Slade

'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 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!