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
