The Best Rootin' Tootin' Shootin' Gunslinger in the Whole Damned Galaxy

by Mike Resnick

  Flint chuckled. “That’s like telling the ocean not to be wet.” He stretched his arms, grunted pleasantly, and leaned back in his chair. “Well, we’ll just have to wait to see what he has in mind."

  “You don’t seem very concerned."

  “Piece of cake,” said Flint. “I don’t know if he’s the fastest draw or the best shot who ever lived, but he’s sure as hell the fastest and best who’s going to be standing in the ring tonight.” He looked around the nearly full tent. “Where the hell is Stogie?”

  As if on cue, Max Bloom, carrying the cigar stub that had given birth to his nickname, walked into the ring with Schnoozle, his miniature schnauzer, and began his routine. The dog leaped up and grabbed the cigar out of his mouth, and the next three minutes consisted primarily of a number of pratfalls as Stogie fruitlessly chased the small animal around the tent. This was followed by an old Harpo Marx routine, in which he managed to drop about two hundred pieces of silverware from his baggy overcoat, capped off by a huge coffeepot. Then he was back behind a tent flap, and Tojo was introducing the Dancer.

  “What’s going on?” demanded Flint, as the gunfighter appeared in his denim jeans and shirt. “Where’s his costume?"

  “He says that gunfighters don’t dress like whores,” replied Mr. Ahasuerus.

  “Yeah?” said Flint irritably as he settled back in his chair. “Well, they don’t get paid like whores, either. Remind me to discuss that little point with him."

  The Dancer went through his preliminary routine, was joined by a scantily clad Jenny after a few minutes, and quickly performed his version of a card trick.

  Then the house lights lowered, a prerecorded drumroll played over the public address system, and Tojo once again activated his microphone.

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen,” cried the little hunchback, “for the first time anywhere, Billybuck Dancer challenges any and all members of the audience to a gunfight!"

  The crowd seemed puzzled, and Tojo continued: “The object of the contest is this. A member of the audience will be given a pistol, the very same weapon Billybuck Dancer has been using during this performance. Billybuck Dancer will begin with his pistol in his holster, the leather container that is at his side; his opponent will begin with the weapon in his hand. If the contestant from the audience can fire his weapon and shoot Billybuck Dancer, he will not only leave here with the certain knowledge that he has defeated the greatest gunslinger of all time, but he will be given a prize of”—he paused for effect—“one million credits!” There was a roar from the crowd, and Tojo waited for it to die down. “For his part, Billybuck Dancer will not reach for his weapon until his opponent has begun to aim and fire, and he will only disarm his opponent. I have here in my hand”—he held up a sheet of white paper covered by barely legible handwriting—“a release signed by Billybuck Dancer absolving his opponent of all liability or responsibility should this contest result in his death. Now, for one million credits, who will be the first to challenge Billybuck Dancer, the fastest gun in the galaxy?"

  “Am I to understand that the Tilarbans will begin with their weapons already drawn?” asked Mr. Ahasuerus, as three members of the audience walked down the aisle into the ring.

  “He doesn’t believe in making things easy for himself, does he?" commented Flint, leaning forward in his chair.

  Tojo arbitrarily selected one of the three Tilarbans to be the Dancer’s first opponent. The slender Texan watched the orange being as Tojo positioned him some fifty feet away and placed a gun in his hand. “Contestant, are you ready?” said Tojo from his announcer’s platform.

  The Tilarban muttered something Flint couldn’t hear, but obviously it was an affirmative.

  “Billybuck Dancer, are you ready?"

  The Dancer, arms folded loosely across his chest, looking more asleep than awake, nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “Then contestant,” said Tojo, “the first move is yours. Let the battle begin!"

  The Tilarban eyed the Dancer cautiously, then swiftly began bringing the gun up to where he could aim it. From fifty feet away came a sudden blur of motion, followed by the sharp explosion of a gunshot, and then three things happened almost simultaneously: The Tilarban’s pistol flew across the ring and wound up in the second row of the audience.

  The Dancer twirled his own gun and replaced it in its holster.

  And the Tilarban fell heavily to the ground.

  “He’s killed him!” cried Mr. Ahasuerus.

  “The hell he has!” snapped Flint, starting to clamber down the stairs.

  “There was only one shot. It hit the gun!"

  Flint raced across the ring and knelt down beside the Tilarban, while the Dancer stood where he was, staring curiously at the alien’s body as it lay sprawled in the sawdust.

  Flint turned him over and placed his ear next to where he assumed the Tilarban’s heart was.

  “Is he alive?” asked Tojo, who had run over to join him.

  “Not if he’s supposed to have a heartbeat,” said Flint. “He doesn’t seem to be breathing, either."

  “Where was he hit?"

  “He wasn’t!” said Flint, examining the body for a bullet hole and finding none.

  “Then what happened?"

  “I don’t know. But you’d better have Mr. Ahasuerus get the cops here before the audience starts turning mean."

  “What about the Dancer?” said the hunchback. “We’d better get him out of here."

  “I can’t think of a quicker way to start a riot than to look like we’re sneaking him away,” said Flint, still searching fruitlessly for a bullet wound. “After Ahasuerus calls the cops, hunt up Julius Squeezer and get him in here on the double. Maybe he can scare off any heroes who want to kill the Dancer."

  The crowd, which had been whispering in shock, became louder and uglier, and the Dancer approached Flint.

  “All I hit was his gun, Thaddeus,” he said calmly.

  “I know,” replied Flint, massaging the Tilarban’s chest and wondering if he even had any lungs.

  “Got any plans if his friends and relations come on into the ring?"

  “Just one,” said Flint. “Don’t pull your gun out."

  “They ain’t taking me without a fight,” said the Dancer.

  “Just once, will you try to remember that we’re not in the goddamned Wild West?” snapped Flint. “The cops will be here any second. Your job is to not kill anyone else until then. Got it?"

  “I didn’t kill this one,” said the Dancer with a shrug. He turned and faced a portion of the audience, his arms once again folded across his chest.

  Flint finally gave up working over the body, walked to the announcer’s stand, and explained to the crowd that the police had been summoned and that everyone should remain seated, then had to do the whole thing over again when he realized that he hadn’t activated the translating device.

  Julius Squeezer entered the ring just as he finished, and took up a position next to the Dancer. A moment later the police arrived, two of the Tilarban’s copiously weeping relatives were allowed to remain with his body, and the rest of the crowd was dispersed.

  The police doctor made a brief examination, closed what passed for his little black bag, and announced that the Tilarban had almost certainly died from heart failure.

  “I hope you’ll make a public announcement to that effect,” said Flint.

  “If you wish,” replied the doctor.

  “I just want to make sure everyone knows that the Dancer didn’t kill him."

  “I didn’t say that,” replied the doctor. “I said that the victim died from heart failure."

  “Victim?” repeated Flint. “What the hell are you talking about?"

  “Something precipitated the deceased’s heart failure. Possibly it was the explosion from the weapon; I understand that he practiced with a silent version. Possibly it was the shock of having his own weapon shot from his hand. Possibly it was something else. But whatever the actual cause was, there can be v
ery little doubt that your entertainer precipitated it."

  “You’re crazy!” said Flint. “This guy volunteered. The whole thing was explained to him before he stepped into the ring."

  “Then doubtless a jury of his peers will find your entertainer innocent," replied the doctor coldly. “In the meantime, it is my opinion that he should be taken into custody."

  Suddenly the Dancer was surrounded by four policemen. He slowly unfolded his arms and lowered his fingers lazily toward his pistols.

  “Thaddeus?” he said questioningly.

  “Shut up and give them your guns,” ordered Flint.

  “I don’t like jails, Thaddeus."

  “Then don’t kill any of them, and maybe I can get you out,” replied Flint, turning off his translating mechanism. “Just spend the goddamned night there while I find out who to pay off."

  The Dancer reluctantly handed his holsters and pistols over to the police, and was led out of the tent a moment later.

  “What are we to do, Mr. Flint?” asked the blue man, literally wringing his hands in dismay.

  “Go to bed, Mr. Ahasuerus,” said Flint wearily. “I’ll take care of it, just like I always do."

  “But a sentient being has died here!” persisted Mr. Ahasuerus. “Surely we bear some moral responsibility. We must find a way to make restitution!"

  “Yeah. Well, a sentient being is also on his way to the hoosegow, in case that little tidbit of information has already slipped your mind."

  “But what shall we do about the dead Tilarban?"

  “Mr. Ahasuerus?” said Flint softly.

  “Yes?"

  “Shut up!"

  “But Mr. Flint—"

  “Carnies take care of their own first, and in case you haven’t figured it out, the only reason the Dancer gave up his guns is because he’s still got a knife hidden in each boot.” Flint paused and sighed. “So if you want to make yourself useful, stop worrying about a corpse that’s already on its way to the morgue and hunt me up a map of whatever city they’ve carted the Dancer off to."

  “I’ll do more than produce a map,” said the blue man firmly. “I’ll go with you."

  Flint shook his head. “Mr. Ahasuerus, I’m going into town to bribe my way up the ladder of justice. If I let you try to spread a little money around where it might do some good, I’ll wind up having to get two carnies out of jail instead of just one."

  “But surely there must be something I can do."

  “Besides dithering, you mean?” he said sarcastically. “Yeah, there’s one thing that pops to mind."

  “Yes? And what is that?"

  “Try just as hard as you can not to come up with any more bright ideas for a new act while I’m gone."

  “That was an unfair remark, Mr. Flint,” said the blue man reproachfully. “You know it was Billybuck’s idea."

  “Well, I’m in an unfair mood tonight,” said Flint. “The sooner you get the hell out of here and hunt up that map, the sooner you won’t have to listen to me."

  Ten minutes later Flint was climbing into the poorly-heated landcar, an inadequate map in one pocket and a roll of bills in the other. As he punched the ignition combination and headed off to bully a bunch of orange aliens into releasing a demonstrably certifiable gunfighter, he concluded—for perhaps the hundredth time—that he was definitely getting too old for this kind of shit.

  Chapter 5

  "Hey, Dancer—are you awake?"

  “Is that you, Thaddeus?"

  “Right,” answered Flint, as the attendant unlocked the door to the Dancer’s cell. The young Texan emerged into the brightly lit corridor a moment later, rubbing his eyes.

  “What time is it?” he asked.

  “It’s seven-thirty in the morning, ship’s time, and I’ve been freezing my ass off all fucking night finding out what strings to pull to get you out of here," growled Flint. He looked at the sharpshooter. “You didn’t use your knife while you were here, did you?"

  “I was in solitary."

  “Not a bad place for a killer who’s making headlines on all the newscasts."

  “Really?” asked the Dancer, suddenly interested.

  “Well, I don’t know about all of them, but you were on the two I happened to see.” Flint stuck his head into the darkened cell. “Got anything in here?"

  “Nope."

  “Good. Then let’s get the hell out of here, before someone decides not to stay bought."

  “No trial?” asked the Dancer.

  “None. You’re a free man—and a damned expensive one.” He rubbed his hands together. “Jesus, you’d think a race that can travel through space would know how to heat their goddamned jails."

  “How much did it cost?"

  “More than they needed and less than you’re worth,” replied Flint. “Let’s go."

  “Do you have any money left?"

  Flint stared at the young marksman. “Why?"

  “I got a friend in here. Can you make his bail?"

  “I thought you were in solitary."

  “He’s in the next cell,” explained the Dancer. “We talked all night."

  “How?” asked Flint skeptically. “You didn’t bring a translator."

  “He speaks English."

  “Horseshit! Nobody on this dirtball speaks English."

  The Dancer met Flint’s gaze. “If I were you, Thaddeus, I’d be real careful who I called a liar."

  Flint glared back at him. “And if I were you,” he responded, “I’d think twice before threatening the one man who could get me out of this pigsty."

  The Dancer walked back into his cell and folded his arms across his chest resolutely. “I ain’t leaving without him, Thaddeus. It ain’t right to leave a human being all alone in a place like this."

  “Except for Earth, there’s a grand total of thirteen human beings abroad in the whole damned galaxy,” said Flint. “You want me to name ’em for you?"

  “Him and me, we go together or we stay together,” said the Dancer firmly.

  “You haven’t even seen him!” yelled Flint. “Even granting for the sake of argument that he speaks English, how do you know he isn’t some feathered dragon with five heads?"

  “Six,” said an amused voice from the other side of the cell wall.

  Flint jumped, startled, and stared at the wall. The Dancer smiled, and finally Flint walked over to the attendant, switched on his translating device, and asked him to find out the charges and the bail for the Dancer’s unseen companion. He stood in the doorway, glaring silently at the marksman, until the alien returned and whispered to him in low tones.

  “Three thousand credits,” announced Flint, turning the translator off again. “That’s an awfully high bail for a guy who’s only charged with impersonating an officer.” He paused. “Maybe I ought to let the pair of you rot in here."

  “You won’t, though,” said the Dancer.

  “You’re dead sure of that, are you?"

  The Dancer nodded. “It ain’t because you got a generous nature,” he said. “But whatever me and my friend cost you, you’re still going to make more money taking me back than leaving me here."

  “I might get more satisfaction leaving you here,” said Flint.

  “Suit yourself,” said the Dancer, sitting down on a strangely-shaped cot and leaning back against the wall.

  “You’ve got about five seconds to get off your ass and on your feet or I really will leave you,” said Flint disgustedly.

  “And my friend?” asked the Dancer.

  “Yeah, him too. Nobody who speaks English belongs in a hole like this. We’ll turn him loose when we get out of the city."

  The Dancer stood up and stretched. “I told him you’d make his bail,” he said with a satisfied smile.

  “Wait here,” said Flint, following the attendant down the hall. He went up to the Tilarban equivalent of a magistrate, posted three thousand credits and signed a pair of papers that he couldn’t read, and then returned to the Dancer’s cell.

 
; “You ready?” he asked.

  “Yep.” The Dancer stepped into the corridor.

  Flint nodded to the attendant, and a moment later the door to the adjoining cell was unlocked.

  “Well, damn it, Dancer!” boomed a loud, friendly voice. “You look just the way I had you pictured!"

  Flint peered into the darkness, became aware of something moving toward him, and stepped back just in time to avoid bumping into the man who emerged from the cell. He was a bit under six feet tall, with clear blue eyes, black hair that was turning gray at the sideburns, a broad mustache, and a ruddy complexion. He was dressed in a long suede coat, a white silk shirt, a brocaded satin vest, carefully pressed pinstriped pants, and ornately embellished boots.

  “Just the way I pictured you!” he repeated, stepping forward and shaking the sharpshooter’s hand. “Pleased to meet you in the flesh, Billybuck Dancer!” He turned to Flint. “And you must be Thaddeus Flint. I heard all about you last night. I guess my friend Billybuck convinced you to pay my bail. How much do I owe you?"

  “Three thousand credits,” said Flint. “Whatever the hell that comes up to in dollars and cents."

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for my heartfelt thanks until I can get a grubstake together."

  “We’ll worry about that later,” said Flint distractedly. “Who the hell are you?"

  “I’m the Dancer’s friend and I’m a man who’s grateful to you for setting me free,” came the answer. “Take your choice."

  “Have you got a name?"

  “Lots of ’em. What name do you like?"

  Flint stared at him. “Where do you come from? How did you learn a word like ‘grubstake’?"

  The man smiled. “I come from that airless little room,” he said, gesturing toward the cell, “and I know lots of words. Seems to me that as long as I’m beholden to you for my bail, maybe you and me and the carny can work something out. You ought to see me with a crowd of marks and a bottle of snake oil!"

  “How about just seeing you with a couple of straight answers?” persisted Flint. “Who are you and where do you come from—and why do you sound like a cowboy?"

  “I’ll be happy to answer all your questions,” replied the man. “But I feel just a mite uncomfortable standing here in the middle of a jail. What say we go on back to the carnival and talk there?"