If Wyatt Earp Were a Fly-Slinger

If Wyatt Earp were a fly-slinger he wouldn’t wear no damn lanyard. Instead, he’d pull tippet, nipper and forcep from a bullet garnered gun belt, dispatching both fly and fish under the squint-eyed glare of a true marksman. 

If you happened to cross Mr. Earp presenting fly to fish, you’d be best advised to tip your cap and proceed opposite his direction. The Earp shares no riffle, run, or pool––lest he be kin. Put simply: the broad stached, low brimmed, dark knight of Wild West lore doesn’t “f” around. 

Loping atop a seventeen hand high pony, Earp surveys both land and stream. Infallible and fearless, he grins. While stoking a c-gar, he draws a four piece, five weight boom stick from under his jet-black duster. “If you’re lookin’ for a fight, you got one!” 

After netting his lot of salmo trutta, it’s back to town for a shit, shower and shave. In Sunday’s best he saunters Main Street, spurs a janglin’, toward town’s only saloon. Hunched over a firmly viced clouser minnow, Earp sips a hot coffee and casts his favorite lady of the night a suggestive glance. 

Sitting bar saddle, a few rough neck cattle herding cowboys from beneath the Mexicali border offer ugly glances. Speaking whiskey-breath-doubt of Earp’s reported 25-inch browner from last week, these boys are looking to tussle and more. Earp stands, clearing bar and grill––“bait castin’ sons a bitches!” 

Time to bring out the ivory and steel. A trout engraved butt section balances Earp’s long barrel .45 cal’ peacemaker––hammer at full cock, ready to set hooks. 

If Wyatt Earp were a fly-slinger…