"You're a hell of a sheriff," Buck sneered. "You're a no-good
bastard."
"Cuss me out," Ben said. "Don't hurt me none. I'll be ready when you
start talking with guns."
"I'm ready now, beanpole," Buck grinned. "You draw first, huh?"
"_Think of his gun!_" the professor said in a fierce whisper. "Try to
grab it with your mind--break his aim--pull it away from him--_you
know it can be done! Think, think_--"
Ben Randolph had never in anyone's knowledge drawn first against a
man. But now he did, and I guess nobody could blame him.
He slapped leather, his face already dead--and Buck's Peacemaker was
in his hand--
And me and the professor were standing like statues on the porch of
the Once Again, thinking at that gun, glaring at it, fists clenched,
our breath rasping in our throats.
The gun appeared in Buck's hand, and wobbled just as he slipped
hammer. The bullet sprayed dust at Ben's feet.
Ben's gun was halfway out.
Buck's gunbarrel pointed down at the ground, and he was trying to lift
it so hard his hand got white. He drove a bullet into the dust at his
own feet, and started to whine.
Ben's gun was up and aiming.
Buck shot himself in the foot.
Then Ben shot him once in the right elbow, once in the right shoulder.
Buck screamed and dropped his gun and threw out his arms, and Ben, who
was a thorough man, put a bullet through his right hand, and another
one on top of it.
Buck sat in the dust and flapped blood all around, and bawled when we
came to get him.
* * * * *
The professor and I told Ben Randolph what had happened, and nobody
else. I think he believed us.
Buck spent two weeks in the town jail, and then a year in the state
pen for pulling on Randolph, and nobody's seen him now for six years.
Don't know what happened to him, or care much. I reckon he's working
as a cowhand someplace--anyway, he sends his mother money now and
then, so he must have tamed down some and growed up some too.
While he was in the town jail, the professor talked to him a lot--the
professor delayed his trip just to do it.
One night he told me, "Tarrant can't do anything like that again. Not
at all, even with his left hand. The gunfight destroyed his faith in
his ability to do it--or most of it, anyway. And I finished the job, I
guess, asking all my questions. I guess you can't think too much about
that sort of thing."
The professor went on to San Francisco, where he's doing some
interesting experiments. Or trying to. Because he has the memory of
what happened that day--but, like Buck Tarrant, not the ability to do
anything like that any more. He wrote me a couple times, and it seems
that ever since that time he's been absolutely unable to do any
telekinesis. He's tried a thousand times and can't even move a
feather.
So he figures it was really me alone who saved Ben's life and stopped
Buck in his tracks.
I wonder. Maybe the professor just knows too much not to be some
skeptical, even with what he saw. Maybe the way he looks at things and
tries to find reasons for them gets in the way of his faith.
Anyway, he wants me to come to San Francisco and get experimented on.
Maybe someday I will. Might be fun, if I can find time off from my
job.
I got a lot of faith, you see. What I see, I believe. And when Ben
retired last year, I took over his job as sheriff--because I'm the
fastest man with a gun in these parts. Or, actually, in the world.
Probably if I wasn't the peaceable type, I'd be famous or something.
* * * * *