The Best Rootin' Tootin' Shootin' Gunslinger in the Whole Damned Galaxy (4 page)

      
“Fair enough,” said Flint.

      
“What about Billybuck?” asked Mr. Ahasuerus, gesturing to the marksman. “He may have overheard us."

      
Flint looked over to the Dancer, who was still staring blankly into time and space, his handsome face totally without expression.

      
“Not a chance. Hell, it would take something like Doc Holliday or Jesse James to shake him out of one of those trances."

      
Which was as close as Thaddeus Flint ever came to prophecy.

 

 

Chapter 3

 

 
The Dancer was quick, the Dancer was sly,
 

The Dancer just lived to see his foes die.

With his ice-cold gaze and his lust to kill,
 

The Dancer would fire and their blood would spill.

Billybuck Dancer, Billybuck Dancer, firing those forty-fours.

Nerves of steel, resolute,
 

And by God could he shoot!
 

The Dancer was bigger than all outdoors!
 

—from “The Ballad of Billybuck Dancer"

 

      
Tojo stuck his homely head through the open doorway. “Do you mind if I come in?” he stammered.

      
“Suit yourself,” said the Dancer in his lilting Texas drawl.

      
The hunchback shuffled into the compartment. Billybuck Dancer, clad in blue jeans and a T-shirt, lay back on his cot, surrounded by posters and tintypes of famed lawmen and desperadoes he had accumulated on Earth. On his bedstand were two photos, one a sepia-toned picture of his parents, the other a print of a rather nondescript girl in a gingham dress. Both resided in cheap plastic frames.

      
“You ain't come visiting in quite a while,” said the Dancer. “Got any special reason for it?"

      
Tojo nodded. “I stopped by to tell you that I'm your new assistant."

      
“Didn't know I needed another. Has Thaddeus got some new trick in mind?"

      
“No."

      
“Well, then?"

      
“It's the girls,” said Tojo uncomfortably.

      
“What about 'em?"

      
“They don't want to do the wheel trick anymore—the one where you throw knives at them."

      
“Don't know why not,” said the Dancer, genuinely puzzled. “I ain't never missed."

      
“I know,” said the hunchback. “But they kept complaining to Thaddeus, and he finally gave in to them."

      
“If you're part of the act, who's gonna do the barking?"

      
Tojo shrugged. “I don't know. Swede, probably, or maybe Thaddeus."

      
“Well, don't just set up housekeeping in the doorway,” said the Dancer, walking over to his refrigerator. “Come on in. Want a Coke?"

      
“That would be nice,” said the hunchback.

      
The Dancer pulled out two cans, popped them open, and handed one to Tojo, who was busy adjusting himself on one of the spartan wooden chairs.

      
“These ain't really Cokes, you understand,” said the blond marksman. “The robots did the best they could, but like Thaddeus keeps saying, they ain't none too bright."

      
Tojo took a sip and managed to avoid making a face. “It tastes just fine, Dancer."

      
“You think so?” asked the Dancer curiously. “They taste pretty awful to me."

      
“Well, it
could
do with a little less carbonation,” admitted Tojo.

      
“And a little more flavor,” agreed the Dancer. He sat down on the edge of his bed, facing the hunchback. “You're looking kind of sickly,” he said in an amused tone of voice. “Is it the Coke, or the thought of all them knives flying at you?"

      
“Neither."

      
“You sure?” persisted the sharpshooter. “'Cause if you're worried about the act, you ain't got no need to be. I only hit what I aim at."

      
“I know, Dancer. It's just that I like being a barker.” He paused, absently took a sip of his drink, and couldn't help showing his distaste for it this time.

      
“Even saying the same stuff night in and night out?"

      
“Even so."

      
“Funny,” commented the Dancer.

      
“Not really. Ever since I learned to speak I've had this stammer. Other kids dreamed of being Mickey Mantle or Johnny Unitas. All I ever wanted was to be six feet tall and make myself understood. I can't do anything about my height, but the translating device hides my stammer from the audience."

      
“You want to be six feet tall, why not have one of them shapechanging operations like Gloria and Mr. Romany had?"

      
“I am what I am,” said the hunchback.

      
“You sound like that sailor in the comic strips,” said the Dancer with a smile. “If you think you're supposed to be a little bitty feller with a lump on his back, how come you don't think you should be tongue-tied in front of the audience, too?"

      
“Because I use the same device everyone else uses,” said Tojo. He paused. “I spent my whole life being either teased or pitied or tolerated. Thaddeus finally gave me a chance to work, and now I'm good at what I do."

      
“So?"

      
“If I changed, it would make all the abuse and all the work seem meaningless. I've made my peace with what I am."

      
“You sure?” asked the Dancer. “Sounds to me like what you are right now is a target in my act. If being a barker is so all-fired important to you, tell him no."

      
Tojo shook his head. “It's for the good of the show."

      
The sharpshooter chuckled. “More likely, it's for the good of Thaddeus' love life. I can just about guess what Lori and Jenny threatened him with."

      
“Maybe,” said the hunchback with a shrug. “But what's done is done. Is there anything special I have to know for the act?"

      
“Not really. I'd tell you not to duck, but that's why we got all them straps on the wheel. Just ask one of the girls what order I do my tricks in."

      
“All right,” said Tojo. He looked around the compartment. “I haven't seen your posters in quite a while."

      
“You ain't come around in quite a while,” replied the Dancer.

      
“I've meant to,” said Togo apologetically. “You're one of my only friends."

      
“I'd have thought you had lots of 'em, a friendly little guy like you."

      
Tojo shook his head. “Very few, really. Alma's back on Earth, and Gloria is dancing on Hesporite III, and Monk doesn't speak to anyone except Batman these days.” He sighed heavily. “No, there's just you, and Max, and Diggs, and Mr. Ahasuerus, and Thaddeus."

      
“I don't know that a friend would make you give up barking if it means all that much to you,” offered the Dancer.

      
“If it wasn't for him, I wouldn't have been a barker in the first place."

      
The Dancer shrugged and said nothing. Tojo waited politely for him to resume speaking, and when it became obvious that he wasn't going to, the little hunchback clambered down off his chair and began inspecting the posters and tintypes.

      
“That's a mean-looking one,'” he said at last, pointing to an exceptionally villainous-looking portrait. “Who was he?"

      
“Canada Bill. He was a swindler and a card sharp.” The Dancer smiled. “Kind of like the Rigger, only uglier."

      
“And this?"

      
“Tom O'Day. A real nasty character. Used to ride with Butch Cassidy's gang.” The Dancer's face came alive as he reeled off his store of data.

      
“
That
one I know,” said Tojo, pointing to a photograph of a young man supporting a rifle. “It's Billy the Kid, isn't it?"

      
“Good for you,” said the Dancer. “Did you know he was born in New York City?"

      
“You're kidding!"

      
“Truth. I seen his birth certificate once when Thaddeus gave us a day off while we were playing the Connecticut circuit."

      
“Was he the fastest gun?” asked Tojo.

      
The Dancer shook his head. “The meanest maybe. But the best? That'd be Johnny Ringo or Doc Holliday. The Doc, probably."

      
“Doc Holliday was the fastest gun of all?"

      
“Except for me."

      
“Really?"

      
The Dancer nodded. “Only difference is, he had a chance to prove it. I never did."

      
“You prove it every night,” said Tojo.

      
“Lot of difference shooting at something that can't shoot back. Old Doc, he fought Billy Claiborne and the Clanton brothers. Me, I just shoot cards."

      
“What made him so good?"

      
“He didn't much care about living."

      
“I don't understand,” said the hunchback.

      
The Dancer got up, crossed the room, pulled out another Coke, and opened it. “Most gunfighters, no matter how fast they are and no matter how mean they are, they start thinking about getting killed. Makes 'em hesitate, or get ready to duck, or wonder why they got into such a damn-fool situation in the first place. Doc Holliday, now, he wanted to die."

      
“Nobody wants to die,'” said Tojo.

      
“Don't you go betting your tiny little britches on that,” said the Dancer seriously. “More people do than you might think—and Doc, he was dying from consumption anyway. That's why he went out West in the first place: for the dry air. He knew he wasn't going to live to see forty, so he just went out looking for trouble. He was so crippled up that he needed a cane to walk from his hotel to the O.K. Corral—but once he got there, he took care of business. Spent his whole life hoping someone would kill him and put him out of his misery, and since he was always less worried about dying than the next guy, he always came out the winner."

      
“Then who finally killed him?"

      
“No one. Died in a hotel when he was thirty-five."

      
“Really? I didn't know that."

      
“Ain't real romantic, is it?” said the Dancer, downing his new Coke and sitting back on the bed. He placed the can on the floor, propped himself up against the headboard, and clasped his hands behind his head. “Still, he was the best for as long as he lasted, and a man can't ask for no more than that."

      
“And now
you're
the best."

      
The Dancer shook his head.

      
“But you are,” persisted Tojo. “You're the most famous gunfighter who ever lived."

      
“The most famous trick-shot artist. It ain't the same thing."

      
“You wouldn't really want to kill somebody."

      
“I did once."

      
“You mean that story Monk and Thaddeus used to tell about Brazil?” asked Tojo.

      
“Argentina,” corrected the Dancer. “His name was Miguel Perantes, and he was the most famous
bandito
in the country. I was down there with a show even smaller than the one Thaddeus had back in New England. Me and Perantes, we rented out a bullfight arena in a town called Rio Cuarto and sold tickets to the gunfight."

      
“And you really killed him?"

      
The Dancer nodded.

      
“You must have felt terrible,” said Tojo sympathetically.

      
A wistful expression crossed the Dancer's handsome face. “It was the last time in my life I felt happy,” he said at last.

      
Tojo stared at him, unsure of what to say next. The Dancer seemed content to stare off into space, reliving that long-gone day, and finally the hunchback couldn't stand the silence any longer.

      
“Did the police come after you?” he asked, startled at how loud his voice sounded.

      
The Dancer returned to the present. “
They
wanted him dead more than anybody. Practically pinned a medal on me.” He smiled at the memory. “Even asked me to join the force, but I hadn't heard of no other gunmen down there, so I went back to work for the carnival."