The Best Rootin' Tootin' Shootin' Gunslinger in the Whole Damned Galaxy (32 page)

      
“And brush the dirt off his clothes before you lay him out in his coffin."

      
Julius Squeezer nodded his massive head, then looked down at the Dancer.

      
“That's strange,” he remarked after a moment.

      
“What is?"

      
“He's almost got a smile on his face,” said the green muscleman.

      
“Almost,” agreed Flint.

      
“He looks happy."

      
“No,” said Flint softly, taking a last glance at the Dancer before heading off to the ship. “He looks content."

 

 

Chapter 20

 

On an alien world 'neath an alien sky,
 

They planted the Dancer the day he did die.

He was decked out in black, with his guns on his hips,
 

And the oddest of smiles still remained on his lips.

Billybuck Dancer, Billybuck Dancer,
 

The fastest gun, so they tell.

Ran plumb out of foes,
 

Or so legend goes—
 

Now he's gunning for old Satan down in Hell!
 

—from “The Ballad of Billybuck Dancer"

 

      
"Well?” said Flint.

      
“It's a very serious wound,” replied Fuzzy-Wuzzy. “The bullet went through his lung, spleen, and another organ that my anatomy tapes don't even identify, and it's currently lodged just below his heart."

      
Flint and the caterpillar-like medic were standing just inside the doorway of the ship's infirmary. There were six beds, each designed for a different class of life form, and on the smallest of these lay Tojo, two very thin tubes attached to his left arm and another disappearing into his nose. The little hunchback was unconscious, his breathing loud and labored. Mr. Ahasuerus, his lean blue face filled with concern, sat next to the bed, staring silently at the undersized patient.

      
“What are you going to do?” asked Flint.

      
Fuzzy-Wuzzy sighed. “By rights, I should operate immediately and remove the bullet."

      
“Then get on with it."

      
“Thaddeus, I've never operated on a human being before."

      
“How about all those times you patched Monk up after he and Batman had been in the ring?"

      
“Superficial wounds, nothing more,” said the medic. “I don't even know what kind of anesthetic works on your system."

      
Flint turned and glared at Mr. Ahasuerus. “I
told
that son of a bitch I didn't want a doctor who didn't have any bones in his body!” he muttered.

      
“I resent that, Thaddeus,” said Fuzzy-Wuzzy.

      
“Resent it all you want!” snapped Flint. “Tojo's dying, and you don't know what to do about it!"

      
“We have two options,” said the medic. “I can try to get the bullet out myself, or we can go to the nearest vertebrate world of the Community, Ragobar III, which is about two days from here, and hope that I can keep him alive until then. I've pumped him full of antibiotics and cleaned the entry wound as best I can, and I've got him on oxygen; there's a chance he can last that long."

      
“How about the inhabitants of this planet?” asked Flint. “Aren't there supposed to be a batch of them a few hundred miles south of here?"

      
“They're nonvertebrate."

      
“Do they have a hospital?” persisted Flint.

      
“Thaddeus, they've never seen anything even remotely resembling a man before. Believe me, they're not a viable alternative.” He paused uncomfortably. “I need a decision from you."

      
Flint turned to look at the unconscious hunchback and exhaled deeply. “What are his chances of making it to Ragobar?"

      
“Not very good."

      
“Fifty-fifty?” asked Flint.

      
“Thaddeus, I really don't know,” said Fuzzy-Wuzzy helplessly.

      
“Mr. Ahasuerus,” said Flint, raising his voice.

      
“Yes?” said the blue man, looking up.

      
“How soon can we get this ship packed up and ready to leave for the Ragobar system?"

      
“Perhaps an hour."

      
“Then do it, and radio ahead to let their biggest hospital know when we'll be arriving."

      
The blue man got to his feet and hastened from the infirmary without a word.

      
Fuzzy-Wuzzy emitted a sigh, an act that sent little shudders throughout the length of his yellow body. “I'll do everything I can to keep him alive until we get there, Thaddeus."

      
“You'll do more than that,” said Flint. “Get ready to cut him open."

      
“But I thought—"

      
“We can't afford to wait,” said Flint grimly. “Maybe they can still save him if you botch it.” He paused. “Do you need any help—nurses, blood donors, anything like that?"

      
“I still have some plasma that I kept on hand for Jupiter,” replied the medic. “But that was two years ago, and I don't know how long it keeps, even in a frozen state. Perhaps it would be best to get a new donor for a transfusion."

      
He paused for a moment. “Anyone but Stogie. His health has been deteriorating for a long time now; I don't think he can spare it. No—wait!'" he said suddenly. “Humans have different types of blood, don't they? I'll have to check my records and see who matches the type Tojo has."

      
“Is there any chance of him waking up before you start?"

      
“No,” replied Fuzzy-Wuzzy. “He's in shock, and I've sedated him pretty heavily. Also, I won't start until we lift off."

      
“Good. Then I've got some business to take care of."

      
“I thought you'd want to stay here,” said the medic. “I know how close you and Tojo have been."

      
“I'll be back,” said Flint, walking to the doorway. “But we're taking off in an hour, and I've got a gunfighter to bury.” He turned to look at the little hunchback again. “Be careful with him,” he said softly.

      
“I'll do my best, Thaddeus,” said Fuzzy-Wuzzy gently.

      
“You damned well better,” replied Flint. Then he was walking down the long corridor, and a moment later he had taken the elevator down to the main exit port.

      
Julius Squeezer was waiting for him there with the coffin.

      
“Where do you want him, Thaddeus?” asked the wrestler.

      
“Change of plans,” said Flint. “We're going to have to bury him right now.” He opened the lid and looked down at the Dancer's body. “Pass the word. If anyone's got any last respects to pay, they've got twenty minutes to get over to the grave. Then get someone to help you take him back out there."

      
“How's Tojo?” asked Julius.

      
“Still alive,” replied Flint. “Get cracking now."

      
“Right,” said Julius, heading off toward the main intercom system just outside the mess hall.

      
Flint walked once around the coffin, staring at the Dancer's unmarked, boyish face.

      
“I sure as hell hope it was worth it to you,” he said softly.

      
Then he lowered the lid once again, and walked slowly out toward the gravesite. The carny crew started arriving in twos and threes, and by the time Julius and a pair of the burlier games workers had returned with the coffin, all of them were there except for Monk, Batman, and Priscilla. The video crew was also there, standing a little distance away and going about their work quietly and efficiently.

      
A rotund red alien sidled over to Flint as he supervised the lowering of the casket.

      
“We have to have a little chat, Mr. Flint,” he said.

      
“Which one are you?"

      
“I wagered ten million credits on Billybuck Dancer,” continued the alien. “I want to know what happened."

      
“Oh—you're Borilliot."

      
“You haven't answered my question."

      
“This isn't the time or the place for it,” said Flint softly. “In case it's escaped your notice, you're attending a funeral."

      
“I lost a considerable sum of money, and now I want an explanation," whispered Borilliot. “Nobody plays me for a dupe!"

      
Flint reached out, grabbed the little alien by his single garment, and pulled him forward toward the grave. “Take a look!” he growled. “Do you think
he
played you for a dupe?” He released his grip. “Now get out of here before I toss you in after him."

      
Borilliot smoothed his garment and backed away, aware of the attention that had been suddenly focused upon him.

      
“This isn't the end of it!” he promised, turning and heading back toward the ship.

      
“Want me to send someone after him to rough him up a little?” asked Diggs, who had been standing next to Flint.

      
“No,” said Flint, his gaze returning to the casket. “Leave him alone."

      
“I lost a bundle myself,” said Diggs. He shook his head and sighed heavily. “I still can't believe he lost.” He pulled out a cigar and stuck it into his mouth without lighting it. “It's a funny thing to say about a guy who spent all his time staring at walls, but I'm really going to miss him."

      
Mr. Ahasuerus walked over and laid a hand on Flint's shoulder. “I understand that it is customary for someone to say a prayer before the grave is filled in,” he said gently.

      
“I don't know any prayers,” said Flint.

      
“Then if you have no objection, I should like to recite one in my native tongue."

      
Flint nodded, and the blue man stepped up to the edge of the grave and uttered a few brief lines in a language that sounded as if it was composed entirely of growls and moans.

      
When he was finished Diggs stepped forward. “For the past forty years the only things I've prayed for were racehorses and dice,” he announced. “I never even thought of praying for the Dancer, because I never thought anything could beat him.” He paused. “So now I want to say a prayer. It's a silly prayer, but it's been a long time since I talked to the Lord about anything but gambling, and this is the only one I remember."

      
He turned to Flint. “It's for Tojo too, Thaddeus."

      
“Go ahead,” said Flint softly.

      
Diggs cleared his throat, and spoke:
“Now I lay me down to sleep, And pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take."

      
When he was finished Diggs looked at the crew defiantly, as if expecting snickering or laughter. There was none.

      
“Thank you, Rigger,” said Flint.

      
“For what it's worth, it came from the heart,” said Diggs awkwardly. “I hope the little dwarf pulls through."

      
“I had not heard that before,” offered Mr. Ahasuerus. “It was very beautiful."

      
“It's just a kid's prayer,” said Diggs, suddenly uncomfortable.

      
Flint waited until he was sure no one else wanted to speak, then signaled Julius to start shoveling dirt back into the grave. Then he returned to the ship and took an elevator up to the infirmary.

      
Priscilla was sitting on a chair, and Fuzzy-Wuzzy was in the process of withdrawing some blood from her arm as Flint entered the room.

      
“Hello, Thaddeus,” she said, wiping some tears from her cheek with a tissue. “Fuzzy tells me I'm the only other person on board with Type A. I hope it does some good."

      
“You and me both,” said Flint. He turned to the medic. “How soon will you be starting?"

      
“Twenty minutes, perhaps thirty,” replied Fuzzy-Wuzzy. “It depends on how long it takes me to hit upon the right anesthetic."

      
“How about ether?” said Flint. “I seem to remember reading that they used to use it."

      
“It's not just the compound, but the dosage,” said the yellow medic. “Too much could kill him, too little could be ineffective.” He turned to Priscilla. “I'm through with you now. Lie down on one of the beds for a few minutes, and then you can leave."