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

by Mike Resnick

  “Not necessary,” replied Flint. “I know what he’s saying."

  Tojo spoke for a few minutes, then paused as another spotlight hit Kargennian and the little alien stood up and took a long, lingering bow. The light then sought out his Darbeenan counterpart on the far side of the arena, the red-skinned humanoid bowed even lower and longer than Kargennian, and suddenly the building was dark again.

  A moment later a cheer began building through the crowd, and Flint knew that the Darbeenan wrestler must be making his way to the ring. The spotlight came on and found him when he had completed half his journey and followed him the rest of the way, as the screams built to an ear-shattering crescendo.

  Then Julius Squeezer entered the arena, wrapped in a gold satin robe, and approached the ring amid polite applause.

  “What the hell is that on the back of his robe?” asked Flint.

  “An ad for the pills we’re selling,” replied Jiminy with a smile. “Billybuck told me that it’s quite common on Earth."

  “He’s seen too many second-rate fighters and bad movies,” commented Flint. Then he shrugged. “What the hell—if it’ll sell one extra bottle, why not?"

  The two wrestlers removed their robes and moved to the center of the ring, where a Darbeenan referee issued instructions, first through a translator to Julius, then in his native tongue to the huge green muscleman’s opponent.

  “Well,” remarked Flint, “I’d say Julius has a good hundred and fifty pounds on him."

  “True,” said Jiminy, as the wrestlers circled each other, then reached out their hands tentatively. “But the Darbeenan looks very quick."

  “He’d better be,” said Flint confidently. “A ring’s a hell of a hard place to hide."

  Suddenly the Darbeenan grabbed Julius Squeezer’s outstretched hand, slipped under a brawny arm, and twisted sharply. The green giant spun through the air and fell heavily to the canvas as the crowd screamed its approval.

  Julius was on his feet in an instant, but as he lunged for his smaller opponent his incredibly powerful hands closed only on empty air, and he received a swift kick in the stomach for his trouble.

  “It’s gonna be a long night,” muttered Flint.

  “If Julius can just get hold of him!” said Jiminy plaintively.

  “Not tonight,” said Flint, as the Darbeenan ducked under Julius again and brought him to the floor with a leg lock. “It’s like watching a rhinoceros trying to run down a sheepdog."

  The spectacle continued for another five minutes, with Julius receiving a kick or a chop every time he tried to enfold the Darbeenan in his massive arms. His movements became slower and slower, his chest rose and fell heavily, and finally his opponent saw an opening, struck like a snake, and encircled the huge green wrestler’s head and neck in an intricate grip that had him unconscious within ten seconds.

  Flint opened the transparent door and walked quickly to the ring as the Darbeenan’s hand was being raised in victory to thunderous applause. He climbed up the steps and was at Julius Squeezer’s side just as the green muscleman was regaining consciousness. The wrestler was disoriented for a moment, then realized what had happened.

  “I’m sorry, Thaddeus,” he said as Flint led him from the ring to some scattered applause. “I don’t know what happened."

  “It’s okay,” said Flint, escorting him to the door that led to the dressing rooms. “You’ll get him next time."

  “I doubt it,” said the big alien with disarming honesty. “But if you want me to try, I will."

  “Take a shower and get some rest,” said Flint. “We’ll talk about it later."

  “I’m really sorry,” said Julius Squeezer again. “I’ve lost before, but never like that."

  “You just weren’t ready for him,” said Flint soothingly. “You’re still the best goddamned wrestler I’ve ever seen."

  “Do you mean it?"

  “Would I lie to you?” said Flint. “Now get yourself fixed up. I’ve got to get back to my seat."

  “Yes, you would,” said Julius Squeezer.

  “Yes I would what?"

  “Yes, you would lie to me. And I thank you for it.” The green alien turned and went to his dressing room.

  By the time Flint had rejoined Jiminy in the box, the stadium crew had disassembled the ring, and now the crowd was stirring restlessly, anticipating the main event.

  “How is he?” asked Jiminy.

  “He’ll be all right."

  “He just wasn’t fast enough."

  “Let’s hope it’s not an omen of things to come,” said Flint, fixing his eyes on the empty floor of the arena.

  The tension built and finally an official-looking Darbeenan walked over to Tojo and said something. The little hunchback nodded, waited until the official had returned to the stands, and then blew his golden whistle once again.

  The house lights, which had been turned up after the wrestling match, were once again dimmed, and Tojo began speaking into the microphone. He droned on for a few minutes, telling the audience the histories of the two participants, and of how Kargennian and his counterpart had put the contest together. Finally there was the Darbeenan equivalent of a drumroll from the hidden band, and Billybuck Dancer, dressed in his most worn-out faded denim pants and shirt, entered the arena from the north end of the building.

  There was no scattered applause this time, just silence as the crowd studied this innocuous-looking killer.

  Then Tojo spoke again, and a Darbeenan, clad in silver and blue, entered from the south end. This time the ovation was so loud that the entire stadium literally shook from the vibrations.

  “What’s his name?” asked Flint, staring at the lithe, confident red gunfighter.

  “I’m not quite sure,” replied Jiminy, “the crowd was making so much noise. But it sounded like Dacklan.” He turned and said something to the Darbeenan sitting next to him, thanked him politely for his answer, and turned back to Flint. “I was right: Dacklan."

  Tojo said something else, and the two gunmen, who had been coached by Kargennian and his counterpart, approached each other. Dacklan held his arm out in a salute, and the Dancer touched the brim of his hat with his fingers.

  Then Tojo spoke once more, and the Dancer and Dacklan backed away from each other until the distance between them was about forty feet.

  Tojo walked to the stands, opened a door, and was handed a small mechanism by one of the officials. He then returned to the microphone and said something further.

  “It’s a type of metronome,” explained Jiminy. “They are to draw on the fifth note."

  “I know,” said Flint.

  “I thought you couldn’t speak—"

  “It was my idea,” interrupted Flint, staring intently at the two combatants.

  Tojo held the metronome up and activated it, and a musical chime was heard throughout the suddenly silent arena. Another second, another chime, and the Dancer’s fingers, long and lean, snaked down toward his holster, while Dacklan’s small tense hand was poised over his intricate weapon.

  Two more chimes.

  Damn it! thought Flint. He’s too relaxed.

  Then came the fifth chime and the sudden explosion of a gunshot, and Dacklan flew backward and fell heavily to the ground, his hand still on his weapon, his weapon still in its holster.

  The crowd, which had been silent with suspense, remained silent with shock, while the Dancer twirled his pistol once and replaced it in his holster.

  He looked at Tojo expectantly, and suddenly the little hunchback came to life and began speaking again. Finally, after almost a full minute, perhaps two hundred of the thirty thousand Darbeenans in the stadium applauded. The Dancer, looking slightly morose, tipped his hat and walked to his dressing room.

  “Well, that’s it,” said Flint, belatedly noticing that all of the carnival’s human contingent except Monk had entered the building to watch the gunfight. “I sure as hell hope these jokers are good losers."

  A team of eight Darbeenans, marching li
ke an honor guard, walked onto the floor of the arena with a brass litter and began transferring Dacklan’s body to it, while Tojo made some form of closing speech and turned off the microphone.

  The crowd milled about, seemingly unsure of what to do next, but displaying no hostility toward the humans, and finally the band music was piped in again.

  “Nobody seems to have figured out what to do after the finale,” remarked Flint. “They need someone like Stogie."

  “I think they were probably planning on carrying Dacklan around the ring on their shoulders just about now,” answered Jiminy.

  “Well,” said Flint, getting to his feet, “I’m sure Kargennian’s going to be collecting the money, so let’s you and me go collect Tojo and the Dancer and head back to the ship. It’s been a long day."

  He walked to the transparent door, with Jiminy close behind him, strode onto the floor of the arena, called to Tojo, left through another door, and made his way down the long, winding corridor leading to the Dancer’s dressing room. He slowed his pace enough for Tojo to join them before he got to the door, then knocked loudly.

  There was no answer.

  “He couldn’t have gotten lost,” muttered Flint, knocking again. When there was still no response, he opened the door and entered the room, followed by Tojo and Jiminy.

  The Dancer was sitting on a table, staring at the dull-gray wall, tears running down his face.

  “Look, Dancer,” said Flint gently, “I know you feel bad about this, but it was a fair contest."

  “It wasn’t no contest at all,” said the Dancer softly.

  “What are you talking about?” demanded Flint.

  The young sharpshooter turned his tortured eyes to Flint. “Next time I want to face four of ‘em at once,” he said, and his expression reminded Flint of nothing more than a child who has waited all year for Christmas and unwrapped a lump of coal.

  Chapter 11

  “I’ve run through my competition,"

  Said the Dancer, still feeling that yen.

  “I’d much rather suffer perdition,

  Than never hit leather again.

  So hunt up the best,

  Put me to the test,

  Let’s have it out once and for all.

  My hands they are steady,

  I’m rarin’ and ready,

  I won’t be the first one to fall."

  —from “The Ballad of Billybuck Dancer"

  Flint walked into the galley, took a large pot of coffee from one of the robots, and made his way through the crowded mess hall to his usual corner table, where he found Tojo, Diggs, and Jiminy already eating breakfast.

  “I hope I’m not intruding,” he said caustically.

  “If you see another empty table, I’ll take it,” said Diggs stuffing another forkful of artificial omelet into his mouth before looking up. “I guess everyone got hungry at the same time."

  “I can’t imagine why,” said Flint, looking distastefully at Diggs’ plate.

  “You’re in a great mood today, aren’t you?” said Diggs. “I should think you’d be a little more cheerful on the day after your boy won his gunfight and made you ten million credits."

  “Two million,” Flint corrected him.

  “What’s all this I’ve been hearing about ten, then?” persisted Diggs, chewing noisily.

  “Five for the Corporation, one for the Dancer, and four for the carny. Half of the four is mine."

  “Would the Corporation have paid five million credits if the Dancer had lost?” asked Diggs.

  “What do you think?” said Flint with an ironic smile.

  “Me? I think that when Kargennian finally dies, you’re going to need a crowbar to pry his fingers loose from the first penny he ever made.” He pushed his plate away and cleaned his fingers fastidiously with a paper napkin. “He’s still around, you know."

  “Who?"

  “Kargennian. I saw him going into your partner’s office about an hour ago.” An alien crew member walked by with a foul-smelling green-and-blue concoction, and Diggs wrinkled his nose.

  “That’ll just make Mr. Ahasuerus’ day,” commented Flint an amused grin on his face. “The little bastard’s probably setting up a distribution network for the films of the fight.” He looked around the mess hall. “I see the Dancer hasn’t come down yet."

  “I hope he’s all right,” said Tojo, carefully spreading artificial margarine on an artificial roll.

  “Why shouldn’t he be?” asked Diggs. “He really looked sharp last night— kind of like John Wayne and Gary Cooper and Clint Eastwood all rolled into one."

  “I stopped by his room this morning,” volunteered Jiminy, who had not eaten any food, but seemed to have developed the same enthusiasm for orange juice that Mr. Ahasuerus had for coffee. “He’s pretty much the same as usual."

  “That means he’s sitting in the dark, staring at a wall,” chuckled Diggs.

  “Exactly,” replied Jiminy seriously.

  Stogie, dressed in pajamas and a tattered terrycloth bathrobe, entered the mess hall just then, with his schnauzer tucked under his arm.

  “Come on over and have a seat, Max,” called Diggs, shouting to be heard above the din created by the untranslated alien voices, and the ancient comic made his way carefully to the table.

  “I thought you were supposed to be in bed,” said Flint.

  “I had to walk Schnoozle,” replied the ancient comic, as the little dog twisted in his grasp, eager to see what was on the table. “Besides, I get lonely staying in my room all day."

  “You start disobeying Fuzzy-Wuzzy’s orders and you’re likely to spend even more time there,” said Flint.

  “He’s a nice guy, Thaddeus,” protested Stogie, accepting a piece of Tojo’s roll and feeding it to Schnoozle, who gulped it down happily. “But what the hell does a big yellow caterpillar know about taking care of human beings?"

  “He’s the only doctor we’ve got,” said Flint.

  “He’d never seen a bone in his life until he came to work for us,” chimed in Monk, who was sitting a few tables away with Batman. “He’s the reason I walk with a limp."

  “You’re having breakfast with the reason you walk with a limp,” said Flint. He looked at Monk and the Sabellian. “Is there some reason why you two are wearing yellow scarves around your necks, or am I going to wish I hadn’t asked?"

  “You’re sitting with the reason for it,” replied Monk.

  “Oh? Who?"

  “Him,” said Monk, jerking a thumb in Jiminy’s direction. “Every time he gets shook up he starts looking like Batman, so I told Batman to wear a scarf so I could tell them apart."

  “And you think he looks like Monk?” asked Flint, turning to Batman.

  “Occasionally,” replied the Sabellian.

  “A shrink could have a field day with those two,” said Flint, turning back to his companions. “Seriously, Max—how are you feeling today?"

  “Old,” said Stogie. “Old and tired. I think Schnoozle and me are having a race to see who keels over first. He’s thirteen, you know; not much time left for either of us.” He petted the little dog’s head. “I hope to God I outlast him. He wouldn’t know what to do if he was still around here after I die. Would you, Schnoozle?” He smiled as the schnauzer licked his wrinkled face, then looked up. “You know, the poor little son of a bitch hasn’t had a girlfriend in six or seven years."

  “He’s got a lot of company,” said Diggs sardonically. “Thaddeus is a monopolist, in case you hadn’t noticed.” He looked at Flint and shook his head in puzzlement. “I can’t imagine why. You ain’t as ugly as Tojo, but you’re no Errol Flynn, either."

  “I think the current standard of comparison is Robert Redford,” offered Tojo.

  “What’s your secret, Mr. Flint?” asked Jiminy with a smile.

  “The two greatest aphrodisiacs in the universe,” answered Flint easily. “Money and power.” He paused. “A hell of a lot of rhinos could have kept their horns if people had just looked at thi
ngs the way they are, instead of the way they’d like them to be."

  “Money I’ll grant you,” admitted Diggs. "But what’s this power crap? You’re just a carny owner."

  “I can fire you,” said Flint. “Can you fire me?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “On a carny ship, that’s all the power there is."

  “How about firing me?” said Stogie, only half jokingly. “Then Schnoozle and me can go home to die on a real world, one with only one moon, and people who don’t look like nightmares, and air that doesn’t tire you out just from breathing it."

  “Don’t be silly, Max,” said Flint. “You’re just feeling gloomy because you’re sick."

  “Or the other way around,” said Stogie.

  “I can’t imagine why anyone would want to go back to Earth,” said Diggs. “There’s races we haven’t even dreamed of up here, and each of ’em just waiting to be fleeced."

  “Earth’s my home,” said Stogie stubbornly.

  “It’s mine, too,” replied Diggs. “All the more reason never to see it again. Too many attachments back there, too many things to hold a man down. We’re freaks, Max—you and me and Monk and the rest; that’s why we’re carnies in the first place.” The amusement vanished from his face. “It’s better to put temptation out of the way and just stay with the show."

  “I wasn’t always a carny,” said Stogie.

  “Don’t tell us again how you appeared on the same bill with the Andrews Sisters,” moaned Diggs in mock anguish.

  “Well, I did,” said the old comic defensively. “And Bert Lahr, too,” he added. “And once I had a part in a Laurel and Hardy film. It wasn’t just a walkthrough, either."

  “We’ve heard all that before,” said Diggs.

  “Well, fuck you, Rigger!” exploded Stogie. “I’m seventy-five years old and I’m dying and I haven’t got any new stories to tell!"

  Schnoozle, sensing his master’s distress, bared his teeth and began growling at Diggs.

  “Hey!” snapped Flint suddenly. “Let’s everyone calm down, or I’m going to repossess my table. I came down here to relax."