Congratulations !
You have been awarded points.
Thank you for !
- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Western / Wild West
- Published: 01/13/2017
The Cold Man.
Born 1951, M, from Wilmington NC, United States“Do you know who I am?”
Anger, authority, and outrage spun from that sentence like silk from a spider, dangling in the air waiting to tangle around you.
“I know what you will be called if you don’t stop.”
Those words were whispered. If Iron could be soft.
“And what is that, young fella?”
“A patient.”
The room grew quieter. If that was possible. Already silence had grown to include the lack of breathing, movement, or attention. Only eyes and ears dared intrude on the silence between the words those two men were sharing. All the other men in the room sat as still as stones covered in winter ice. Stuck. Unmoving. Unable to move.
The Huge man with the ham sized fists, and an ego that was as tough as the rough hewn logs of Western Life, bellowed out laughter.
“And you, young fella, if you don’t just turn and walk out of here, will be called Corpse.”
The Huge man laughed at his own joke. And with that, he slapped the woman again, with the meaty thunk of his fist echoing in the still room.
The man who whispered cold Iron, drew himself to face the man who towered in front of him. Stepping lightly to the side, he helped the woman up with one hand. Her one eye was swollen shut, a small trickle of blood ran from her nose. The other eye filled with thank you, as she took the hand of the stranger. HIs hand was warm, strong, confident, fingers made of warm flesh. It was in that first moment, when their fingers touched, that she knew, what he knew. The Huge man who had slapped her, would never slap another woman. As dizzy as she was, she managed a gentle curtsy. “I thank you, Sir.” A bit of the blood from her nose, flashed into the air on the sibilant S, in Sir. The man who whispered cold Iron words, smiled from warm eyes.
Eyes that drew cold as soon as they broke contact with the young woman. The eyes that the Huge Man saw looking at him were cold. Dark cold. A cold that only death would find comfortable. Somewhere, under the weight of that giant ego that lurked in the huge man, a small thought formed, it wormed its way up to his brain, and made itself known. Even though the thought was his, it sounded out in his brain like the voice of someone else. Someone called: wise. The voice said in a tone that the Huge man had never heard from himself - ever. That tone was fear. The voice of wisdom said: Stop now. Apologize and walk out of here. He will let you go.
A huge man, with money, property, muscles, and the accumulated victims of his bullying, having only caused fear, never experiencing it, did not know how to listen to a wise voice, even his own. Ego is unprepared to fight someone without one. In a moment, that would prove true- again.
The man who whispered cold Iron words, slowly took off his gun belt. He sat the well worn holster, with the black colt forty fives, on the mahogany counter of the bar. Next to that, he set his hat. A black Stetson. From his little finger, he took a single band of gold. He lifted the ring to his lips, kissed it softly, and placed it next to the holster. It was his wife’s ring. She was wearing that ring the night a stranger, much like the Huge Man, had tried to take advantage of her while the man who spoke cold Iron words was away.
He knew something was wrong when there was no smoke in the chimney as he rode up to the house. He strode in with guns out, and ready. It was too late. The only advantage the big stranger took trying to take advantage of her, was he died first…she lived long enough to write out: “I love you.” In blood. That was years ago. The man who whispered cold iron, did not bury the stranger, He pulled him into the yard and let nature remove the stain. His wife he buried in the floor of the cabin, and burned it down around her. As the flames grew hotter, his eyes grew darker. He promised her two things: He would love again. And no man who hurt women - would be allowed to try again.
He would hurt them so bad that their anger would always take back seat to their fear of seeing him - again. Or, he would kill the ones too stupid to listen to fear. So far, there had been far more of the latter, and too few of the former. He would, as always, try and pound some sense into the men he faced, before someone had to pound dirt over their body. No woman would ever worry if he was around. He had been thanked by many, and taunted by a few because he took down their man. He never understood those women, and usually left them to their man- and time.
This woman though. She had thanked him, with her eyes, while one eye was still swollen shut. She never lost her dignity, or grace, or strength, even when the Huge Man had slapped her with that second slap. The one where the thunk of his meaty fist, sent her flying a good twelve feet to the bar, without her feet touching the ground once. More than a few men were angered by that second slap, but not one was willing to risk that meat thunk sound on their own face. They weren’t cowards, and much as they were practical men. So they said.
It was only the man who spoke cold iron words who stood up, spoke up, and gave the woman a hand up. In that touch, he had found, just as he promised his wife, a new love. The Huge Man had no way of knowing that the beating he was about to take, was for two women. One from the past, one from the present. It was a beating that would become legendary. As the legend grew, the truth, which was much more terrible in its raw power - would fade. No one could have believed the truth, unless they were there that night. The Huge Man, even years later, could only recall bits and pieces of it himself.
Sometimes spitting out the food the nurse tried to spoon in his broken face. He would turn pale, and try to run on legs that hadn’t worked since that night more than ten years back. He could hear the cold Iron words whispered just before the whistling of the first fist went by his meaty hands to break his sternum nearly in two. “You hit my wife." And that was as true then, as it was now. For the man who spoke cold iron words, married that woman with the swollen eye. She, and his first wife, lived comfortably side by side in his heart, wrapped in his soft words of Iron. For love, is as binding as hate when words need to be iron cold.
When the legend was spread, it was his eyes that gave him his name. In the Old West, names meant a lot. His name brought respect to honest man, and fear to bad men, but both knew him by the same name:
The Cold Man.
The Cold Man.(Kevin Hughes)
“Do you know who I am?”
Anger, authority, and outrage spun from that sentence like silk from a spider, dangling in the air waiting to tangle around you.
“I know what you will be called if you don’t stop.”
Those words were whispered. If Iron could be soft.
“And what is that, young fella?”
“A patient.”
The room grew quieter. If that was possible. Already silence had grown to include the lack of breathing, movement, or attention. Only eyes and ears dared intrude on the silence between the words those two men were sharing. All the other men in the room sat as still as stones covered in winter ice. Stuck. Unmoving. Unable to move.
The Huge man with the ham sized fists, and an ego that was as tough as the rough hewn logs of Western Life, bellowed out laughter.
“And you, young fella, if you don’t just turn and walk out of here, will be called Corpse.”
The Huge man laughed at his own joke. And with that, he slapped the woman again, with the meaty thunk of his fist echoing in the still room.
The man who whispered cold Iron, drew himself to face the man who towered in front of him. Stepping lightly to the side, he helped the woman up with one hand. Her one eye was swollen shut, a small trickle of blood ran from her nose. The other eye filled with thank you, as she took the hand of the stranger. HIs hand was warm, strong, confident, fingers made of warm flesh. It was in that first moment, when their fingers touched, that she knew, what he knew. The Huge man who had slapped her, would never slap another woman. As dizzy as she was, she managed a gentle curtsy. “I thank you, Sir.” A bit of the blood from her nose, flashed into the air on the sibilant S, in Sir. The man who whispered cold Iron words, smiled from warm eyes.
Eyes that drew cold as soon as they broke contact with the young woman. The eyes that the Huge Man saw looking at him were cold. Dark cold. A cold that only death would find comfortable. Somewhere, under the weight of that giant ego that lurked in the huge man, a small thought formed, it wormed its way up to his brain, and made itself known. Even though the thought was his, it sounded out in his brain like the voice of someone else. Someone called: wise. The voice said in a tone that the Huge man had never heard from himself - ever. That tone was fear. The voice of wisdom said: Stop now. Apologize and walk out of here. He will let you go.
A huge man, with money, property, muscles, and the accumulated victims of his bullying, having only caused fear, never experiencing it, did not know how to listen to a wise voice, even his own. Ego is unprepared to fight someone without one. In a moment, that would prove true- again.
The man who whispered cold Iron words, slowly took off his gun belt. He sat the well worn holster, with the black colt forty fives, on the mahogany counter of the bar. Next to that, he set his hat. A black Stetson. From his little finger, he took a single band of gold. He lifted the ring to his lips, kissed it softly, and placed it next to the holster. It was his wife’s ring. She was wearing that ring the night a stranger, much like the Huge Man, had tried to take advantage of her while the man who spoke cold Iron words was away.
He knew something was wrong when there was no smoke in the chimney as he rode up to the house. He strode in with guns out, and ready. It was too late. The only advantage the big stranger took trying to take advantage of her, was he died first…she lived long enough to write out: “I love you.” In blood. That was years ago. The man who whispered cold iron, did not bury the stranger, He pulled him into the yard and let nature remove the stain. His wife he buried in the floor of the cabin, and burned it down around her. As the flames grew hotter, his eyes grew darker. He promised her two things: He would love again. And no man who hurt women - would be allowed to try again.
He would hurt them so bad that their anger would always take back seat to their fear of seeing him - again. Or, he would kill the ones too stupid to listen to fear. So far, there had been far more of the latter, and too few of the former. He would, as always, try and pound some sense into the men he faced, before someone had to pound dirt over their body. No woman would ever worry if he was around. He had been thanked by many, and taunted by a few because he took down their man. He never understood those women, and usually left them to their man- and time.
This woman though. She had thanked him, with her eyes, while one eye was still swollen shut. She never lost her dignity, or grace, or strength, even when the Huge Man had slapped her with that second slap. The one where the thunk of his meaty fist, sent her flying a good twelve feet to the bar, without her feet touching the ground once. More than a few men were angered by that second slap, but not one was willing to risk that meat thunk sound on their own face. They weren’t cowards, and much as they were practical men. So they said.
It was only the man who spoke cold iron words who stood up, spoke up, and gave the woman a hand up. In that touch, he had found, just as he promised his wife, a new love. The Huge Man had no way of knowing that the beating he was about to take, was for two women. One from the past, one from the present. It was a beating that would become legendary. As the legend grew, the truth, which was much more terrible in its raw power - would fade. No one could have believed the truth, unless they were there that night. The Huge Man, even years later, could only recall bits and pieces of it himself.
Sometimes spitting out the food the nurse tried to spoon in his broken face. He would turn pale, and try to run on legs that hadn’t worked since that night more than ten years back. He could hear the cold Iron words whispered just before the whistling of the first fist went by his meaty hands to break his sternum nearly in two. “You hit my wife." And that was as true then, as it was now. For the man who spoke cold iron words, married that woman with the swollen eye. She, and his first wife, lived comfortably side by side in his heart, wrapped in his soft words of Iron. For love, is as binding as hate when words need to be iron cold.
When the legend was spread, it was his eyes that gave him his name. In the Old West, names meant a lot. His name brought respect to honest man, and fear to bad men, but both knew him by the same name:
The Cold Man.
- Share this story on
- 10
COMMENTS (0)