Then he turned to Mose.
'Now just where is Sam Columbine's ranch?' He asked.
'Three miles west and across the ford,' Mose said. 'It's called the
Rotten Vulture Ranch'
'That figursh,' Slade said, draining his second drink to the ice-
cubes. He was beginning to feel a trifle woozy. It probably had
something to do with the lateness of the hour, he thought, and
began to work on his third drink.
'Say ' Mose Hart said timidly, 'I don't really think you're in any
shape to go up against Sam Columbine, Slade. He's apt to put a
crimp in your style.'
'Doan tell me w'hat to do,' Slade, swaggering over to pat General
Custer. He breathed in the dog's face and General Custer promptly
went to sleep. 'If there'sh one thing that I can do, it's lick my
holder, I mean hold my liquor. Ho get out of my way before I blon
you in tno.'
'The door's out the other way,' the bartender said cautiously.
'Coursh it is. You think I doan tinow where I'm goin'?'
Slade staggered across the bar, stepping on General Custer's tail
(the dog didn't wake up) and managed to make his way out through
the batwing doors where he almost fell off the sidewalk. Just then a
steely arm clamped his elbow. Slade looked around blearily.
'I'm Deputy Marshall Hoagy Charmichael,' the stranger said, 'and
rm taking yuh in-'
'On what charge?' Slade asked.
'Public intoxication. Now let's go.'
Slade burped. 'Everything happen'sh to me,' he groaned. The two
of them started off for the Dead Steer Springs jail.
After Slade was sprung from the pokey, Sandra Dawson's top
hand, Mose Hart, went his bail. Slade filled both Hart an Deputy
Marshall Hoagy Charmichael full of lead (blame it on his terrible
hangover). Then, mounting his huge black stallion, Stokely, Slade
made it out to the Rotten Vulture Ranch to have it out once an for
all with Sam Columbine.
But Columbine was not there. He was off torturing ex border
guards, leaving Sandra Dawson under the watch of three trusted
henchmen - Big Fran Nixon, 'Quick Draw' John Mitchell, and
Shifty Ron Ziegfeld. After a heated shootout, Slade dropped al
three of them in their slimy tracks and freed the fair Sandra.
The acrid, choking smell of gunsmoke filled the room where the
lovely Sandra Dawson had been held prisoner. As she saw Slade
standing tall and victorious, with a sinister.45 in each hand and a
Mexican cigar clenched between his teeth, her eyes filled with love
and passion.
'Slade!' she cried, jumping to her feet and running to him. ''I'm
saved! Thank heaven! When Sam Columbine got back from
torturing the Mexican border guards, he was going to feed me to
his alligators! You came just in time!'
'Damn right,' Slade gritted. 'I always do. Steve King sees to that.'
