The Best Rootin' Tootin' Shootin' Gunslinger in the Whole Damned Galaxy by Mike Resnick Page A

“I remember,” said Tojo softly.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “The one time Monk was in real trouble back on Earth, I jumped into the cage and pulled his damned cats off him with my bare hands. And I taught the Rigger more scams than he ever taught me."
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “There’s only one Thaddeus Flint,” said the hunchback.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “Well, sometimes I get the feeling that one isn’t enough. Every carny carries its share of loonies and misfits, but I can’t help feeling that we’ve got more than most."
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “You wouldn’t really rather be back in Vermont, would you?” asked Tojo.  
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  Flint shook his head. “No. But at least I was in control of things then. And I knew who worked for me. Look at the fucking Midway, Tojo—I don’t even know what’s working for me."
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “I never heard you complain about it before."
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “Who’s complaining?” snapped Flint. “You asked me a question. I answered it.” He shrugged. “Maybe getting here was more fun than being here.’” He glared at the hunchback . “And you’ve got two seconds to get that expression off your face before I rip your hump off and shove it down your throat."
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “What expression?” asked Tojo, startled.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “Never mind,” said Flint. “It’s gone.” He took another swallow from his flask.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “Thaddeus . . ."
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “Now what?"
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “I’ve been thinking about tonight."
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “Bully for you."
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “And I think maybe you should do the barking. I’d like hear you do it once, so I can get an idea of the best way to about it."
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  Flint seemed to consider it for a moment, then shook his head “You’re the barker."
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “But—"
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “Damn it, Tojo! You’ve been with me longer than any them. If you haven’t learned what to do by now, one more night isn’t going to change anything." He paused, then briefly flashed a tired smile. “Besides, I might like it . . . and how long do you think this show could run with the skeleton making decisions by himself?"
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “You’re sure?” persisted Tojo.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “You ask me one more time and you’re going to find out just how hard it is to bark with a couple of split lips,” said Flint getting to his feet. He took a final swallow of gin and put the flask away. “Enough of this shit. Let’s go hunt up the local constabularies and make sure they understand that no one is going to get hurt tonight. I can just picture them slapping cuffs on the Dancer the second he challenges someone in the audience to a gunfight."
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  They spent the next two hours indulging in the carny’s particular brand of public relations—greasing palms, mollifying officials, making sure that the games boasted some big winners early in the evening. Then, as showtime neared, they returned to the ship, where Tojo donned his candy-striped jacket and straw boater, and Flint had a couple of lukewarm beers and a sandwich.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  Finally they walked over to the specialty tent, where Tojo went backstage to go over the details of the new act with the Dancer, and Flint climbed up to his accustomed spot beside his partner in the lighting control booth.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “All set?” he asked, unzipping his coat and lighting a cigarette.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  The blue man nodded. “My understanding is that three members of the audience have agreed to challenge him. At least, three Tilarbans have been