and pouring another.
"I'm Sandra Dawson," she said, coming over to the bar.
"I figgered," Slade said.
Sandra came forward and looked down at the sprawled body of
John "The Backshooter" Parkman with burning eyes. "This is one
of the men that murdered my father!" She cried "One of the low,
murdering swine that Sam Columbine hired!"
"I reckon," Slade said.
Sandra Dawson's bosom heaved. Slade was keeping an eye on it,
just for safety's sake. "Did you dispatch him, Mr. Slade?"
"I shore did, ma'am. And it was my pleasure."
Sandra threw her arms around Slade's neck and kissed him, her full
lips burning against his own. "You're the man I've been looking
for," she breathed, her heart racing. "Anything I can do to help
you, Slade, anything -"'
Slade shoved her away and drew deeply on his famous Mexican
cigar to regain his composure. "Reckon you took me wrong,
ma'am. I'm bein' true to the memory of my one true love, Miss
Polly Peachtree of Paduka, Illinois. But anything I can do to help
you -"
'You can, you can!" She breathed. "That's why I wrote you. Sam
Columbine is trying to take over my ranch, the Bar-T! He
murdered my father, and now he's trying to scare me off the land
so he can buy it cheap and sell it dear when the Great
Southwestern Railroad decides to put a branch line through here!
He's hired a lot of hardcases like this one-" she prodded "The
Backshooter" with the toe of of her shoe- "and he's trying to scare
me out!" She looked at Slade pleadingly. "Can you help me?"
"I reckon so," Slade said. "Just don't get yore bowels in an uproar,
ma'am."
"Oh, Slade!" She whispered. She was just melting into his arms
when the bartender rushed back into the saloon, with the
undertaker in tow. By this time the bartender's dog, General
Custer, had crawled out from under the card table and was eating
John "The Backshooter" Parkman's vest.
"Miss Dawson! Miss Dawson!" The bartender yelled. "Mose Hart,
yore top hand, just rode into town! He says the Bar-T bunkhouse is
on fire!"
But before Sandra Dawson could reply, Slade was on his way.
Before a minute had passed,he was galloping toward the fire at
Sandra Dawson's Bar-T ranch.
Slade's huge black stallion, Stokely, carried him rapidiy up
Winding Bluff Road toward the sinister fire glow on the horizon.
As he rode, a grim determination settled over him like warm
butter. To find Sam Columbine and put a crimp in his style!
When he arrived at Sandra Dawson's Bar-T ranch the bunkhouse
was a red ball of flame. And standing in front of it, laughing evilly,
were three of Sam Columbine's gunmen--Sunrise Jackson, Shifty
Jack Mulloy, and Doc Logan. Doc Logan himseif was rumored to
have sent twelve sheep-ranchers to Boot Hill in the bloody
Abeliene range war. But at that time Slade had been spending his
days in a beautiful daze with his one true love, Miss Polly
Peachtree of Paduka, Illinois. She had since been killed in a
dreadful accident, and now Slade was cold steel and hot blood -
not to mention his silk underwear with the pretty blue flowers.
He climbed down from his stallion and pulled one of his famous
Mexican cigars from his pocket. "What're you boys doin' here?"
He asked calmly.
"Havin' a little clambake!" Sunrise Jackson said, dropping one
hand to the butt of his sinister.50 caliber horse-pistoL "Maw, haw-,
haw!",
A wounded cowpoke ran out of the red-flickering shadows. "They
put fire to the bunkhouse!" He said. "That one--" he pointed at Doc
Logan--"said they wuz doin'it on the orders of that murderin' skunk
Sam Columbine!"
Doc Logan pulled leather and blew three new holes in the
wounded cowpoke, who flopped. "Thought he looked hot from all
that fire," Doc told Slade, "so I ventilated him. Haw','haw,haw!"
"You can always tell a low murderin' puckerbelly by the way he
laughs,"Slade said, dropping his hands over the butts of his
sinister.45s.
"Is that right?" Doe said. "How do they laugh?"
"Haw, haw, haw," Slade gritted.
"Pull leather, you Republican skunk!" Shifty Jack Mulloy
yelled, and went for his gun, Slade yanked both of his
sinister.45s out in a smooth sweep and blasted Shifty Jack
before Mulloy's
piece had even cleared leather. Sunrise Jackson was already
blasting away, and Slade felt a bullet shave by his temple. Slade hit
the dirt and let Jackson have it. He took two steps backward and
fell over, dead as a turtle with smallpox.
But Doc Logan was running. He vaulted into the saddle of an
Indian pony with a shifty eye and slapped its flank. Slade squeezed
off two shots at him, but the light was tricky, Logan's pony jumped
the shakepole fence and was gone into the darkness - to report back
to Sam Columbine, no doubt.
Slade walked over to Sunrise Jackson and rolled him over with his
boot. Jackson had a hole right between the eyes. Then he went over
to Shifty Jack Mulloy, who was gasping his last.
"You got me, Pard!" Shifty Jack gasped. "I feel worse'n a turtle
with smallpox"
'You never shoulda called me a Republican." Slade snarled down
at him. He showed Shifty Jack his Gene McCarthy button and then
blasted him.
Slade holstered his sinister.45 and threw away the smoldering butt
of his famous Mexican cigar. He started toward the darkened
ranch-house to make sure that no more of Sam Columbine's men
were lurking within. He was almost there when the front door was
ripped open and someone ran out.
Slade drew in one lightning movement and blasted away, the
gunflashes from the barrels of his sinister.45 lighting the dark with
bright flashes. Slade walked over and lit a match. He had bagged
Sing-Loo, the Chinese cook.
"Well," Slade said sadly, holstering his gun and feeling a great
wave of longing for his one true love, Miss Polly Peachtree of
Paduka, "I guess you can't win them all."
He started to reach for another famous Mexican cigar, changed his
mind and rolled a joint. After he had begun to see all sorts of
interesting blue and green lights in the sky, he climbed back on his
sinister black scallion and started towards Dead Steer Springs.
When he got back to the Brass Cuspidor saloon, Mose Hart, the top
hand at the Bar-T rushed out, holding a bottle of Digger's Rye in
one hand, with which he had been soothing his jangled nerves.
"Slade!" He yelled. "Miss Dawson's been kidnapped by Sam
Columbine!"
Slade got down from his huge black stallion, Stokely, and lit up a
famous Mexican cigar. He was still brooding over Sing-Loo, the
Chinese cook at the Bar-T, who he had drilled by mistake.
"Ain't you going after her?" Hart asked, his eyes rolling wildly.
"Sam Columbine may try to rape her - or even rob her! Ain't you
gonna get on their trail?"
"Right now," Slade snarled, "I'm gonna check into the Dead Steer
Springs Hotel and catch a good night's sleep. Since I got to this
damn town I have had to blast three gunslingers and one Chinese
cook and I'm mighty tired."
`Yeah," Hart said sympathetically, "It must really make you feel
turrible, havin' snuffed out four human lives in the space of six
hours."
"That's right," Slade said, tying Stokely to the hitching rack, "And
I got blisters on my trigger finger. Do you know where I could get
some Solarcaine?"
Hart shook his head, and so Slade started down towards the hotel,
his spurs jingling below the heels of his Bonanza cowboy boots
(they had elevator lifts inside the heels, Slade was very sensitive
about his height). When old men and pregnant ladies saw him