have seen that summer in the freak tent that was for Adults Only. I
see these things in my dreams, yes, but when I visit Kirby in that
place where he still lives, that place where all the windows are
cross-hatched with heavy mesh, I see them in his eyes. I take his
hand and his hand is cold, but I sit with him and sometimes I think:
These things happened to me when I was young.
SLADE
Stephen King
"Slade." The Maine Campus June-August 1970. "Slade" is in some
ways the most exciting of King1s uncollected juvenalia, an
engaging explosion of off the wall humor, literary pastiche, and
cultural criticism, all masquerading as a Western - the adventures
of Slade and his quest for Miss Polly Peachtree of Paduka.
Published in several installments in the UMO college newspaper
during the summer following King's graduation, the story is most
important in showing King reveling in the joy of writing.
-excerpt from "The Annotated Guide to Stephen King, p.45.
It was almost dark when Slade rode into Dead Steer Springs. He
was tall in the saddle, a grim faced man dressed all in black. Even
the handles of his two sinister .45s, which rode low on his hips,
were black. Ever since the early 1870s, when the name of Slade
had begun to strike fear into the stoutest of Western hearts, there
had been many whispered legends about his dress. One story had it
that he wore black as a perpetual emblem of mourning for his
Illinois sweetheart, Miss Polly Peachtree of Paduka, who passed
tragically from this vale of tears when a flaming Montgolfer
balloon crashed into the Peachtree barn while Polly was milking
the cows. But some said he wore black because Slade was the
Grim Reaper's agent in the American Southwest - the devil's
handyman. And then there were some who thought he was queerer
than a three-dollar bill. No one, however, advanced this last idea to
his face.
Now Slade halted his huge black stallion in front of the Brass
Cuspidor Saloon and climbed down. He tied his horse and pulled
one of his famous Mexican cigars from his breast pocket. He lit it
and let the acrid smoke drift out onto the twilight air. From inside
the bat-wing doors of the Brass Cuspidor came noises of drunken
revelry. A honkytonk piano was beating out "Oh, Them Golden
Slippers."
A faint shuffling noise came to Slade's keen ears, and he wheeled
around, drawing both of his sinister.45s in a single blur of motion
"Watch it there, mister!"
Slade shovelled his pistols back into their holsters with a snarl of
contempt. It was an old man in a battered Confederate cap, dusty
jeans and suspenders. Either the town drunk or the village idiot,
Slade surmised. The old man cackled, sending a wave of bad
breath over to Slade. "Thought you wuz gonna hole me fer sure,
Stranger."
Slade smoked and looked at him.
"Yore Jack Slade, ain'tchee, Pard?" The old man showed his
toothless gums in another smile. "Reckon Miss Sandra of the Bar-
T hired you, that right? She's been havin' a passel of trouble with
Sam Columbine since her daddy died an' left her to run the place."
Slade smoked and looked at him. - The old man suddenly rolled
his eyes. "Or mebbe yore workin' fer Sam Columbine hisseif - that
it? I heer he's been hiring a lot of real hardcases to help pry Miss
Sandra off'n the Bar-T. Is that-"
"Old man," Slade said, "I hope you run as fast as you talk. Because
if you don't, you're gonna be takin' from a plot six feet long an'
three wide."'
The old sourdough grimaced with sudden fear. "You-you wouldn't-
"
Slade drew one sinister.45.
The old geezer started to run in grotesque flying hops. Slade
sighted carefully along the barrel of his sinister.45 and winged him
once for luck. Then he dropped his gun back into its holster, turned
and strode into the Brass Cuspidor, pushing the bat-wing doors
wide.
Every eye in the place turned to stare at him. Faces went white.
The bartender dropped the knife he was using to cut off the foamy
beer heads. The fancy dan gambler at the back table dropped three
aces out of his sleeve - two of them were clubs. The piano player
fell off his stool, scrambled up, and ran out the back door. The
bartender's dog, General Custer, whined and crawled under the
card table. And standing at the bar, calmly downing a straight shot
of whiskey, was John "The Backshooter" Parkinan, one of Sam
Columbine's top guns.
A horrified whisper ran through the crowd. "Slade!" "It's Jack
Slade!" "It's Slade!"
There was a sudden general rush for the doors. Outside someone
ran down the street, screaming.
"Slade's in town! Lock yore doors! Jack Slade is in
town an' God help whoever he's after!"
"Parkman!" Slade gritted.
Parkman turned to face Slade. He was chewing a match between
his ugly snaggled teeth, and one hand hovered over the notched
butt of his sinister .41.
"What're you doin' in Dead Steer, Slade?"
"I'm working fer a sweet lady name of Sandra Dawson," Slade said
laconically. "How about yoreself, 'Backshooter'?"
"Workin' fer Sam Columbine, an' go to hell if you don't like the
sound of it, Pard."
"I don't," Slade growled, and threw away his cigar. The bartender,
who was trying to dig a hole in the floor, moaned.
"They say yer fast, Slade."
"Fast enough."
Backshooter grinned evilly. "They also say yore queerer'n a three
dollar bill."
"Fill yore hand, you slimy, snaky son of a bitch!" Slade yelled
`The Backshooter' went for his gun, but before he had even
touched the handle both of Slade's sinister .45s were out and
belching lead. 'Backshooter' was thrown back against the bar,
where he crumpled.
Slade re-holstered his guns and walked over to Parkman, his spurs
jingling. He looked down at him. Slade was a peace-loving man at
heart, and what was more peace-loving than a dead body? The
thought filled him with quiet joy and a sad yearning for his
childhood sweetheart, Miss Polly Peachtree of Paduka, Illinois.
The bartender hurried around the bar and looked at the earthly
remains of John `The Backshooter' Parkman.
"It ain't possible!" He breathed. "Shot in the heart six times and
you could cover all six holes with a twenty-dollar gold piece!"'
Slade pulled one of his famous Mexican cigars from his breast
pocket and lit up. "Better call the undertaker an' cart him out afore
he stinks."
The bartender gave Slade a nervous grin and rushed out through
the bat-wings. Slade went behind the bar, poured himself a shot of
Digger's Rye(190 proof), and thought about the lonely life of a gun
for hire. Every man's hand turned against you, never sure if the
deck was loaded, always expecting a bullet in the back or the gall
bladder, which was even worse. It was sure hard to do your
business with a bullet in the gall bladder. The batwing doors of the
Brass Cuspidor were thrown open, and Slade drew both of his
sinister.45s with a quick, flowing motion. But it was a girl - a
beautiful blonde with a shape which would have made Ponce de
Leon forget about the fountain of youth - Hubba-hubba, Slade
thought to himself. His lips twisted into a thin, lonely smile as he
re-holstered his guns. Such a girl was not for him, he was true - to
the memory of Polly Peachtree, his one true love.
"Are you Jack Slade?" The blonde asked, parting her lovely red
lips, which were the color of cherry blossoms in the month of May.
"Yes ma'am," Slade said, knocking off his shot of Digger's Rye