Support Your Local Gunfighter Page #7

I think we've been spreadin' it

a little thick.

Tickets. Tickets, please.

Ma'am?

- You got a ticket, mister?

- In my hat.

Say, aren't you Swifty Morgan?

That's right.

It sure is a pleasure

to have you aboard, Mr Morgan.

Where are you headed?

Purgatory.

- Hey, you.

- Me?

You.

Give me a cigar, Charlie.

- Light me.

- There you go.

Stay out of this.

Light me or I'll stomp you.

- You're gonna let that...?

- I know what you're gonna say.

Excuse me.

Hey.

I'm not reformed quite enough

to put up with slobs like you.

Bartender, sarsaparilla.

- I'm glad you done that. He told on you.

- He...

- He what?

- He told on you.

He told me

them mine-owners gave you $5,000.

- You told me it was just $1,000.

- You got a right to be sore.

- I ain't sore.

- You're not? Why?

When you come along, I was hungry.

You give me a $100 bill.

I hadn't even seen one before.

Two bits.

- I haven't got any money.

- On me.

- Thanks, Jug, that's real nice of you.

- You fed me when I was hungry.

- Let's drink up and get moving.

- Where to?

Anywhere as long as it's away from here.

I ain't leaving.

Now, Jug, you know full well that the real

Swifty Morgan is coming to this town.

He's gonna put bullet holes

in both of us no end.

Except for one of us - me.

I ain't gonna be here.

- I'll be here.

- Why will you be here?

- Cos if I run, people will think I'm scared.

- I'm scared. Ain't you?

Yeah, but I ain't gonna run.

What do you care what people think here?

- I got my pride.

- That won't stop a.45 slug.

You know somethin'?

You're the smartest fella I ever met.

- You are a minority.

- You aim high.

Saddle-poundin' jobs

have never interested you none.

That's what I'm gonna do. Aim high.

I know I may not have too much

of a chance with Swifty Morgan.

- But suppose I down him.

- Well, supposin' you don't.

The odds are about a thousand to one.

You'll just end up an unknown character

under a wooden cross on Boot Hill.

Everybody winds up dead.

The smart ones try to postpone it

as long as possible.

My mind's made up.

Jug, I don't want to be responsible

for gettin' you dead.

Now, let's blow this town

and live to be a ripe old age, huh?

My mind's made up.

It's my chance to be somebody.

No chance - that's what you've got. Swifty

Morgan is greased lightning with a gun.

I been practisin'.

You just snap your fingers

when you want me to draw.

Oh, come on, Jug.

I'm slow, Jug, but you're the slowest.

Well, I might get in a lucky shot.

I got a feeling you're goin' on a long trip.

Now, why not go alive?

You don't have to stay. You take off.

As soon as that killer hits town, I'm

cuttin' out that back door. Muy pronto.

- Excuse me, sir.

- Why?

You gonna do something

I might take exception to?

Oh, no, sir.

Not while I'm in my right mind, sir.

- I'm the stationmaster here.

- All right. So far, so good.

You're the stationmaster here

and you're in your right mind.

- I'm also the telegrapher.

- Congratulations.

I know about the telegram Colonel Ames

sent you and the telegram you sent back.

- How do you know who I am?

- Anybody could look at you and see.

There is a man that killed

40 other men in cold blood.

- It shows, huh?

- Plain as the hair on your... On a goat.

All right, I'm Swifty Morgan. Now what?

That telegram you sent saying you was

coming to deal with the impostor...

- What about that telegram?

- I took it to the Ames place.

But the Colonel's sister grabbed it,

ripped it open and yelled

"So that filthy rat is coming here!"

- Meanin' me?

- Begging your pardon, sir, meaning you.

She showed it to Miss Patience.

That's a girl.

- That figures.

- Miss Patience started yellin'.

"That filthy murderer, Swifty Morgan,

is comin' here,

and that boy that's been posin' as him

has to get out of town. "

So I suppose this impostor took off

as fast as a horse would carry him?

- No, sir.

- He didn't?

No, sir. Right now,

he is down to the Eagle shootin' pool.

Well, now, here's what you do.

You trot on down to the Eagle and tell

this faker to come out in the street.

You tell him that the real, genuine, 100

per cent, dyed-in-the-wool Swifty Morgan

is waitin' for him.

Sir, I'd really rather not get mixed up

in this if it's all the same to you.

It is not all the same to me.

- He's out in the street.

- Who's out in the street?

Swifty Morgan is out in the street.

The real Swifty Morgan.

When you go out, he'll shoot you

so full of holes you'll look like a strainer.

He's real put out about you

takin' his name in vain.

Don't go out there, you idiot.

Let's go out the back door.

- It's that time, friend.

- Yeah, I guess it is.

Lat!

- There ain't no ladies allowed in here.

- I ain't no lady. I'm Patience Barton.

- Swifty Morgan's out there on the street.

- I know. I was on my way out to see him.

- He ain't after you, he's after him.

- I got him into this. I'll get him out.

Listen, Lat, if you get killed, I'm gonna

have to marry one of these local crumbs.

Patience.

There are some things

a man can't ride around.

Then again, maybe he can.

I've gotta see this.

I've gotta see this.

You there, in the saloon.

This is Swifty Morgan.

- Come on out.

- I already am.

What the hell

do you think you're doin'?

If I were you, I'd aim high.

If you hit this dynamite, you'll blow

the whole town up. You along with it.

You tryin' to make a fool out of me?

- No, I'm trying to kill you, Mr Morgan.

- You can't gunfight sitting on your ass.

As a matter of fact, it doesn't belong

to me. It belongs to Taylor Barton.

- I stole it.

- Like you stole my name?

- Sorry about that.

- Not as sorry as you're gonna be.

Swifty Morgan hits only

what Swifty Morgan shoots at.

I'm sorry about that too.

Any time you feel lucky, mister.

Fire in the hole!

I shot myself.

Don't let me die with my boots on, mister.

Lat!

- He did it! He did it!

- He struck the mother lode!

- We're rich!

- No, ma'am.

The claim belongs to Taylor Barton.

His mule done it.

- You hear that, Abigail? It's my ass!

- Mine too.

- Lat!

- He's all right, honey.

Take more than a little dynamite

to kill Latigo Smith.

- You said you couldn't ride.

- I said that whorehouse was a gold mine.

- The tattoo. It's gone. It's been blown off.

- The hell you say!

Now we can get married

and have a picnic.

Boss!

Latigo just put $10,000 on 23.

I'm backin' his play.

Spin her!

I'll be damned. 23.

Sure is good

to have Mr Latigo on board again.

Serve the champagne, Sam. But not till

the folks have time to catch their breath.

Now, the way this story ends,

those two go to Denver to get married.

Patience never gets to go to Miss Hunter's

College on the Hudson River, New York,

but seven of her daughters do.

Taylor Barton, he gets his flat fixed

and marries Miss Abigail.

The colonel goes broke. Swifty Morgan

is still tryin' to get his boots off.

And me?

I go on to become a big star

in Italian Westerns.

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