beat me fair and square. I just want you to know I hold no hard feeling against you, here’s my hand on it.”

“Oh, no! Mr. Whiteman; I was only playing a game, then you started hurting yourself and I don’t know why. The longer the game lasted the more seriously you injured yourself. I’m glad the game is over; if it had lasted much longer, I’m sure you would have killed yourself.”

Buck shifted his weight a little trying to close the distance, Jack was maintaining, but the effort put extra pressure on his damaged knee. The knee collapsed spilling Buck face first, into the dust of the square once more.

Jack picked up the revolver and spun it around on his finger, tossing it into the air and catching it with ease. He must have sensed I was watching him, with a sheepish look he tossed the gun to me.

“Nice little toy gun.”

“Yea, it made a nice little toy, hole in Buck’s foot.

Jack walked to the water trough, scooped out a dipperful and carried it to Buck, who had just managed to reach a sitting position.

“Here Mr. Whiteman, you look like you could use a nice drink of water.” Buck took a mouthful rinsed, spit it out and drank the rest.

“That is good water; thanks.”

We didn’t have a doctor here in Mercy Wells, so we took Buck to the saloon, so the vet could treat him. It seemed he was likely to lose two toes and the bruise on his knee would take its own sweet time healing, but in time he would be fine.

When I got back to the village square Jack was gone. I asked Jud Rudder were the boy went, he pointed toward the desert.

“Took a sip of water and walked right straight into that hell.”

I looked out into the sand, cactus and heat waves. That was about as close as one could come to hell on earth, but there was nothing visible.

Seems like pretty much everyone has a theory about Jack. Some think he was an-addle, headed youngster, without the smarts to look after myself. Some deny his existence; saying he was a sort of mirage, that concept was kind of hard to sell Buck Olson.

I like to keep my opinion to myself, but I admit to watching the desert carefully, because if Cactus Jack ever decides to pay us another visit, I for one don’t want to miss it.

Taxiday

LOVE the story!!!
Couple of "buts" -
Water buffalo in the desert? Need to find something else.
A few minor structural faults that tend to be distracting.
Dialogue's good but exposition needs work.

Hope you find a market for it. It's original AND funny.

qwertyman

Exceptional, as good as I have read on WF.

Quote:

Some think he was an-addle, headed youngster, without the smarts to look after myself.

Where did they get that idea?

The Backward OX

That put me in mind immediately of Clint Eastwood, in A Fistful Of Dollars. Damn, it is Clint Eastwood.

The rest of your story has patches that are as good as anything Mark Twain ever penned. Do what one of the other posters said in the thread carrying the first version of this story, about commas, and you've got it made.

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SevenWritez

I enjoyed this, and I loved the dialogue.

EDIT: Be gone, thee crazy bastard writing.

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As long as there is pain, the river flows forever
As strong as a smile can be, the river will flow forever
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Golden Goose

Ablelaz

Nice! Enjoyed reading this. Don't fully understand the point to it, or if there is even supposed to be one particularly. Although this work holds as a piece in itself, I think you could perhaps extend it. I'm curious about Jack, and sort of curious about whoever it is telling us the story. It almost felt like the beginning of a longer piece.

In terms of sharpening it, you need to sort out your use of commas. There is one earlier on which I assumed was a mistake as it clashed badly with writing which otherwise felt pretty sophisticated. But several more similarly ill-placed commas come along. Here's a few:

not threatening, but strangely mocking. He rinsed his hat out and was just washing his arms when a roar, interrupted his task. (I would take out the first, and definately the second)

eyes of the youngster, when he first entered our community (take out)

jumping to the conclusion, this youngster was Indian (replace with fullstop, or colon at a stretch)

Buck Olson’s approach to a fight never varied, full speed ahead and batter anything that’s standing in your way, to the ground. (replace first with fullstop or colon, remove the second)

And so on. Also in one paragraph you say Buck isn't one to pull a gun then in the next he points it at the boys head because that's 'what he knows best.' I think you mean he tries to gun-butt him but make it more obvious!

Anyway that's my fifty cents. Hope it's helpful. I'm interested to read more of your work

Easy

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qwertyman

Like Golden goose, I am assuming this is part of a longer piece otherwise it is a waste.

Sen Yama

Quote:

“Well! I guess that’s me.”

I think that the exclamation point is too much. probably better as a comma.

Quote:

He moved toward the trough, the movement seemed strangely effortless. He wore a pair of britches that were made from some kind of animal skin, a low crown hat that must have been white once. A piece of cloth was tied around his neck at one end and draped down over his shoulders to about waist length. Keenly alert eyes swept over his surroundings, missing nothing. A half smile played at the corners of his mouth, not threatening, but strangely mocking. He rinsed his hat out and was just washing his arms when a roar, interrupted his task.

Here my eyes glazed over

Quote:

He looked the crowed over carefully, as if looking for anyone who appeared to be having too much pleasure at his expense.

I was unaware of a crowd, and you've got an extra 'e' there. And the sentence seems strange.

Quote:

As he rolled over onto his knees and started to rise, I think he had all, but forgotten about the youngster.

This is a strange sentance as well, I think that the comma between all and but is improper.

Quote:

kick delivered to his ass was timed perfectly with that instant when one is most vulnerable, from a balance point of view and it sent Buck sprawling in the dust a second time. As Buck regained his feet the light of reason left his eyes replaced now by manic hatred.

These are strangely (sp?) worded.

Quote:

drawing a thirty eight revolver from his overall’s pocket

perhaps he drew it from the pocket of his overalls?

Quote:

The move caught everyone by surprise; Buck was no gunman, in fact no one could ever remember him resorting to the gun.

'the' gun? wouldn't it be 'a' gun?

Quote:

as he accomplished that Jack disappeared under his left arm, I saw the glint of sunlight on steel and the left strap of Buck’s braces went limp. He turned around trying to locate his foe, holding up his pants with his left hand, while lifting the cocked pistol high with his right.

Again, very awkward.



More awkwardness.

Quote:

The gun smashed into his right knee with incredible force, but not a hint of the pain, he must have been suffering, showed on his face.

comma use

Quote:

his right knee had already attained monstrous proportions.

his knee swelled?

Quote:

Yea, it made a nice little toy, hole in Buck’s foot.

comma use

Quote:

“That is good water; thanks.”

should probably use a comma

And there is other assorted oddness, but I'm feeling very nitpicky today, so I probably just mis-read it. I like the story though, quite a lot actually.

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Brightside

Hey,

I enjoyed this - a good read! Not much crit to add from what the others have said. Also, is this forming part of a longer story? Good dialogue and well paced.

Brightside.

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