Fastest Gun in the West
It was strange
inscription for a tombstone; but it had a kind of
prophetic ring to it. Puzzled, Hank pushed a well-worn
Stetson back from his brow with the barrel of his
Colt .45 and inadvertently blew his brains out.
It was precursor of things to come; but not for
Mort Darthur drove the complaining hearse through
town up towards Boot Hill. There was a good crowd
up there today, it being the Tuesday shoe sale.
Hank in that thar coffin, Mort? called a
voice from the upper window of the saloon. A
fitful breeze banged a bored shutter.
wuz when I put him in there. Unless hes
gotten out a way back. Mort spat a chunk of
cheroot to the dust. Seems a mite unlikely.
cant bury Hank up thar on Boot Hill, Mort.
The shutter fell off into the street, the breeze
bemoaning its passing through a lone
Seth; I aint a-heard him complainin
none. Mort chomped the cheroot between
anthracite dentures, and the hearse groaned off;
but then he wouldnt if hed
gotten out a way back.
the Stetson back from his brow with his sawn-off,
shook his confused head and blew it off. Mort
joined in with the head shaking.
like a reglar epidemic o head
blowin off, mused Mort Darthur to
Hank in that thar coffin, Mort? Mort jumped
down and walked across the street. But Seth,
having fallen from the second floor window of the
saloon without a head seemed curiously silent on
over here, Mort. It came from the hotel
across the road. Y cant bury
Hank up on Boot Hill, Mort.
makes ye say that, Tex? Hes dead aint
he? The scrape of match on boot echoed in
the tense silence of the whistling telegraph wire,
battering shutter, the hum of customers for the
shoe sale, and sound of a Winchester repeater
blowing Texs head off. Ye should be
more careful with that in future, Tex.
street stood a lone figure, adjusting his holster
under a copious belly.
Hank in that thar coffin, Mort? he shouted
in the silence of the whining telegraph wire, the
battering shutter, the crowd on Boot Hill, and
Morts approximate harmonica rendition of
Red River Valley. Jesse lifted the
Colt in its holster and stomped a cigar butt
under his boot. Mort charitably slid his
harmonica into a shirt pocket. He quietly hefted
a Peacemaker the size of a Howitzer
and blew Jesses head off.
savin ye a bullet, Jesse; thars a
terrible run on head blowin offs,
lately. Mort proceeded unhurriedly towards
Hank in that thar coffin, Mort? said Wally,
the cemetery janitor. Mort nodded and looked
along the line of headstones marching off into
Second Fastest Gun in the West; The Third Fastest
Gun in the West; The Fourth Fastest......
Mort was wondering just how much cemetery was
left for Hank, when his reverie was interrupted
cant bury Hank up here on Boot Hill, Mort.
seems to be the gen'ral opinion, Wally; why not?
lost the shovel.