window by the bed. I left it open -'
'Yessir, Mr. Slade. Of course. Of course.'
And then Slade was off, grimly deterniined to find Sam Columbine
and put a crimp in his style once and for all.
Slade shoved his way into the Brass Cuspidor where the foreman
of Sandra Dawson's Bar-T, Mose Hart, was leaning over the bar
with a bottle of Digger's Rye (206 proof) in one hand.
'Okay, you slimy drunkard,' Slade gritted, pulling Hart around
and yanking the bottle out of his hand. 'Where is Sam Columbine's
ranch? I'm going to get that rotten liver-eater, he just sent
Hunchback Fred Agnew up against me.'
'Hunchback Fred?!' Hart gasped, going white as a sheet. 'And
you're still alive?'
'I filled him full of lead,' Slade said grimly. 'He should have
known that putting a snake in my bed was a no-no.'
'Hunchback Fred Agnew,' Hart whispered, still awed, 'There was
talk that he might be the next Vice President of the American
Southwest.'
Slade let go of a grating laugh that even made the bartenders dog,
General Custer, cringe.
'W'ell I reckon that now he can be Vice President of Hell!' Slade
proclaimed. He motioned to the bartender, who was standing at the
far end of the bar reading a western novel.
'Bartender! What have you got for mixed drinks?'
The bartender approached cautiously, tucking the dog-eared copy
of Blood Brides of Sitting Bull into his back pocket. '
Wal, Mr. Slade, we got about the usual - The Geronimo, The Fort
Bragg Backbreaker, Popskull Pete, Sourdough Armpit -'
'How about a shot of Digger's Rye (206 proof)?' Mose Hart said
with a glassy grin.
'Shut up,' Slade growled. He turned to the bartender and drew one
of his sinister.45s.
'If you don't produce a drink that I ain't never had before, friend,
you're gonna be pushing up daisies before dawn.'
The bartender went white, 'W-well, we do have drink of my own
invention, Mr. Slade. But it's so potent that I done stopped serving
them. I got plumb tired of having people pass out on the roulette
wheel'
'What's it called?'
'We call it a zombie,' the bartender said.
'Well mix me up three of them and make it fast!' Slade
commanded.
'Three zombies?' Mose Hart said with popping eyes. 'M'God, are
you crazy?'
Slade turned to him coldly 'Friend, smile when you say that.''
Hart smiled and took another drink of Digger's Rye.
'Okay,' Slade said, when the three drinks had been placed in front
of him. They came in huge beer steins and smelled like the wrath
of God. He drained the first one at a single draught, blew out his
breath, staggered a little, and lit one of his famous Mexican cigars.
