"Good shooting, huh?" Buck asked the little guy.
"Yes," said the little guy. "Very fine shooting. I confess, it quite
startled me."
Buck laughed harshly. "Startled the old guy too...." He raised his
voice. "Ain't that right, Menner? Wasn't you startled?"
"Yes, sir," came Menner's pain-filled voice from the bar.
Buck looked back at the little man--let his insolent gaze travel up
and down the fancy waistcoat, the string tie, the sharp face with its
mustache and narrow mouth and black eyes. He looked longest at the
eyes, because they didn't seem to be scared.
He looked at the little guy, and the little guy looked at Buck, and
finally Buck looked away. He tried to look wary as he did it, as if he
was just fixing to make sure that nobody was around to sneak-shoot
him--but you could see he'd been stared down.
When he looked back at the little guy, he was scowling. "Who're you,
mister?" he said. "I never seen you before."
"My name is Jacob Pratt, sir. I'm just traveling through to San
Francisco. I'm waiting for the evening stage."
"Drummer?"
"Excuse me?"
For a second Buck's face got ugly. "You heard me, mister. You a
drummer?"
"I heard you, young man, but I don't quite understand. Do you mean, am
I a musician? A performer upon the drums?"
"No, you goddam fool--I mean, what're you selling? Snake-bite
medicine? Likker? Soap?"
"Why--I'm not selling anything. I'm a professor, sir."
"Well, I'll be damned." Buck looked at him a little more carefully. "A
perfessor, huh? Of what?"
"Of psychology, sir."
"What's that?"
"It's the study of man's behavior--of the reasons why we act as we
do."
Buck laughed again, and it was more of a snarl. "Well, perfessor, you just
stick around here then, and I'll show you some _real_ reasons for people
acting as they do! From now on, I'm the big reason in this town ...
they'll jump when I yell frog, or else!"
His hand was flat on the table in front of him--and suddenly his
Peacemaker was in it, pointing at the professor's fourth vest button.
"See what I mean huh?"
The little man blinked. "Indeed I do," he said, and stared at the gun
as if hypnotized. Funny, though--he still didn't seem scared--just a
lot interested.
* * * * *
Sitting there and just listening, I thought about something else
funny--how they were both just about of a size, Buck and the
professor, and so strong in different ways: with the professor, you
felt he was strong inside--a man who knew a lot, about things and
about himself--while with Buck it was all on the outside, on the
surface: he was just a milksop kid with a deadly sting.
Buck was still looking at the professor, as carefully as he had
before. He seemed to hesitate for a second, his mouth twisting. Then
he said, "You're an eddicated man, ain't you? I mean, you studied a
lot. Ain't that right?"
"Yes, I suppose it is."
"Well...." Again Buck seemed to hesitate. The gun in his hand lowered
until the end of the barrel rested on the table. "Look," he said
slowly, "maybe you can tell me how in hell...."