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

taking target practice for the past hour."
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “I didn’t hear them."
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “Diggs suggested we use silencers, so as not to alarm those potential spectators who have never heard the explosive report of a pistol before," answered Mr. Ahasuerus.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “Makes sense,” said Flint with an approving nod. “Have we got any holsters that’ll fit ’em?"
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “I asked Billybuck about it,” said the blue man, “and he told me not to worry about it."
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  Flint chuckled. “That’s like telling the ocean not to be wet.” He stretched his arms, grunted pleasantly, and leaned back in his chair. “Well, we’ll just have to wait to see what he has in mind."
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “You don’t seem very concerned."
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “Piece of cake,” said Flint. “I don’t know if he’s the fastest draw or the best shot who ever lived, but he’s sure as hell the fastest and best who’s going to be standing in the ring tonight.” He looked around the nearly full tent. “Where the hell is Stogie?”  
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  As if on cue, Max Bloom, carrying the cigar stub that had given birth to his nickname, walked into the ring with Schnoozle, his miniature schnauzer, and began his routine. The dog leaped up and grabbed the cigar out of his mouth, and the next three minutes consisted primarily of a number of pratfalls as Stogie fruitlessly chased the small animal around the tent. This was followed by an old Harpo Marx routine, in which he managed to drop about two hundred pieces of silverware from his baggy overcoat, capped off by a huge coffeepot. Then he was back behind a tent flap, and Tojo was introducing the Dancer.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “What’s going on?” demanded Flint, as the gunfighter appeared in his denim jeans and shirt. “Where’s his costume?"
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “He says that gunfighters don’t dress like whores,” replied Mr. Ahasuerus.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “Yeah?” said Flint irritably as he settled back in his chair. “Well, they don’t get paid like whores, either. Remind me to discuss that little point with him."
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  The Dancer went through his preliminary routine, was joined by a scantily clad Jenny after a few minutes, and quickly performed his version of a card trick.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  Then the house lights lowered, a prerecorded drumroll played over the public address system, and Tojo once again activated his microphone.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “And now, ladies and gentlemen,” cried the little hunchback, “for the first time anywhere, Billybuck Dancer challenges any and all members of the audience to a gunfight!"
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  The crowd seemed puzzled, and Tojo continued: “The object of the contest is this. A member of the audience will be given a pistol, the very same weapon Billybuck Dancer has been using during this performance. Billybuck Dancer will begin with his pistol in his holster, the leather container that is at his side; his opponent will begin with the weapon in his hand. If the contestant from the audience can fire his weapon and shoot Billybuck Dancer, he will not only leave here with the certain knowledge that he has defeated the greatest gunslinger of all time, but he will be given a prize of”—he paused for effect—“one million credits!” There was a roar from the crowd, and Tojo waited for it to die down. “For his part, Billybuck Dancer will not reach for his weapon until his opponent has begun to aim and fire, and he will only disarm his opponent. I have here in my hand”—he held up a sheet of white paper covered by barely legible handwriting—“a release signed by Billybuck Dancer absolving his