wouldn't let you settle it, huh?
she ain't gonna die, huh?
no?
clyde, step across to the german's an' fetch up one of his bullwhips.
whippin' ain't a little thing, alice.
no?
property.
you figure nobody'll want to fuck her.
you boys are off of the spade outfit. got your own string of ponies?
you?
guess you boys just as soon not have no trial an' fuss, huh?
an' you.  you give over two ponies, hear? -
don't matter, we don't need no whips. spring comes an' skinny don't have them ponies, i'm gonna.
i fined 'em instead.
ain't you seen enough blood for one night? hell, alice, they ain't loafers nor tramps nor bad men. they're hard workin' boys that was foolish. why if they was given over to wickedness in a regular way.
oh, shit, shit an' damn, oh fuck my mother and my father, o damn an' jesus.
huh? hullo, skinny. snuck up on me. how do you like her?
roof? jesus, skinny, i done practically every damn thing myself. roberts boy hauled wood, that's all.
porch. i'm puttin' a porch on her so's i can puff my pipe of an evening an' drink my coffee an' watch the sun set.
you come clear up here just to get a look at her?
yeah?
shit, skinny, we got railroad barons an' cattle barons, but you' re gonna be the first of the billiard barons.
an' all them cowboys been riding that beef down to kansas an' cheyenne?
all week?
word must have got all the way to texas by now.
they really got all that money, them whores?
that much, huh?
i could run off them whores.
nope. they'll stay out on the spade country where they got friends.
hullo, bob. boys, this here is english bob.
been a long time, bob. you run out of chinamen?
well, i was always tasting the soup two hours after i et it.
i heard that one myself, bob. hell, i even thought i was dead til i found out it was just i was in nebraska. who's your friend?
you work for the railroads too, mister beauchamp?
letters?
oh.
a book, huh? i guess that means you can read.  an' i guess you boys seen them signs about surrendering your firearms.  but then, like you told old andy there, you ain't armed, are you, bob?
i guess not, bob. i don't like guns around.
charley, see what kind of "books" mister beauchamp is packing.  but watch you don't get wet.
the.  duck of death.
give me the .32, bob.
enemies, bob? you been talking about the queen again? on independence day?
i guess you think i'm kickin' you, bob.  but it ain't so. what i'm doin' is talkin', hear? i'm talkin' to all them villains down in kansas an' them villains in cheyenne.
an' how if there was.  how they wouldn't want to come lookin' for it anyhow.
them boys look like real hard cases. did you kill all seven of 'em dead, bob.  or did you just wing some of 'em?
that is you there, ain't it, bob? the duck of death?
oh yeah.  duke. well, bob, you always was hell an' jesus with a pistol.  but seven of 'em, an' you protectin' the lady too.  how'd you do it?
well, mister beauchamp.  from what i read of this here book, i'd have to say the writin' ain't a whole lot different from the pitcher.
meaning the duck himself, i guess.
duck, i says. "you have insulted the honor of this beautiful woman, corcoran," said the duck. "you must apologize." but two gun corcoran would have none of it and, cursing, he reached for his pistols and would have killed them but the duck was faster and hot lead blazed from his smoking sixguns."
well, mister beauchamp, i was at the blue bottle saloon in wichita the night english bob killed corky corcoran.  an' i didn't see you there.  nor no woman, nor no two-gun shooters nor nothin' like that.
first off.  corky didn't carry two pistols, though he should of.
some folks did call old corky "two gun" but not because he was sportin' two pistols but because he had a dick so big it was longer than the barrel on that walker colt he carried. an' the only insultin' he done was stickin' that big dick of his in some french lady that old bob was sweet on.  well, one day corky walked into the blue bottle and before he knows what's happening bob takes a shot at him.  and misses on account of he's drunker than hell.
well, that bullet whizzin' by panicked corky, an' he done the wrong thing! pulled his gun in such a damn hurry he shot off his own toe. meantime, bob aims good and squeezes off another.  but he's so drunk he misses again an' hits the thousand dollar mirror behind the bar. well, now the duck of death is good as dead 'cause this time corky does right an' aims real good, no hurry.
bam! that walker colt blew up in his hand.  which was a failing common to that model. now if corky would have really had two guns instead of just a big dick he could have defended himself to the end.
well he wasn't gonna wait for corky to grow no new hand. he walked over real close, bein' drunk, an' shot him through the liver.
faster? fast was his mistake. if he hadn't of been in such a goddamn hurry he would not have shot off his toe with his first shot and he would have killed old bob. see, son, bein' a good shot an' bein' quick with a pistol.  that don't do no harm.  but it ain't much next to bein' cool.
he will be hurryin' and he will miss. that there is as fast as i can pull an' aim an' hit anythin' more'n ten feet away.  unless it's a barn.
then he will kill you. that is why there are so few dangerous men like old bob there.  an' like me. it ain't so easy to shoot a man anyhow.  an' if the sonofabitch is shootin' back at you.  well, it'll unnerve most fellas. look here, let me show you somethin'. see this here pistol?
take it. go on, take a hold.
them's the keys. all you gotta do is shoot me an' you an' english bob can ride out free as birds.
wouldn't be no good if it wasn't. you got to cock it though.
an' you got to point it. go on, point it.
all you gotta do is pull on the trigger, mister.
hot, ain't it? you never even put your finger on the trigger.
go ahead.  give it to him.
give it to him.
guess he don't want it, mister beauchamp.
you was right not to take it, bob. i would of killed you.
give them keys to the conductor and tell him he can loose the cuffs off of bob soon as he's out of the county.
oh yeah.
i guess you know, bob, how if i see you again i'll just start shootin' right off an' figure it's self-defense.
i ain't stealin' your biographer, bob. stayin' on was his idea.
"no," he says, "you are wrong little bill. that there is no curly j but a bobbed j." he had worked it over, you see?
"jim," i says, "you are a liar and a horsethief." now -- when he seen them others wasn't gonna help him none -- he started in to cryin' and sobbin' and sayin'.  "don't kill me, little bill, don't kill me, please don't kill me."
"well, jim," i says, "it makes me sick to see a man struttin' around and packin' two pistols an' a henry rifle and cryin' like a baby."
no,.  but i can't abide them kind.  an' you will find a lot of them in the saloons.  tramps an' drunk teamsters an' crazy miners.  sportin' pistols like they was bad men, but not having no sand nor character.  not even bad character.
i do not like assassins an' men of low character like your friend english bob.  but bob ain't no coward who will cry to your face an' then.
huh? oh. another one, huh? shit, i guess i'm clean out of receptacles.
what?
on a night like this? what the hell?
i says, "you'll want to give over your pistol."
ordinance says you got to turn in your firearms to the county office day or night. i guess you didn't read it with the weather an' all.
them friends of yours in the back, they carryin' pistols?
you're spillin' your whiskey, mister.
what's your name?
well, mister hendershot, if i was to call you a no good sonofabitch an' a liar, an' if i was to say you shit in your pants on account of a cowardly soul.  well, i guess then, you would show me your pistol right quick an' shoot me dead, ain't that so?
i guess you just carry it for snakes an' such.
there ain't no snakes in here, mister hendershot.
mister beauchamp, this here is the sort of trash i was speakin' of.
you will find these kind in the saloons of your prosperous communities. but you will not find none of them in big whiskey.
let the man out, ww. he is desiring to leave the hospitality of big whiskey behind him.
if they was just here for the fuckin', how come they lit out the back window?
billiards! an' they was just passin' through?
innocent of what?
makin' some repairs.
never mind about them horses, fatty. just you ride out to the bar t an' make sure that other cowboy stays put an' don't expose himself, hear?
alive?
he admit it?
those cowboys messin' him up?
you an' andy get the hell out there. find out where them other two went.
he tell you where them others is?
he give 'em names?
well, ned, you'll want to tell me an' mister beauchamp here all about them two villainous friends of yours, i guess. bring him in, boys, for i will be glad to know the names and the whereabouts of those other two murdering sonsofbitches.
now then, ned.  you an'.  uh.  mister quincy an' uh.  what was that young feller's name?
that ain't what you said before, ned.
before you said elroy quincy out of medicine hat an' henry tate out of cheyenne.
charley, go bring them whores here that fucked these boys the night of the storm.
yeah.  an' fetch a bullwhip out of the german's.
now, ned.  them whores are gonna lie different lies than you.  an' when your lie ain't the same as their lie.  i ain't gonna hurt no woman, i'm gonna hurt you.  not gentle like i been doin' but.  baaaad.
alright, i'm gonna say just one more time so it's all clear an' then don't ask me no more.
now each of you that posse'd today has got one drink comin' off the county budget.
an' whoever rode yesterday, gets one drink for that.
hold it hold it. after them two, it's outta your own pocket.  hear me, skinny? . an' we're pullin' out early tomorrow an' chase these fellas clear to texas so i wouldn't spend much of your own money.
now if we divide up into four parties an' hit all the farms an' trails in a circle, we're bound to find some one who seen them skunks an'.
hold on, mist.
well sir.  you are a cowardly sonofabitch because you have just shot down an unarmed man.
i guess you are three-fingered jack out of missouri, killer of women and children.
he's got one barrel left, gentlemen. after he has used it, pull your pistols and shoot him down like the cowardly, drunken scoundrel he is.
misfire! kill the sonofabitch!
i don't.  deserve this.  to die this way. i was.  building a house.
i'll see you.  in hell, you three-fingered asshole.