Chapter 2

It's a good thing that we caught Hofmann in time, before he got posted to the wrong assignment. Those dream-sequence movies made it absolutely clear that he was the perfect gunslinger, but only a run-of-the-mill assassin. We would probably have lost him on his first assignment, if we had tried to use him against Stalin, as originally planned.

Well, here I am in the beautiful state of Texas. I guess it's a fine example of "be careful what you wish for." It must be 115 degrees in the sun—well, maybe that is a slight exaggeration, but not much. Anyway, it's cool enough in this saloon, so I'll relax while I wait for Red Dog McCarty to show up. You never heard of Red Dog McCarty and I never heard of Red Dog McCarty, but he is my first assignment. He's bad enough, mostly guilty of murder and an occasional rape, but he is to be my first case, sort of a kindergarten assignment before progressing to first grade.

McCarty is due to show up within the hour, and I need to pick a fight with him. That should be easy, since he is reputed to be more of a stupid bully than anything else. The important point is that he is possessed by a demon, according to Organization scientists, and he is scheduled for much more dastardly deeds in the near future if I don't kill him. Well, to paraphrase the poem, mine not to reason why, mine but to do or die.

I sure hope he gets here pretty damn quick, because I'm getting sick of this crummy beer. I'm going to switch to Mexican beer, just to save my stomach. To hell with the expense account!

Since this is my first assignment, I'm wearing my own personal gun and holster rig that I used as an exhibition shooter. I'm probably fast enough with a thigh-mounted holster to take care of Red Dog, but nobody wants to take chances with my first test. My pistols are the Smith & Wesson .50 caliber six-shooters that I have used to win many a contest, so I am quite confident and comfortable with them, but I don't want to show them around and possibly screw up the time line in an unwanted way.

Yes, it was pointed out to me that I did have to win on my own, since a fatal bullet taken in this era was just that—fatal! I would have the benefit of Organization medical treatment if I got wounded, but fatal is fatal. I was not really worried, but excited, since an accident could always happen.

On this occasion, Lars was along with me as a friendly observer and a safety valve to get me out of there if something unexpectedly went wrong. Lars would not be a regular feature of my adventures, he was just along as a monitor on my first assignment so that I would not forget why I was there. I admit that I had been doing some sightseeing, since my only exposure to Old West saloons had been through movies and TV. I must say that most of them had gotten it right, but it was still fun to see the real thing.

I had dallied with a saloon whore while I waited, but only to the point of buying her a beer and tipping her two bits for her pleasant conversation. That was all I had time for when Red Dog strolled in and bellied up to the bar. None of that wimpy beer for him, he ordered a whiskey, which he downed like the foul stuff that it was.

Red Dog looked around the saloon and immediately spotted me. I could see the gears grind behind his eyes: fresh meat to play with. I am average in size and weight, but a gun made that totally irrelevant. Red Dog was very close to a dwarf in size, and that may have been the root of his bullying, because he had to be shorter than any other man around him.

He stared at me, and I stared at him. I decided to open negotiations. "What are you staring at, you little fart?"

That got the attention of every patron in the saloon. Even the bartender looked startled. Nobody, absolutely nobody, ever talked like that to Red Dog McCarty. Red Dog even winced a little in surprise.

"Nobody talks ta me like that! Draw, ya stupid galoot!"

I waited a moment to insure that everyone saw Red Dog try to draw first. Once I was sure of that, I drew my pistol and put three closely spaced shots into the middle of his chest. These bullets are so powerful that they actually moved Red Dog off his feet. He did not just fall down, he was thrown down several feet behind where he was standing. I worked my double action pistol so fast that there was one continuous sound, rather than the three distinct shots that one would expect to hear. The upshot was that none of the spectators had any idea how many bullets had been fired. The loud noise was enough to damage unprotected eardrums; I was glad that one of the medical modifications I had received was that sort of protection.

I had reloaded and returned my pistol to its holster by the time the marshal arrived. He had been on the sidewalk just outside the saloon when he heard the roar of my shooting. Not being a fool, he had waited to be sure the shooting was over before he stuck his head in the way of a potential stray shot.

The marshal interviewed a few witnesses, including the bartender, and everybody assured him that Red Dog had drawn first. The marshal acknowledged my self-defense claim and that was the end of that. Without a single dissenter, the whole town was happy to be rid of Red Dog. They didn't even want me to pay for the funeral. I contributed anyway—I dropped two bits on the bar as I walked out of the saloon, mounted up, and rode out of town.

I got out of sight and was snatched back to the air conditioned comfort of the Organization's headquarters on Earth. Lars showed up a few moments later and said, "An excellent job, Abe. You obviously know your business. Our scientists have to be pleased with that experiment. Let's go to my office and relax.

"Abe, you have got to tell me, how did you know exactly what to do? I know that none of our training had anything to do with it."

"Nothing to it, Lars. I just did what they always did in the books I read and the movies I saw. If a man wants an excuse to shoot, any sort of minimal insult will trigger the encounter. I didn't like his looks, so I pushed his button."

We ate some sandwiches and drank coffee while we waited for the after-action analysis on my kill. There was a chime note on Lars' console and a piece of paper came oozing out. Lars glanced at the paper and handed it to me.

This was the technical report for the scientists. Red Dog McCarty had definitely been possessed by a demon. The demon was a recognized type: a bully and always bad tempered. One data point proved nothing, but this was definitely a case of possession. A moment later, a second paper issued from Lars' machine, this one thanking me for providing such a clear and clean data point, and expressing the hope that later data points would be as useful. I admitted to being pleased; one so seldom received praise from technical types.

A couple of days were spent in checking me out to be sure there were no emotional or psychological marks left by my adventure with Red Dog McCarty. Once the medical types were satisfied with my condition, I was released to rejoin the world and to begin my normal services to the Organization.

I was outfitted with a rifle chambered for my same .50 caliber ammunition I used in my pistols. The rifle looked exactly like a Winchester '73, so no one would notice. I was issued a cartridge box that was guaranteed always to be half full of my standard ammunition, so I never had to worry about that phase of the operation. Somehow, the box was keyed to me so that it could never be lost or stolen. The cartridges were modified to produce the expected amount of smoke one would get from a .44-40 black powder cartridge, but the propellant was actually smokeless powder, so I had that advantage.

I was issued two canteens. One held water, but the other held cooled lemonade, my favorite. Both canteens were always filled, so I never feared running out of drinkable liquid. I had an ample supply of pemmican in a special pouch. The pemmican was fortified with all of the vitamins and nutrients I could possibly need, so I could live off of that if I wanted to. I expected to tire of beef and beans pretty soon, so I was grateful for the special pemmican.