card table. And standing at the bar, calmly downing a straight shot
of whiskey, was John 'The Backshooter' Parkinan, one of Sam
Columbine's top guns.
A horrified whisper ran through the crowd. 'Slade!' 'It's Jack
Slade!' 'It's Slade!'
There was a sudden general rush for the doors. Outside someone
ran down the street, screaming.
'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
