The Shootist Page #5

I lived most of my life

in the wild country,

and you set a code

of laws to live by.

What laws?

I won't be wronged,

I won't be insulted,

I won't be laid

a hand on.

I don't do these things

to other people,

and I require

the same from them.

But how could you get

into so many fights

and always come out

on top?

I nearly tied you

shooting.

There's nobody up there

shooting back at you.

It isn't always

being fast

or even accurate

that counts.

It's being willing.

I found out early

that most men,

regardless of cause

or need,

aren't willing.

They blink an eye

or draw a breath

before they pull

the trigger.

I won't.

Bat Masterson told Cobb...

Bat Masterson?

Yeah.

He says that a man

has to have, uh...

guts, deliberation, and

a proficiency with firearms.

Did he mention that

third eye you better have?

Third eye?

For that dumb-ass

amateur.

It's usually some

six-fingered bustard

that couldn't hit

a cow in the tit

with a tin cup

that does you in.

But then,

Bat Masterson

always was

full of sheep dip.

Whoa. I hope you're

smart enough to know

that that who hit John

don't go with guns.

Oh, sure. Yes, sir.

Well, now that we got

that cleared up...

as my Mexican friend

said,

"To the pure life. "

Johnny?

Yes?

May I come in?

Don't... Don't you

remember me?

Serepta?

Oh.

Sera, I can't tell you

how happy I am you're here.

I came

the minute I heard.

Have I changed

so much?

No, it's... just been

a long time.

It isn't true,

is it?

God, how I loved you.

And I loved you.

Is it true?

Oh, no.

Aw, don't cry, Sera.

We all have our time.

I must look a sight.

For sore eyes.

You still with Pardee?

No. He treated me

the way I did you.

He just

up and skipped.

We should have married.

Spilt milk.

You never did, huh?

No.

Now you're alone.

I'm so glad I'm here.

So am I.

Would you still

like to?

We could get a minister

and just say I do.

That way, I'd have

the certificate.

I'd have something

to go on.

Not much.

I'd have your name.

How far would that

take you?

Long ways, maybe.

How?

Johnny, you're too

modest, you know?

Everybody knows

who you are.

I'd be

Mrs. J.B. Books.

I'd be somebody.

That wouldn't buy you

any bacon.

Well, it might.

See, that's how come

I knew that you had...

that-that you was

ailing bad.

This newspaper reporter

here tracked me down.

He wants to put out

a book on you.

He'll write it

and use my name.

The Shootist...

The Life and Bloody

Times ofJ.B. Books

by Serepta Books,

his wife.

He said

in the East

that it would sell

like hot cakes

and he'd split it

with me.

And his name is Dobkins.

Right. How did you know?

I kicked him out of here

for the same reason.

Johnny,

what harm is there

in a marriage certificate,

a piece of paper?

I don't object to that.

It's the book.

Why?

What does he know

about my life?

What do you know?

He says what he doesn't

know, he'll make up,

and, you know,

gory things,

shoot-'em-ups

and midnight rides

and women tearing

out their hair.

It will be a corker,

I promise you.

Woman, I still have

some pride.

A man should be allowed

his human dignity.

I spent $3.00

on the train here.

One-way.

You and Dobkins are two sides

of a counterfeit coin.

I'll pay you back.

I'll pay you both ways.

What's wrong

about a book?

I'll not be remembered

for a pack of lies.

'Cause you're too damn

mule mean, that's why.

You always was.

Why should you care what's

happening? You're dying.

I have

to go on living,

and you don't give a hoot

in hell what happens!

Why should you?

You won't be here!

God. And I loved you once.

You bastard.

May you rot to death!

# 'Twas blighted

affection #

# That made him exclaim #

# Oh, willow

tit-willow #

# Tit-willow #

# And if you remain

callous #

# And obdurate, I #

# Shall perish

as he did #

# And you will

know why #

# Though I probably

shall not exclaim #

# As I die #

# Oh, willow #

# Tit-willow #

# Tit-willow

says I ##

You seem

in fine fettle today.

I should be.

I'm full of laudanum.

I'll get

your breakfast.

Good. Thank you.

I didn't mean

to break up the recital.

Oh, that's all right.

It was just something

for the Sunday School

class

for the church social.

Bond, uh, I've driven off

all your other lodgers.

Is it all right if I

have breakfast out here?

Of course it is.

I was delighted to see you

had a lady caller yesterday.

She asked me

not to announce her.

She said she wanted

to surprise you.

Were you surprised?

That I was.

Oh, these clothes,

uh...

they're my

Sunday-go-to-meetings.

I wish you'd give them

a good brushing.

Certainly.

They're getting

pretty roady.

Nine days on the back

of a saddle

in a bedroll.

Wouldn't you rather

have them cleaned?

That's the general idea.

I mean there's

a new method

called dry-process

cleaning.

It's very good.

How long does it take?

They advertise

next-day service,

but tomorrow's

Sunday.

I'm afraid I'll have

to settle for the brushing

'cause I'll need them

first thing Monday morning.

I'll ask. If I can't

get them by then,

I'll brush them.

I'll get

your ham and eggs.

Just biscuits will do.

My stomach's

kind of feeble today.

Oh. You sure

you won't want these

for church tomorrow?

I don't think so.

You're most welcome to

accompany Gillom and me.

Maybe your church

won't welcome me.

That's a terrible thing

to say.

Doors of the church

are open to everyone.

Well, my church has been

the mountains and solitude.

No doors at all.

That's hardly

the same thing.

We all need a minister

to guide us.

Well, if you think of it,

give a thought

to my soul tomorrow.

I will. I have been

praying for you.

I think Gillom has, too.

Thank you.

Thank you both.

Tell me, um...

what did he do yesterday

that made you so angry?

It isn't what he did.

It's what he didn't do.

We have that

straightened out.

You should be proud

of Gillom.

He has the making

of something special.

I hope so.

I'm going to send

Reverend Saunders

to see you tomorrow.

No, thank you.

Maybe it'll make it

easier for you.

No.

Just for a few minutes.

Bond, I'm tired of people

pawing over my death

for this reason or that

or for any reason.

A man's death is about

the most private thing

in his life.

It doesn't belong to Dobkins

or Reverend Saunders

or Thibido or you.

It's mine.

I suppose that's true

of your soul, too.

My soul is what

I've already made of it.

You reprimand me

for making judgments

with a gun barrel

poked in my face,

but it's all right for you

to judge me on hearsay.

But the hearsay fits.

Maybe I'm better than

you've already decided.

Maybe I'm no worse

than that good reverend.

Maybe you like

being a gunman.

You probably prefer

the word shootist.

I don't think

of myself as either.

Oh, no. You're some

godlike creature

of infinite knowledge,

aren't you?

I'm a dying man

scared of the dark.

Damn you! Damn you for

the pain you've brought

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