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 coming they took to the other side of the street. One small boy came up and asked for his autograph. Slade, who didn't want to encourage that sort of thing, shot him in the leg and walked on.
At the hotel he asked for a room, and the trembling clerk said the second floor suite was available, and Slade went up. He undressed, then put his boots on again, and climbed into bed. He was asleep in moments.
Around one in the morning, while Slade was dreaming sweetly of his chlldhood sweetheart Miss Polly Paduka of Peachtree, Illinois, the window was eased up little by little, without even a squeak to alert Slade's keen ears. The shape that crept in was frightful indeed - for if Jack Slade was the most feared gunslinger in the American Southwest, the Hunchback Fred Agnew was the most detested killer. He was a two foot three inch midget with a hump big enough for a camel halfway down his crooked back. In one hand he held a three foot Arabian skinning knife (and although Hunchback Fred had never skinned an Arab with it, he was known to have put it to work changing the faces of three U.S. marshals, two county sheriffs and an old lady from Boston on the way to Arizona to recuperate from Parkinson's disease). In the other hand he held a large box made of woven river reeds.
