[Callahan 01] Callahan's Crosstime Saloon by Spider Robinson

Author:Spider Robinson [Robinson, Spider]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: science.fiction
Published: 2011-01-26T17:21:10+00:00

“All right, all right,” Callahan bellowed after a few minutes of pandemonium.

“I reckon that ought to do, gents. I think we took the Oscar.”

He turned to Hauptman, and tossed the tablecloth on the floor.

“Well, Reverend,” he growled. “Can you top that performance?”

The little minister looked at him for a long spell, and then he began to laugh and laugh. It was a different kind of laugh than we’d heard from him before: it had no ragged, edges and no despair in it. It was a full, deep belly-laugh, and instead of grating on our nerves like a knife on piano wire it made us feel warm and proud and relieved. Kind of a tribute to our act.

“Gentlemen,” he said finally, clapping his hands feebly, still chuckling, “I concede. I’ve been out-acted fair and square; I wouldn’t try to compete with a performance like that.”

Then all at once he sobered, and looked at all of us. “I … I didn’t know people like you existed in this world. I … I think that I can make it now.

I’ll find some kind of work. It’s just that … well … if somebody else knows how tough it is, then it’s all right.” The corners of his mouth, lifting in a happy smile, met a flood of tears on their way down. “Thank you, my friends. Thank you.”

“Any time,” said Callahan, and meant it.

And the door banged inevitably open, and we spun around to see a young black kid, chest heaving, framed in the doorway with a .38 Police Positive in his hand.

“Now everybody be quiet, an’ nobody gonna get hurt,” he said shrilly, and stepped inside.

Callahan seemed to swell around the shoulders, but he didn’t move. Everybody was frozen, thinking for the second time that night that we should have been expecting it, and of all of us only Hauptman refused to be numbed by shock any more, only Hauptman kept his head, and only Hauptman remembered.

It all happened very quickly then, as it had to happen. Callahan’s shotgun was behind the bar, out of reach, and Fast Eddie had been caught with both hands in sight. The minister caught Doc Webster’s eye, and they exchanged a meaningful glance across the room that I didn’t understand.

And then the Doc cleared his throat. “Excuse me, young man,” he began, and the black kid turned to tell him to shut up, and behind him Hauptman sprang from his chair headlong across the room and headfirst toward the fireplace.

He landed on his stomach, and his hands plowed straight into the welter of broken glass. As he wrenched over on his back, his right hand came around with that big .45 in it, and the kid was still turning to see what that noise behind him was.

They froze that way for a long moment, Hauptman sprawled in the fireplace, the kid by the bar, and two gun-muzzles stared unblinking across the room at each other. Then Callahan spoke.

“You’ll hurt him with a .38 son, but he’ll kill you with a .

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