by Rod Serling
Rance, still looking at himself, cocked his head, snapped his fingers, and pointed to one shoulder. The wardrobe man hurriedly inserted an inch of additional padding. Again Rance stared into the mirror and then snapped his fingers again. “Holster,” he said tersely.
A property man trotted to his side and began to tie on his holster.
Rance checked it by holding one arm straight down at his side and sighting down at it. “An inch more hang,” he ordered.
The property man quickly obeyed, loosening the belt one notch as Rance checked himself again in the mirror, moving his head around so that he could survey himself from several different angles. He stepped away from the mirror and then advanced on it, arms held away from his body in the manner of every fast gun since the beginning of time,
It might be parenthetically noted here that there was a point in history when there actually were top guns. They were a motley collection of tough mustaches who galloped and gunned their way across the then new West. They left behind them a raft of legends and legerdemains. But heroics or hambone—it can be stated quite definitely that they were a rough and woolly breed of nail-eaters who in matters of the gun were as efficient as they were dedicated. It does seem a reasonable guess, however; that if there were any television sets up in Cowboy Heaven, so that these worthies could see with what careless abandon their names and exploits were being bandied about—not to mention the fact that each week they were killed off afresh by Jaguar-drawn Hollywood tigers who couldn’t distinguish between a holster and hoof and mouth disease—they were very likely turning over in their graves or, more drastically, getting out of them.
None of this, of course, occurred to Rance McGrew as he swaggered across the set to the bat-wing doors, losing his balance only once or twice as his boots gave slightly to the left—much in the manner of a nine-year-old Brownie wearing her mother’s high heels.
When Rance reached the swinging doors he squared his padded shoulders, snapped his fingers again, and ordered tersely: ‘“My gun. “ This, of course, was the final item in the ritual of Rance McGrew’s preparation, and it occurred at the same time each morning. The prop man pitched underhanded an ugly-looking six-shooter which Rance caught deftly, spun around on the trigger finger of his right hand, and then with equal deftness, flipped it to his left hand. He then let it spin over his shoulder, putting his right hand behind him to catch it. The ugly-looking six-shooter didn’t know about the plan. It sailed swiftly over Rance, over the cameraman, over the bartender, and slammed against the bar mirror, smashing it into a million pieces.
Sy Blattsburg shut his eyes tightly and wiped the sweat from his face. With a heroic effort, he kept his voice low and untroubled. “Dress it up,” he ordered. “We’ll wait for the new glass.” He pulled out a five-dollar bill and handed it to the cameraman.
He had now lost four hundred and thirty-five dollars over the three-year span of Rance McGrew’s television show. In one hundred and eighteen films, this was the eighty-fourth time that Rance had broken the bar mirror.
Twenty minutes later the set had been dressed and a new mirror put up. Blattsburg stood alongside the cameraman. ‘‘All right,” he said, “ready...action!”
The camera began its quiet hum. Outside a horse whinnied, and through the swinging doors swaggered Rance McGrew in simple, powdered elegance, a noncommittal sneer on his face. The two “bad guys” stood at the bar and watched fearfully as he approached them. Rance went up to the bar and slammed the palm of his hand down on top of it.
“Rotgut whisky,” he said in a deep voice, perhaps one octave lower than Johnny Weissmuller’s. And while he may have walked like a Brownie, Rance’s ordinary speaking voice was that of a grocery boy in the middle of a voice change.
The bartender yanked a bottle from the shelf and slid it down the length of the bar. Rance nonchalantly held out his hand for it and looked mildly surprised as the bottle sped past him to break against the wall where the bar ended.
Sy Blattsburg jammed both his thumbs into his eyes and stood shaking for a moment. “Cut,” he said finally.
There was a murmur of reaction from the crew. It was traditional that Rance missed at least one bottle that was slid toward him, but this usually occurred toward the end of the day when he was tired.
The sneer on his face turned a shade petulant as he waggled a finger toward the bartender. “All right, buddy boy,” he said warningly. “You try to gag it up one more time and you’ll wind up plucking chickens at a market!”
He turned toward the director. “He put an English on that, Sy. He deliberately made it curve.”
The bartender gaped at the two “bad guys.”
“English on a bottle?” he whispered incredulously. “That guy needs a catcher’s mitt!”
With masterful control, Blattsburg said quietly, “All right. Let’s try it again. From the bottle. Positions, please.”
“Scene seventy-three-take two,” a voice called out.
Again the bartender pulled down a bottle and very carefully nudged it so that it slid along the bar slowly and stopped dead, a hand’s length away.
Rance’s lips curled in one of his best sneers. He reached for the bottle, picked it up, slammed it against the edge of the bar, and then raised the jagged neck to his mouth, drinking thirstily. He threw the bottle over his shoulder, probed at one of his back teeth with his tongue, and finally, rather showily, removed a large fragment of fake glass from his mouth. This he flipped toward the bartender and his mail-order sneer returned to his face.
He leaned against the bar, Wiggling his shoulders, and surveyed the two “bad guys,” At the same time, he carefully checked his reflection in the mirror and tilted his Stetson an inch or so to the right.
“I guess you boys know I’m the marshal here,” he announced in his best Boot Hill voice.
The two “bad guys” were visibly shaken.
“We heard tell,” the first one said, not daring to meet Marshal McGrew’s gaze.
“We heard tell,” the other cowboy chimed in.
Rance lifted one eyebrow and stared from one to the other. “And I guess you know that I know that Jesse James is due here, aimin’ to call on me.”
The first cowboy nodded and his voice shook.
“I knew that, too,” he said fearfully.
“Likewise,” his companion added.
Rance stood there for a quiet moment, moving his head left and right, the sneer coming and going.
“Somethin’ else I know that you two don’t know,” he said, “is that I know that both of you know Jesse James. And I’m waitin’—I’m jus’ gonna stand here waitin’.”
The two “desperadoes” exchanged horrified stares, and with all the subtlety of a grade C wrestler they looked worriedly toward the swinging doors. This was Rance’s cue to move away from the bar, hands held down and ready at his sides.
The sneer now came with a smile. “I figgered I’d bluff ya,” he said triumphantly. “Jesse’s here all right, ain’t he?”
“Marshal...” the bartender pleaded. “Marshal McGrew...please...no killin’ in here!”
Rance held up his hand for quiet. “I ain’t aimin’ to kill ‘im,” he announced gently. “I’m jus’ gonna maim ‘im a bit. I’m jus’ gonna pick off his pinky!”
The first “desperado” swallowed and gulped. “J-J-Jesse ain’t gonna take kindly to that,” he stuttered.
Out on the street there was the sound of hoofs, the creak of leather, and then boot-steps across the wooden floor of the saloon porch.
The swinging doors opened, and there stood Jesse James—evil incarnate. Black mustache, black pants and shirt, black gloves, black scarf, and black hat. His particular sneer was closely related to Rance’s, though not worn with the aplomb of the marshal.
He walked across the saloon with catlike grace, hands held down and away from his body.
“It’s Marshal McGrew, ain’t it?” he asked, planting his legs far apart, his hands still out, elbows bent.
Rance McGrew
sneered, sniggered, clucked, and breathed heavily, and finally said, “Yup.”
“You’re about to breathe your last, Marshal.”
Then Jesse went for his gun. Halfway out of the holster a simulated bullet drew simulated blood from his hand, which he clutched in agony as his gun flew off to one side.
The prop man blew smoke out of the chamber of the blank-cartridge pistol.
Sy Blattsburg nodded approvingly.
The two cowboys at the bar reacted with proper horror.
The extras sitting at the tables jumped to their feet and moved slowly backwards toward the wall.
Meanwhile, back at the bar, Rance McGrew was still tugging at the gun in his holster. It finally came out, left his hand, and kept going over his shoulder, over the cameraman, over the bartender, smack dab into the mirror, breaking it into a million pieces.
Sy Blattsburg looked as if someone had told him that he had just become engaged to a lizard, he opened his mouth and a noise akin to a sob—a protest, a throttled roar—came out. When he got control of himself, he said quite clearly, “Cut!”
He turned toward the cameraman and giggled. Then he just sat down and began to cry.
And so it went through the day. They shot Rance grappling with Jesse until Jesse hauled back to let the marshal have it on his sneer. Rance’s stand-in took his place to receive the blow, and then fell backward to land on top of a collapsing table.
There was some exceptional footage of Rance throwing Jesse over the bar to smash against a shelf full of bottles; then the action called for Jesse to climb up on top of the bar and dive over it into the on-coming Rance. Rance’s stand-in again took the brunt of this assault, stepping in in time to receive the full weight of Jesse James hurtling through the air at him.
By late afternoon Rance began to show the effect of four hours of mortal combat. Sweat showed through his powder. His stand-in had half his shirt ripped off, a large mouse under his left eye, and three dislocated knuckles.
Rance patted him on the shoulder as he passed by. “Good show,” he said bravely, like a Bengal Lancer talking to a doomed drummer boy.
“Yes sir, Mr. McGrew,” his stand-in said through bruised lips.
Sy Blattsburg checked his watch, then walked to the center of the room. “All right, boys,” he announced. “This is the death scene—Rance stands at the bar, Jesse lies over there. Rance thinks he’s unconscious. Jesse picks a gun off the floor and fires at Rance’s back.”
The actor playing Jesse James looked up startled. ‘‘At his back?” he said.
“That’s right,” Blattsburg responded.
“I don’t want to fight you, Sy,” the actor said, “but that’s not the way Jesse James used to operate. I mean…everything I’ve read about the guy, he fought pretty fair. Why can’t I yell something?”
Rance McGrew’s upper lip curled. “That’s thinking,” he said with devastating sarcasm. “Oh, that’s thinking. Yell something. Warn the fastest gun in the West that he’s about to be shot at.”
Rance took a step over and poked a finger against the actor’s chest. “You happen to be up against Rance McGrew,” he snarled. “And when you’re up against Rance McGrew you’ve got to play it dirty or you’re gonna play it dead. Now quit arguing and let’s get to it!”
The actor looked over at Sy Blattsburg, who made a gesture of a finger to his mouth.
As the actor walked past him, Sy said, “Jesse James might not fight that way—but,” he continued in a whisper, “Rance McGrew would!”
Once again the extras took their places at the tables. Jesse James lay down in a chalked-off spot on the floor and Rance McGrew stood by the bar, his back to his adversary. The property man put a bottle in front of him and Rance sniffed at it. Once again his upper lip curled.
“I told you ginger ale!” he screeched. “This Goddamn stuff is Coke!”
The property man looked worriedly at the director. “It’s supposed to look like whisky though, Mr. McGrew, and—”
Rance’s shriek cut him off. “Sy! Will you fire this oaf—or straighten him out—one or the other?”
Sy Blattsburg stepped in front of the camera. His voice was gentle. “Mr. McGrew would prefer ginger ale.”
The property man heaved a deep sigh. “Yes sir, Mr. McGrew.”
Jesse James, lying on the floor, whispered to the director: “I don’t care what he says—Jesse James wouldn’t shoot anybody in the back.”
Sy gritted his teeth. “Yeah, I know, but Rance McGrew would. Rance McGrew would also fire anybody and his brother. So do me a favor—play it Rance McGrew’s way or we’ll never get this picture finished.”
“All right. You’re the boss, but I can just see Jesse James turning over in his grave now. I don’t mean just once. I mean about four hundred revolutions per minute.”
Sy Blattsburg nodded and shrugged. “All right,” he called out. “Let’s get with it. Scene ninety-three, take one.”
The camera began to hum and Blattsburg called out “Action!”
Rance McGrew reached for the bottle, smashed it open, held it out, and looked in the mirror. He could see the reflection of the crew, the cameramen, the director, and, naturally, Rance McGrew. He put the shattered bottle to his mouth and took a long, deep swig. Then the bottle fell from his hands. His eyes bulged. He choked, gasped, and clutched at his throat.
“Why, you stupid bastard—that’s whisky! That’s real whisky!”
Again he looked up toward the mirror, and this time what made him gasp was not the burning liquid pouring down his throat. It was what he saw in the mirror. Just himself. Himself and two strangers—two dirty-looking cowboys standing a few feet away from him.
One of the hostesses sat with customers at the table, but it wasn’t the long-legged blonde who was there before. It was a fat, dumpy, frowsy-looking babe on the corseted side of fifty-five.
Rance kept opening and shutting his eyes, then started to say something to the bartender when he realized that this gentleman, too, had changed. He was no longer the fat, waddling, bald-headed man cast in the role. He was a thin, chicken-chested little guy with his hair parted in the middle. He stared back at Rance questioningly.
Rance stumbled back from the bar and stared upward. There had been no real ceiling—just a series of catwalks where some of the lighting men had been positioned. Now there was no catwalk—just a plain old ceiling.
Marshal McGrew continued to walk backward until he felt the swinging doors behind him. He kept on going and wound up on the street just as an old man ran breathlessly toward him. An old man he’d never seen before.
“Marshal,” the grizzled octogenarian wheezed at him, “Jesse’s gunnin’ for you. He’s comin’ right now!”
“Cement head!” Rance shrieked back at him. “He already came in—scene seventy-three. Goddamn it—will my agent hear about this! Will the head of the studio hear about this!” He pounded on his small chest. “Try to get me for another benefit! Boy, am I gonna tell you something!”
He pointed toward the old man and then stopped breathing before his words came out, for down the street a horse ambled slowly toward him. And on the horse was a tall lean man in a black costume—his hawk face shadowed by the black broad-brimmed hat.
Any real student of the West would at this moment have died of a coronary, because the face was that of Jesse James. Not the actor—but Jesse James.
The horse stopped a few feet from where Rance stood and the rider dismounted, looked up and down the street, and then slowly came over toward the marshal.
The marshal, meanwhile, found himself sitting on the steps of the saloon unable to move.
The tall dark man stood over him and surveyed him intently.
“They call me Jesse James,” the deep voice said. “I mean the real Jesse James—not that side of pork that’s been play-actin’ me!”
Silence—except for the plop-plop sound of Rance McGrew’s sweat, which kept running down the bridge of his nose and landing in the dust. Final
ly Rance looked up, his eyes glazed.
“Cut?” he inquired. “Shouldn’t we cut?” His voice was tearful. “Please somebody—cut already!”
But nothing happened. The apparition under the black hat remained. No makeup man came to dab off the marshal’s perspiration. No stunt man stood on the periphery ready to save him from the least damage. Marshal McGrew was all alone.
“I’m lookin’ fer the marshal in town,” Jesse James said. “Fella named McGrew. Rance McGrew.”
Rance very slowly tipped his hat down over his face and stuck out his left hand, pointing down the street. ‘‘That-away,’’ he announced.
“You wouldn’t be him, huh?” Jesse asked.
Rance shook his head and continued to point down the street, but suddenly Jesse lashed out with both hands, grabbed Rance by the front of his vest, and yanked him to his feet. Holding him with one hand, he tapped the shiny badge adorning Rance’s costume and looked accusingly into the pale, perspiring face of the lawman.
Rance gulped, swallowed, and started to take off the vest—looking wildly around. “Where’s the fellow who lent me this?” he inquired weakly.
Jesse stopped him in the middle of his activities and pulled him closer.
“I think you and me better have a talk, marshal. Mebbe a long talk, mebbe a short talk—but a talk”
He slowly released Rance and continued to stare at him.
“You’re supposed to be tough,” he said thoughtfully. “Ya don’t look very tough. Wanna know what ya look like?”
“I haven’t been well,” Rance answered in a thin little voice.
Jesse nodded. “You look like a marshmallow.” Then he paused and stepped back. “Don’t that rile ya none?” he asked.
Marshal McGrew smiled at him with a wispy “when-are-ya-gonna-let-me-commit-suicide?” kind of smile.
Jesse shrugged. “C’mon,” he ordered. “First we’ll have a drink, and then we’ll have a talk.” There was a meaningful pause. “Then we’ll have a showdown.”
He herded Rance up the steps and into the saloon. Once inside, he shoved him up against the bar.
“Two whiskies,” Jesse said, “and leave the bottles.”