The Best Rootin' Tootin' Shootin' Gunslinger in the Whole Damned Galaxy (31 page)

      
“Same as you,” replied Flint. “Waiting for a gunfight."

      
The cameraman rippled his flesh, which Flint assumed was the equivalent of a shrug. “Well, just don't step in front of the camera, and remember to duck if they start running all over the street."

      
“They won't run all over the street,” said Flint emotionlessly.

      
“Well, they're your performers,” said the alien, rippling his skin again.

      
“But if they even look in this direction, I'm switching on the tracking mechanism and getting behind a counter."

      
“Suit yourself,” said Flint.

      
“Mr. Flint,” said Jiminy, approaching him. “There is something I have to know."

      
“Yeah? What?"

      
“After I lost control of the image, I know what I looked like to you and Tojo and the others, but I should still have seemed like Doc Holliday to Billybuck. How did he know it was me?"

      
“He's got a new heart's desire,” said Flint. “This time you looked like Death to him."

      
Jiminy closed his eyes. “That poor boy!"

      
“Cheer up,” said Flint grimly. “Maybe it was Holliday's death."

      
“We're on,” commented the cameraman. He tapped his earphone twice.

      
“Has that announcer of yours got some kind of speech impediment?” he asked. “I'm getting his untranslated voice, and he sure sounds different from you two."

      
“Shut up,” said Flint. He stepped up to the window and looked up and down the empty street. “They ought to be showing up pretty soon,” he said to the Jimorian.

      
“The Long Branch!” whispered Jiminy, and Flint, peering out through the glass, saw the incredibly thin, gray-clad figure of Doc Holliday step out through the swinging doors of the saloon. He turned to his right and began walking south on the raised wooden sidewalk, his eyes scanning all the stores and alleyways of Fourth Street, but always coming back to the O.K. Corral.

      
When he reached the sheriff's office he stopped for a moment and stared coldly at Tojo, who was sitting in a wooden rocking chair, speaking softly into a hidden microphone. Then he looked back toward the corral, stepped down onto the dusty street, walked another few yards, and came to a stop.

      
Flint turned his head and looked toward the O.K. Corral. For a moment there was no sign of motion, but then the Dancer emerged and began walking slowly up the street.

      
“It looks like I'm going to be behind the robot,” said the cameraman into a small transistorized communicator. “I think your best shot at it will be cameras two and seven, and maybe the one on the roof of the gunsmith shop."

      
Then he was silent again, training his camera on the tall blond sharpshooter as he continued approaching Doc Holliday.

      
Finally the Dancer, too, came to a halt, perhaps forty feet from his foe, and stood just as motionless as the robot.

      
Doc Holliday pulled a gold watch out of his vest pocket, looked at it, then met the Dancer's eyes.

      
“I've been waiting for you for five minutes,” he said with a markedly Southern accent.

      
The Dancer smiled. “I been waiting for you all my life,” he replied.

      
“The clock'll be striking high noon in another minute,” said Holliday, placing his left hand behind his back and gathering his coat into it. “Is that acceptable to you?"

      
The Dancer nodded. “On the twelfth chime,” he said.

      
“Then there's nothing left to say, is there?"

      
“Not a thing,” agreed the Dancer, pulling back his coat to expose his holster.

      
The two gunfighters stood and stared at each other, calm and motionless, as the clock ticked inexorably toward the moment each had been created for.

      
“Remember to crouch!” muttered Flint, a strange hollowness in the pit of his stomach.

      
“That announcer sounds pretty nervous,” remarked the cameraman, tapping his earphone again. “Oh, well, it'll never show up once they translate his voice."

      
Flint looked up the street, and saw a blue face at one of the windows of the Long Branch, flanked by Diggs and Priscilla. The other three girls and Swede, the huge roughie, were at the next window, and Stogie, holding his schnauzer tightly to his chest, was at a third. Only Monk, of the carny's human contingent, was not to be seen.

      
Suddenly the stillness of the moment was broken by a loud chime.

      
Flint looked quickly to the Dancer: his fingers had crept down to a position just above the handle of his gun, but otherwise he could have been asleep, so relaxed did he seem.

      
Another chime.

      
A tiny sneer curled over Doc Holliday's lips as he glared at the Dancer.

      
Four more chimes, and the Dancer's fingers dropped another centimeter.

      
“He looks every inch a killer,” whispered Jiminy, staring at the robot in awe.

      
Flint glanced quickly toward Doc Holliday on the seventh chime, then brought his gaze back to the Dancer between the eighth and the ninth.

      
“Remember!” he whispered, but as he looked at the Dancer's long lean frame still standing erect, he knew that the sharpshooter had no intention of crouching, that he planned to face this foe as he had faced every other.

      
The clock chimed once more.

      
“Is that ten or eleven?” whispered Jiminy anxiously.

      
“Ten,” said Flint, just before the clock chimed again.

      
“Draw now, damn it!” murmured Jiminy, but the Dancer remained still as a statue.

      
And then the clock struck twelve. Faster than the eye could follow, both of them went for their guns; so swiftly that even the freeze-frame holographs would be blurred, they pulled them out and pointed them; so closely together that two shots sounded like one, they fired.

      
The Dancer flew backward as if he had been hit in the chest with a sledgehammer, spun once around, then fell to the ground and lay still. Doc Holliday stared at him for a moment, then twirled his gun, replaced it in its holster, and began walking back to the Long Branch.

      
“Something's wrong with the sound transmission,” complained the cameraman into his communicator. He seemed to listen for a few seconds. “Well, don't they have a backup announcer?"

      
“Mr. Flint!” cried Jiminy, peering through the window. “Tojo's been hit!"

      
Flint raced to the door.

      
“Don't go out there!” cried Jiminy. “He may shoot you too!"

      
But Flint was in the street and running toward the sheriff's office before the words were out of the Jimorian's mouth. The robot, hearing the sound, turned and stared at Flint, but made no motion toward his weapon.

      
Flint reached Tojo just as the little hunchback was trying to pull himself back onto the rocking chair. There was a growing red stain on his right side, and a trickle of blood ran down from his mouth.

      
“He lost,” he stammered unbelievingly. “He really lost!"

      
“Be quiet,” said Flint, gently laying Tojo down on the wooden sidewalk. “Try to save your strength. We'll have the doctor here in a minute."

      
“I'm sorry, Thaddeus,” said the hunchback, coughing up still more blood. “I know I should have ducked . . .” he added groggily. Then his homely face clouded over with puzzlement again. “But he never missed before!"

      
Tojo coughed again and lost consciousness and Flint was suddenly aware of a rush of bodies in his direction.

      
“Where the hell is Fuzzy-Wuzzy?” he yelled as he spotted Mr. Ahasuerus struggling to make his way through the crowd.

      
“Here!” cried a being who resembled nothing more than a huge yellow caterpillar.

      
“He's been shot,” said Flint as the ship's doctor reached his side.

      
“I know,” replied Fuzzy-Wuzzy, bending almost in half and starting to unbutton Tojo's shirt. “We're going to have to stop this bleeding,” he muttered.

      
Flint slipped off his own shirt and, balling it up, pressed it against the little hunchback's ribcage just below the bullet hole.

      
“That won't help, Thaddeus,” said Fuzzy-Wuzzy. “We'll have to get him to the infirmary. I'll send for a stretcher."

      
“He can't wait!” snapped Flint. “
Julius
!"

      
“Yes?” said the huge green wrestler, shouldering his way through the crowd.

      
“Rip the door off the jail!"

      
“You mean you want me to—"

      
“You heard me!” snarled Flint.

      
The reptilian muscleman shoved a couple of Diggs' alien games workers aside, gripped the door in his massive hands, planted his feet, and grunted as he pulled against the hinges. For a moment nothing happened, and then the door came away with a loud cracking noise.

      
“There's your stretcher,” said Flint to the doctor. “Now get him to the infirmary and go to work."

      
Mr. Ahasuerus helped Flint transfer the hunchback's body onto the large wooden door, then gingerly lifted one end of it as Diggs stepped forward and took the other.

      
Flint fell into step behind them, but was stopped by the video team's director.

      
“What about the body, Mr. Flint?” asked the tripodal alien.

      
“What?” said Flint uncomprehendingly.

      
“Billybuck Dancer,” repeated the director patiently. “Have you any particular ritual that you perform, or shall we simply move our cameras to the gravesite?"

      
Flint glanced anxiously toward the makeshift stretcher as Diggs and the blue man continued walking carefully toward the ship.

      
“It's all right, Thaddeus,” said Fuzzy-Wuzzy. “There's nothing more you can do for the next few minutes."

      
Flint watched them for another moment. Then he shook his head vigorously, as if to clear it, and turned his attention back to the director.

      
“Now what's this all about?” he said.

      
“Billybuck Dancer,” said the director. “Do you want us to dispose of him for you?"

      
“We take care of our own,” said Flint.

      
“You
will
be burying him, though?” persisted the alien.

      
“Sooner or later."

      
“When?"

      
“We'll let you know."

      
“I don't wish to seem insensitive,” apologized the alien, “but it
is
in our contract with you: full coverage, from start to finish.” He paused, barely able to contain his excitement. “Billybuck Dancer has nothing to be ashamed of. It was a fabulous gunfight, wasn't it?"

      
“I suppose, as gunfights go."

      
“It will live as long as tales of courage and competition are told!"

      
“Too bad the same can't be said for the competitor,” said Flint bitterly. He saw a pair of aliens approaching the Dancer's body. “Hey! Get the hell away from him!"

      
They jumped back, startled, and Flint called Julius Squeezer over.

      
“I've got to get back to Tojo,” he said when the reptilian wrestler arrived. “Can you take care of the Dancer?"

      
“Take care of him?” repeated Julius, puzzled.

      
“Carry him over to the undertaker's,” explained Flint. “There's a coffin waiting for him. Put him in it and see that it gets back to the ship."

      
“Sure, Thaddeus,” said the muscleman. He paused uneasily. “Will Tojo be all right?"

      
“I don't know."

      
They walked over to the Dancer's body.

      
“He looks different dressed in black, doesn't he?” said Julius softly. “I think I'll always remember him in those faded denims he wore."

      
Flint nodded. “Don't forget to pick up his gun and put it back in its holster."

      
“I won't forget, Thaddeus."