He felt the sharp prod of his Spanish style spurs as the tip of the fivestar swivel ripped through the thick, nearly indestructible seat of his pants and tore a piece out of his right buttock cheek as he dove ass over tea kettle into the thick undergrowth. Those new Levi brand, canvas pants with the copper riveted pockets he had bought in that little trading post a few days ago were not all they were cracked up to be. He remembered that miserly old man who sold them said, “Oh yeah, these britches’ll protect yer ass come hell ‘er high water. Nothin’ll tear em, rip em…hell, ya can’t even shoot a hole through em!”
Well, Bloke Rancid surmised that he would have to settle that score when he was done getting shut of these here injuns. That old man shouldn’t be misrepresentin stuff like that. “Maybe a good old fashioned Tennessee Hills beatin would teach im,” Bloke contemplated.
It had never really been defined, what a Tennessee Hills beating actually was, but Bloke recalled using that phrase many times over the years as he traveled from place to place. He recalled hiring on with that Mississippi barge company and working on the loading docks all along that river. There were many men who learned the hard way what a Tennessee Hills beating was and the name Bloke Rancid burned in their memories forever. Any number of reasons could account for that, from broken arms, cracked craniums, noses smashed over a man’s face, wired jaws, eyes gouged, and gonads broken beyond any country doctor’s ability to repair. That’s what it meant and Rancid’s reputation usually preceded him. He was well known, far and wide.
As Bloke Rancid huddled in his cocoon of thick undergrowth, he could see the Indians searching for him; their faces eerily blotched and streaked with war paint. The small group soon congregated around the place where Rancid squatted only a few minutes before. They examined the place where he had buried his duty with great care. The leader of the warring band had a puzzled look on his face. Bloke could hear the muffled conversation and understood nearly everything that passed between them.
He was appreciative of that winter he spent with that ole Blackfoot squaw shacked up on the edge of nowhere waiting for the cold season to pass. She taught him nearly the whole of the language and many other things about the tribal customs and ways of the Blackfeet. The one thing that stuck in his mind right now and had been eatin at him for the past few minutes was the sheer fact that these folks had a different way of viewing life than the white men. He knew that a formidable enemy was respected by these painted men, but that they would take great delight in killing that enemy at all costs and the painted man who did it would have songs and dances done in his honor for years to come.
Bloke loosened the pearl handled six shooter in its holster and pulled the thong off the hammer. “Damn, he thought, that there gouge in ma’ ass hurts like the dickens. Wish’t I’d ah taken off them spurs before squatten!” He felt the smooth handle of his pistol and a cloak of warm comfort settled over him. He had been in some tight spots over the years and that six-shooter had been his best friend and companion through it all.
He remembered well the day he took that gun off Skip Tallow, well known as the Bald Missouri Badman. Tallow was also well known for being fast with a gun. But he was most notorious for his shiny, bald head that he oiled with mutton tallow each morning. The bald badman soon learned that he was no match for Bloke’s iron fist that came crashing down on his hairless head thus causing the badman’s vertebrae to buckle in his lower neck and rendering his arms and legs useless. The badman lay on the sawdust floor of that nameless bar and groaned as Bloke removed the gun belt off the gunfighter’s waist.
“This beaut’ pearly handled pistol will be payment ‘enuf fer ma’ trouble of hav’n a sore hand for the next couple days! Bloke exclaimed as he brusquely removed the belt. Thet oughta teach ya that when the brawlin commences, ya shut yer mouth and fight! Ya don’t stand ther’ en chatter; ‘specially not with Bloke Rancid!” And thus also began the long and storied history of tough, brawlin men speaking their own names in third person…
As he crouched down, hunched low and out of sight of the murderous Indians, trying to forget the pain in his butt, he strained his ears to hear what they were saying. It seemed they were quite confused over the fact that this stupid pale face would take the time to bury his crap in Mother Earth. There appeared to be some conflict amongst the band, some wanting to leave this man alone and the others wanting to brutally kill him and take his hair. “Whatever pale faced fool would take the time to bury his crap in our Mother Earth deserves to die a quick death!” the leader of the band proclaimed. Many grunts of approval followed. But at least one fine young brave wanted to leave the man alone, feeling it was bad luck to send a man to the world of spirits so soon after he had relieved himself.
Suddenly Bloke Rancid’s left leg developed a Charlie-horse from all the squattin and hunchin. He screamed in agony and stood straight up and grabbed his leg. All worry of the murdering band of painted killers became secondary to his primal need to get the excruciating pain out of his leg. He pranced and danced around in a circle stamping his booted foot on the ground and screeching in agony. He pounded his fist into his leg, trying to reduce the huge knot that had now become the only focus of his attention while his other arm waived in the air much like the free hand of a rodeo buckin bronc rider.
The band of Indians dove for cover and looked out, witnessing the most unusual thing they had ever encountered. “What in Sam Hell is that nut doing? a grim looking warrior muttered to another. First we discover that idiot burying his duty in Mother Earth, and then he jumps from the bushes and does a war dance right in the face of death! He must be a great and brave warrior – something we have not seen amongst all the pale faces!”
Suddenly, the leader of the band lithely emerged from his position of concealment and approached the pain-crazed Rancid who was still screeching at the top of his lungs and stamping his foot. With his war club raised high above his head, his muscles rippling and his brown skin glistening in the early morning sun, he brought the club straight down on the dome of Bloke’s western-hatted head. A dull thud resonated through the lush forest and the echoes of screeching and yelling suddenly stopped as Blokes thick, bulky body slammed hard on Mother Earth. His left leg twitched for a few moments and then all was completely still and quiet. The only sound was a whippoorwill off in the distance sounding out his morning song and the ominous “caw, caw, caw!” of a crow whose tiny bird- brain was still sufficiently sized to know that death must come soon to that man laying in a twisted heap on the ground.
