“This guy’s got yer damn answers, doc.” The cowboy forces Four Fingers into a chair.

The Tailor turns, takes in the man’s swollen features, then gives him a quick physical exam. “You have a talent for taking punishment, Mr. Fang. Who did this to you?”

“Who else? My wife.”

“Have you considered divorce.”

“It’s frowned upon in my culture.”

“I see. Murder must have been your first choice, then.”

“Second, actually, but no more successful than the first. She’s a spitfire.”

Something starts humming through the walls and the Tailor turns back to his work. “I think I met her a few hours ago. She shot her way out of my hospital.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me in the least.”

“Tell me something, Mr. Fang: What brings your wife to my town?”

“Well, from what little I gathered while she was pummeling my face, I’d say she’s looking for you.”

“I see. And her friends?”

“Some redskin and some spook. I don’t know either of them. Must be strays she picked up between here and San Francisco.”

“And what brought you to Allentown, Mr. Fang?”

“A dead man’s finger.” The Tailor turns back around, obviously expecting more information. “Her father’s finger, actually. I have it in a spirit bottle. It guided me here.”

“Interesting. She must have loved him deeply.” He strokes his chin, checks his pocket watch, glances at the geomantic compass on a table nearby, then addresses his minion. “Take Mr. Fang back to his accommodations. He’ll show you were to find this spirit bottle. Bring it back here with considerable haste. I believe Mrs. Fang and her friends will be here shortly; we’ll need that spirit bottle as collateral.”

“Collateral fer what?! I’ll handle her my own self. Been lookin’ forward to it, actually.”

“I have confidence in your skills, cowboy, but my confidence in you has been sorely shaken. I’ll need some leverage on the little lady and there’s no better leverage than a child’s love for his father.”

The Tailor steps into the cowboy’s personal space, jabs one finger into his third eye, then delivers an elbow strike to his chest. The Shootist flies backwards and crashes into the wall. Wood and wallpaper pour onto his hat as he crumples to the floor.

“This is the last time I will suffer your remonstrations! You’re not even a man!! You’re a gun with a corpse attached!!!” He turns back to Four Fingers, as calm as can be.

“Mr. Fang, you will take my manservant back to your accommodations and show him where to find this spirit bottle. He will then bring it to me with considerable haste. If he does not, I will take the both of you apart and make one complete man from the pieces.”

~

“Please, mister, gimme one more chance!”

A teenage boy clings to a steelworker’s leg as the former tries to leave a pub. “One more chance, double or nuthin’! Come on, mister! I need this!”

“Goddamn, kid! Fine, but I swear to Jesus, you better be good for it.”

“I ain’t never welshed on a bet an’ now’s no time to start.”

“Damn straight, it ain’t, ‘cuz I’ll take it outta your ass, son.”

The teenager releases the older man’s leg and stands up, privately rolling his eyes. He tosses a dart over his shoulder like it’s a pinch of salt. It flies all the way across the bar, past the Tailor, who sits at a table piled high with dusty tomes, and stabs a dart board right in its eye.

The boy’s smile is full of smug. “Pay up, fucknugget.”

One minute later, the teenager is pressing a handkerchief full of ice against his face. His whole face. The Tailor sits down next to him at the bar. “That was the single most amazing thing I’ve ever seen,” he says.

“If you’re from the circus, buzz off.”

“Stupidity, son. I meant the display of stupidity. It was truly amazing.”

“You like kickin’ a guy when he’s down, huh?”

“That is usually the best time, but I suspect your question was rhetorical.”

The boy slams his cold pack down and fixes the Tailor with his one working eye. “Ya know, if yer lookin’ to insult me, ya might wanna do it in English. Otherwise, shake a leg. My head hurts plenty already.”

“Now, there’s a problem I can solve.” He plucks a needle from his lapel and inserts it at the base of the boy’s skull.

“Hey!” he fliches. Then, relaxing visibly, “Oh... hey. How’d you do that?”

“Years of diligent study and a monumental degree of talent.”

“Yeah, well, I ain’t got no money, so don’t bother peddlin’ any cure-alls here.”

“Quite the contrary. I was about to offer you a job.”

“An’ I ain’t no hustler, neither.”

“I’m not soliciting your penis, just your arm. Well, most of your body, but I have no use whatsoever for your manhood. Do you want a job or don’t you?”

“I want money, so we’re half way there. What I gotta do for it?”

“I’ll turn you into the greatest gun fighter in the world and you’ll be my bodyguard.”

“Is that all?!” He almost pats the Tailor on the head, but returns the icepack to his face instead.

“Not by a long shot, but it’s enough to get us started.” The Tailor throws a stack of bills onto the bar. “There’s your first month’s pay.”

The teenager stares at the money, then the Tailor, then the money again, then the Tailor again. “You’re serious, ain’t ya.”

“We’ve just met, so I’ll forgive you for asking that question.” He extends a hand and the teenager shakes it with vigor. “Welcome to your life.”

~

The Shootist kneels amidst the ruins of a crystal cathedral. Lotus has him in a headlock, one of her pistols pressed against this temple. Behind them, Four Fingers’ body lies beside the altar. All around them, the floor is buried in broken glass.

Lotus tightens her grip around the cowboy’s throat. “This is for my husband, who deserved worse than he got.”

“Mercy!” he victim pleads. “I just got my life back from that madman.”

She pauses, still tense as a violin chord. “You ever killed anybody who didn’t need killin’?” she asks. “Anybody he didn’t tell you to kill?”

His eyes drop. “You know I have.”

“Then you die.”