by Various
"No, sir."
Buck snickered and poured two shots and handed me one. He looked around the saloon and saw that it was almost empty--just Menner behind the bar, and a drunk asleep with his head on his arms at a table near the back, and a little gent in fancy town clothes fingering his drink at a table near the front window and not even looking at us.
"Where is everybody?" he asked Menner.
"Why, sir, I reckon they're home, most of them," Menner said. "It being a hot day and all--"
"Bet it'll get hotter," Buck said, hard.
"Yes, sir."
"I guess they didn't want to really feel the heat, huh?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, it's going to get so hot, you old bastard, that everybody'll feel it. You know that?"
"If you say so, sir."
"It might even get hot for you. Right now even. What do you think of that, huh?"
"I--I--"
"You thrun me outa here a couple times, remember?"
"Y-yes ... but I--"
"Look at this!" Buck said--and his gun was in his hand, and he didn't seem to have moved at all, not an inch. I was looking right at him when he did it--his hand was on the bar, resting beside his shotglass, and then suddenly his gun was in it and pointing right at old Menner's belly.
"You know," Buck said, grinning at how Menner's fear was crawling all over his face, "I can put a bullet right where I want to. Wanta see me do it?"
His gun crashed, and flame leaped across the bar, and the mirror behind the bar had a spiderweb of cracks radiating from a round black hole.
Menner stood there, blood leaking down his neck from a split earlobe.
Buck's gun went off again, and the other earlobe was a red tatter.
And Buck's gun was back in its holster with the same speed it had come out--I just couldn't see his hand move.
"That's enough for now," he told Menner. "This is right good likker, and I guess I got to have somebody around to push it across the bar for me, and you're as good as anybody to do jackass jobs like that."
* * * * *
He didn't ever look at Menner again. The old man leaned back against the shelf behind the bar, trembling, two trickles of red running down his neck and staining his shirt collar--I could see he wanted to touch the places where he'd been shot, to see how bad they were or just to rub at the pain, but he was afraid to raise a hand. He just stood there, looking sick.
Buck was staring at the little man in town clothes, over by the window. The little man had reared back at the shots, and now he was sitting up in his chair, his eyes straight on Buck. The table in front of him was wet where he'd spilled his drink when he'd jumped.
Buck looked at the little guy's fancy clothes and small mustache and grinned. "Come on," he said to me, and picked up his drink and started across the floor. "Find out who the dude is."
He pulled out a chair and sat down--and I saw he was careful to sit facing the front door, and also where he could see out the window.
I pulled out another chair and sat.
"Good shooting, huh?" Buck asked the little guy.
"Yes," said the little guy. "Very fine shooting. I confess, it quite startled me."
Buck laughed harshly. "Startled the old guy too...." He raised his voice. "Ain't that right, Menner? Wasn't you startled?"
"Yes, sir," came Menner's pain-filled voice from the bar.
Buck looked back at the little man--let his insolent gaze travel up and down the fancy waistcoat, the string tie, the sharp face with its mustache and narrow mouth and black eyes. He looked longest at the eyes, because they didn't seem to be scared.
He looked at the little guy, and the little guy looked at Buck, and finally Buck looked away. He tried to look wary as he did it, as if he was just fixing to make sure that nobody was around to sneak-shoot him--but you could see he'd been stared down.
When he looked back at the little guy, he was scowling. "Who're you, mister?" he said. "I never seen you before."
"My name is Jacob Pratt, sir. I'm just traveling through to San Francisco. I'm waiting for the evening stage."
"Drummer?"
"Excuse me?"
For a second Buck's face got ugly. "You heard me, mister. You a drummer?"
"I heard you, young man, but I don't quite understand. Do you mean, am I a musician? A performer upon the drums?"
"No, you goddam fool--I mean, what're you selling? Snake-bite medicine? Likker? Soap?"
"Why--I'm not selling anything. I'm a professor, sir."
"Well, I'll be damned." Buck looked at him a little more carefully. "A perfessor, huh? Of what?"
"Of psychology, sir."
"What's that?"
"It's the study of man's behavior--of the reasons why we act as we do."
Buck laughed again, and it was more of a snarl. "Well, perfessor, you just stick around here then, and I'll show you some real reasons for people acting as they do! From now on, I'm the big reason in this town ... they'll jump when I yell frog, or else!"
His hand was flat on the table in front of him--and suddenly his Peacemaker was in it, pointing at the professor's fourth vest button. "See what I mean huh?"
The little man blinked. "Indeed I do," he said, and stared at the gun as if hypnotized. Funny, though--he still didn't seem scared--just a lot interested.
* * * * *
Sitting there and just listening, I thought about something else funny--how they were both just about of a size, Buck and the professor, and so strong in different ways: with the professor, you felt he was strong inside--a man who knew a lot, about things and about himself--while with Buck it was all on the outside, on the surface: he was just a milksop kid with a deadly sting.
Buck was still looking at the professor, as carefully as he had before. He seemed to hesitate for a second, his mouth twisting. Then he said, "You're an eddicated man, ain't you? I mean, you studied a lot. Ain't that right?"
"Yes, I suppose it is."
"Well...." Again Buck seemed to hesitate. The gun in his hand lowered until the end of the barrel rested on the table. "Look," he said slowly, "maybe you can tell me how in hell...."
When he didn't go on, the professor said, "Yes?"
"Nothing."
"You were going to say--?"
Buck looked at him, his bulging eyes narrowed, the gunman's smirk on his lips again. "Are you telling me what's true and what ain't," he said softly, "with my gun on you?"
"Does the gun change anything?"
Buck tapped the heavy barrel on the table. "I say it changes a hell of a lot of things." Tap went the barrel. "You wanta argue?"
"Not with the gun," the professor said calmly. "It always wins. I'll talk with you, however, if you'll talk with your mouth instead of with the gun."
* * * * *
By this time I was filled with admiration for the professor's guts, and fear that he'd get a bullet in them ... I was all set to duck, in case Buck should lose his temper and start throwing lead.
But suddenly Buck's gun was back in his holster. I saw the professor blink again in astonishment.
"You know," Buck said, grinning loosely, "you got a lotta nerve, professor. Maybe you can tell me what I wanta know."
He didn't look at the little man while he talked--he was glancing around, being "wary" again. And grinning that grin at the same time. You could see he was off-balance--he was acting like everything was going on just like he wanted it; but actually the professor had beaten him again, words against the gun, eyes against eyes.
The professor's dark eyes were level on Buck's right now. "What is it you want to know?"
"This--" Buck said, and his gun was in his hand again, and it was the first time when he did it that his face stayed sober and kind of stupid-looking, his normal expression, instead of getting wild and dangerous. "How--do you know how do I do it?"
"Well," the professor said, "suppose you give me your answer first, if you have one. It might be the right one."
* * * * *
"I--" Buck shook his head--"Well, it's like I think the gun into my hand. It happened the first time this morning. I was standing out in the Pass where I always practise drawing, and I was wishing I could draw faster'n anybody who ever lived--I was wishing I could just get my gun outa leather in no time atall. And--" the gun was back in his holster in the blink of an eye--"that's how it happened. My gun was in my hand. Just like that. I didn't even reach for it--I was just getting set to draw, and had my hand out in front of me ... and my gun was in my hand before I knew what'd happened. God, I was so surprised I almost fell over!"
"I see," said the professor slowly. "You think it into your hand?"
"Yeah, kind of."
"Would you do it now, please?" And the professor leaned forward so he could see Buck's holster, eyes intent.
Buck's gun appeared in his hand.
The professor let out a long breath. "Now think it back into its holster."
It was there.
"You did not move your arm either time," said the professor.
"That's right," said Buck.
"The gun was just suddenly in your hand instead of in your holster. And then it was back in the holster."
"Right."
"Telekinesis," said the professor, almost reverently.
"Telewhat?"
"Telekinesis--the moving of material objects by mental force." The professor leaned back and studied the holstered gun. "It must be that. I hardly dared think if at first--the first time you did it. But the thought did occur to me. And now I'm virtually certain!"
"How do you say it?"
"T-e-l-e-k-i-n-e-s-i-s."
"Well, how do I do it?"
"I can't answer that. Nobody knows. It's been the subject of many experiments, and there are many reported happenings--but I've never heard of any instance even remotely as impressive as this." The professor leaned across the table again. "Can you do it with other things, young man?"
"What other things?"
"That bottle on the bar, for example."
"Never tried."
"Try."
Buck stared at the bottle.
It wavered. Just a little. Rocked, and settled back.
Buck stared harder, eyes bulging.
The bottle shivered. That was all.
"Hell," Buck said. "I can't seem to--to get ahold of it with my mind, like I can with my gun."
"Try moving this glass on the table," the professor said, "It's smaller, and closer."
* * * * *
Buck stared at the glass. It moved a fraction of an inch across the tabletop. No more.
Buck snarled like a dog and swatted the glass with his hand, knocking it halfway across the room.
"Possibly," the professor said, after a moment, "you can do it with your gun because you want to so very badly. The strength of your desire releases--or creates--whatever psychic forces are necessary to perform the act." He paused, looking thoughtful. "Young man, suppose you try to transport your gun to--say, to the top of the bar."
"Why?" Buck asked suspiciously.
"I want to see whether distance is a factor where the gun is concerned. Whether you can place the gun that far away from you, or whether the power operates only when you want your gun in your hand."
"No," Buck said in an ugly voice. "Damn if I will. I'd maybe get my gun over, there and not be able to get it back, and then you'd jump me--the two of you. I ain't minded to experiment around too much, thank you."
"All right," the professor said, as if he didn't care. "The suggestion was purely in the scientific spirit--"
"Sure," said Buck. "Sure. Just don't get any more scientific, or I'll experiment on how many holes you can get in you before you die."
The professor sat back in his chair and looked Buck right in the eye. After a second, Buck looked away, scowling.
Me, I hadn't said a word the whole while, and I wasn't talking now.
"Wonder where that goddam yellow-bellied sheriff is?" Buck said. He looked out the window, then glanced sharply at me. "He said he'd come, huh?"
"Yeah." When I was asked, I'd talk.
We sat in silence for a few moments.
The professor said, "Young man, you wouldn't care to come with me to San Francisco, would you? I and my colleagues would be very grateful for the opportunity to investigate this strange gift of yours--we would even be willing to pay you for your time and--"
Buck laughed. "Why, hell, I reckon I got bigger ideas'n that, mister! Real big ideas. There's no man alive I can't beat with a gun! I'm going to take Billy the Kid ... Hickock ... all of them! I'm going to get myself a rep bigger'n all theirs put together. Why, when I walk into a saloon, they'll hand me likker. I walk into a bank, they'll give me the place. No lawman from Canada to Mexico will even stay in the same town with me! Hell, what could you give me, you goddam little dude?"
The professor shrugged. "Nothing that would satisfy you."
"That's right." Suddenly Buck stiffened, looking out the window. He got up, his bulging blue eyes staring down at us. "Randolph's coming down the street! You two just stay put, and maybe--just maybe--I'll let you live. Professor, I wanta talk to you some more about this telekinesis stuff. Maybe I can get even faster than I am, or control my bullets better at long range. So you be here, get that?"
* * * * *
He turned and walked out the door.
The professor said, "He's not sane."
"Nutty as a locoed steer," I said. "Been that way for a long time. An ugly shrimp who hates everything--and now he's in the saddle holding the reins, and some people are due to get rode down." I looked curiously at him. "Look, professor--this telekinesis stuff--is all that on the level?"
"Absolutely."
"He just thinks his gun into his hand?"
"Exactly."
"Faster than anyone could ever draw it?"
"Inconceivably faster. The time element is almost non-existent."
I got up, feeling worse than I'd ever felt in my life. "Come on," I said. "Let's see what happens."
As if there was any doubt about what was bound to happen.
We stepped out onto the porch and over to the rail. Behind us, I heard Menner come out too. I looked over my shoulder. He'd wrapped a towel around his head. Blood was leaking through it. He was looking at Buck, hating him clear through.
* * * * *
The street was deserted except for Buck standing about twenty feet away, and, at the far end, Sheriff Ben Randolph coming slowly toward him, putting one foot ahead of the other in the dust.
A few men were standing on porches, pressed back against the walls, mostly near doors. Nobody was sitting now--they were ready to groundhog if lead started flying wild.
"God damn it," I said in a low, savage voice. "Ben's too good a man to get kilt this way. By a punk kid with some crazy psychowhosis way of handling a gun."
I felt the professor's level eyes on me, and turned to look at him.
"Why," he said, "doesn't a group of you get together and face him down? Ten guns against his one. He'd have to surrender."
"No, he wouldn't," I said. "That ain't the way it works. He'd just dare any of us to be the first to try and stop him--and none of us would take him up on it. A group like that don't mean anything--it'd be each man against Buck Tarrant, and none of us good enough."
"I see," the professor said softly.
"God...." I clenched my fists so hard they hurt. "I wish we could think his gun right back into the holster or something!"
Ben and Buck were about forty feet apart now. Ben was coming on steadily, his hand over his gunbutt. He was a good man with a gun, Ben--nobody around these parts had dared tackle him for a long time. But he was out-classed now, and he knew it. I guess he was just hoping that Buck's first shot or two wouldn't kill him, and that he could place a good one himself before Buck let loose any more.
But Buck was a damn good shot. He just wouldn't miss.
The professor was staring at Buck with a strange look in his eyes.
"Stop him, then," I said sourly.
"After all," he mused, "if the ability to perform telekinesis lies dormant in all of us, and is released by strong faith and desire to accomplish something that can be accomplished only by that means--then our desire to stop him might be able to counter his desire to--"
"Damn you and your big words," I said bitterly.
"It was your idea," the professor said, still looking at Buck. "What you said about thinking his gun back into its holster--after all, we are two to his one--"
I turned around and stared at him, really hearing him for the first time. "Yeah, that's right--I said that! My God ... do you think we could do it?"
"We can try," he said. "We know it can be done, and evidently that is nine-tenths of the battle. He can do it, so we should be able to. We must want him not to more than he wants to."
* * * * *
"Lord," I said, "I want him not to, all right...."
Ben and Buck were about twenty feet apart now, and Ben stopped.
His voice was tired when he said, "Any time, Buck."
"You're a hell of a sheriff," Buck sneered. "You're a no-good bastard."
"Cuss me out," Ben said. "Don't hurt me none. I'll be ready when you start talking with guns."
"I'm ready now, beanpole," Buck grinned. "You draw first, huh?"
"Think of his gun!" the professor said in a fierce whisper. "Try to grab it with your mind--break his aim--pull it away from him--you know it can be done! Think, think--"
Ben Randolph had never in anyone's knowledge drawn first against a man. But now he did, and I guess nobody could blame him.
He slapped leather, his face already dead--and Buck's Peacemaker was in his hand--
And me and the professor were standing like statues on the porch of the Once Again, thinking at that gun, glaring at it, fists clenched, our breath rasping in our throats.
The gun appeared in Buck's hand, and wobbled just as he slipped hammer. The bullet sprayed dust at Ben's feet.
Ben's gun was halfway out.
Buck's gunbarrel pointed down at the ground, and he was trying to lift it so hard his hand got white. He drove a bullet into the dust at his own feet, and started to whine.
Ben's gun was up and aiming.
Buck shot himself in the foot.