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.
