volume one IN THE D U D L E Y C L A R K - Ohio Vine Tours

Draw, Rick.
Rick snaps his cigarette into space and laughs.
“You ain’t got th’ nerve, Roy—you’re a pansy.”
I said draw.
Pete presses STOP.
The screen reverts to blue.
The roar of .44s fills the air.
Men of all stripe dive for cover.
Cattle mill and fuss, disturbed by the loud reports.
Rick’s wild bullet catches the gray John B. on Roy’s head and
sends it sailing after the cigarette.
Pete presses REWIND.
Roy shoots Rick’s gun out of his hand.
It chases after the hat that flew after the cigarette.
Pete smiles.
Roy is asleep, head cocked forward, chin to his chest.
Pete had been so caught up in the picture he hadn’t heard
Roy’s snores.
Rick falls to his knees and whimpers.
“Where’d you learn to shoot like that, Roy?” He holds out his
bloody wrist. “Guess my little bro ain’t no pansy, after all—”
Pete studies Roy and wonders what he’s dreaming.
What would Roy Weston dream about?
Too bad he missed the end of the pitcher.
Dunson and the kid kissed and made up.
He pours himself another shot, leans back in his comfy chair
and hoists his glass to the snoring Roy.
“Dream manfully and nobly, Roy, and thy dreams shall be as
prophets.”
2 ROY ROGERS IN THE 21ST CENTURY