Friday, May 05, 2006

Natches Murphy

Natches Murphy was born in silence--pulled from his mother's cooling womb by a grief-numb man, who moments later would wrap his son in furs, chin a shotgun and join his wife.



Friends, it has been Latigo Flint's great honor to occasionally recount for you the fantastic yet entirely true exploits of my distant ancestor, Natches Murphy, the infamous Fresno outlaw and pistoleer. Above was his birth--I've never spoken of it before. Below is the time Natches tried to surrender during a daring getaway because a butterfly landed on his hat brim. That one I may have previously mentioned. Assholes might call it a rerun--the product of a lazy, repetitive mind. (But probably not to my face.)

From the archives, 7-14-05:

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Natches Murphy

Most people don't know that Natches Murphy, the infamous Fresno outlaw and pistoleer, once tried to surrender right in the middle of a daring getaway because a butterfly landed on the brim of his hat and he didn't want it to get hurt.

The posse couldn't believe it. They thought surely it must be a trick. They kept shooting even after Natches Murphy waved a white neckerchief in the air, removed his hat and dismounted. Natches Murphy was shot a total of nineteen times as he knelt, gently blowing on his hat brim, trying to coax the butterfly safely away.

Natches Murphy gazed up at his pursuers with sorrowful eyes. (By now they weren't so much pursuing, it was more of an assembling into a semicircle and firing point-blank.)

"Amigos." Several more slugs smashed deep into his torso, rocking him back on his heels. "Can you not see that a butterfly has landed on the brim of my hat?"

Now that he mentioned it, the posse did see what appeared to be a butterfly on his hat. The marshal raised his hand, asking for a temporary ceasefire. Natches Murphy looked again at the butterfly.
"Butterfly, I implore you, please flap away. I've bled more than enough to escrow a grave--should the next bullet strike your fragile frame, it will mean I have hemorrhaged in vain."

The butterfly attempted three feeble flaps then slumped on its side. Natches pressed anguished palms to his temples.
"My God Amigos! She's pregnant!!!!"
He stared up at the posse.
"We haven't a moment to loose, see how extended her belly is. Quick now, I need clean cloth, warm water and a willow leaf."
The men glanced at each other in confusion.
"Now damn it! We haven't much time!!!"

The urgency in his voice struck like spurs to a mustang's flank. The men scrambled to fetch the requested items and when they did, Natches Murphy drew his pistols and shot them all in the spine.

It had been a trick after all, and that's exactly the sort of thing that made Natches Murphy, the infamous Fresno outlaw and pistoleer, so dern infamous.

4 Comments:

At 8:34 AM, Blogger Francis Marion Tarwater said...

Yo Latty.

 
At 12:03 AM, Blogger Sam, Problem-Child-Bride said...

Oh Natches! Natches! And Oh! Latigo! Latigo!

Someday you will both have to answer to a higher authority in that great dusty Main Street in the sky. No quickest quickdraw could ever be quicker than His very quick one.

And what will you answer? Tell me? What shall you say when confronted by a lifetime of duplicity and sneaky slayings? You'll say "Er ... " and "Oh." And He will say "Well that's just not cricket" because everyone know's He is British (but beardless contrary to popular belief). Then he will say "Go on then. Off to Hell with you"

And there are no butterflies in Hell.

 
At 1:45 AM, Blogger Peter said...

Don't ya just hate those whiney ones Latigo!!!

 
At 12:14 AM, Blogger Latigo Flint said...

My heart swells Solace Layfield. You have done a fine thing by me, and I never forget.

Mighty words Problem Child Bride. But you're wrong, there are butterflies in Hell. However, they crouch flightless in corners along with moths, while all the spiders flit and fly and swoop and burble poison on dying flowers, and also bite faces and necks incessantly.

They're just trying to save me from the flying spiders Peter. I won’t fault 'em for that.

 

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