"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."
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"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 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.
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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 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 rapidly 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 himself 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 39
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.
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