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 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.
Slade's huge black stallion, Stokely, carried him rapidly up Winding Bluff Road toward the sinister fire glow on the horizon. As he rode, a grim determination settled over him like warm butter. To find Sam Columbine and put a crimp in his style!
When he arrived at Sandra Dawson's Bar-T ranch the bunkhouse was a red ball of flame. And standing in front of it, laughing evilly, were three of Sam Columbine's gunmen – Sunrise Jackson, Shifty Jack Mulloy, and Doc Logan. Doc Logan himself was rumored to have sent twelve sheep-ranchers to Boot Hill in the bloody Abeliene range war.
But at that time Slade had been spending his days in a beautiful daze with his one true love, Miss Polly Peachtree of Paduka, Illinois. She had 39
since been killed in a dreadful accident, and now Slade was cold steel and hot blood – not to mention his silk underwear with the pretty blue flowers.
He climbed down from his stallion and pulled one of his famous Mexican cigars from his pocket. 'What're you boys doin' here?' He asked calmly.
'Havin' a little clambake!' Sunrise Jackson said, dropping one hand to the butt of his sinister.50 caliber horse- pistol 'Maw, haw, haw!'
A wounded cowpoke ran out of the red-flickering shadows. 'They put fire to the bunkhouse!' He said. 'That one – ' he pointed at Doc Logan
– 'said they wuz doin' it on the orders of that murderin' skunk Sam Columbine!'
Doc Logan pulled leather and blew three new holes in the wounded cowpoke, who flopped. 'Thought he looked hot from all that fire,' Doc told Slade, 'so I ventilated him. Haw, haw, haw!'
'You can always tell a low murderin' puckerbelly by the way he laughs,' Slade said, dropping his hands over the butts of his sinister.45s.
'Is that right?' Doe said. 'How do they laugh?'
'Haw, haw, haw,' Slade gritted.
'Pull leather, you Republican skunk!' Shifty Jack Mulloy yelled, and went for his gun, Slade yanked both of his sinister.45s out in a smooth sweep and blasted Shifty Jack before Mulloy's piece had even cleared leather. Sunrise Jackson was already blasting away, and Slade felt a bullet shave by his temple. Slade hit the dirt and let Jackson have it. He took two steps backward and fell over, dead as a turtle with smallpox.
But Doc Logan was running. He vaulted into the saddle of an Indian pony with a shifty eye and slapped its flank. Slade squeezed off two shots at him, but the light was tricky, Logan's pony jumped the shakepole fence and was gone into the darkness – to report back to Sam Columbine, no doubt.
Slade walked over to Sunrise Jackson and rolled him over with his boot. Jackson had a hole right between the eyes. Then he went over to Shifty Jack Mulloy, who was gasping his last.
'You got me, Pard!' Shifty Jack gasped. 'I feel worse'n a turtle with smallpox'
“You never shoulda called me a Republican.' Slade snarled down at him. He showed Shifty Jack his Gene McCarthy button and then blasted him.
Slade holstered his sinister.45 and threw away the smoldering butt of his famous Mexican cigar. He started toward the darkened ranch-house to make sure that no more of Sam Columbine's men were lurking within. He was almost there when the front door was ripped open and someone ran out.
40
Slade drew in one lightning movement and blasted away, the gunflashes from the barrels of his sinister.45 lighting the dark with bright flashes. Slade walked over and lit a match. He had bagged Sing-Loo, the Chinese cook.
'Well,' Slade said sadly, holstering his gun and feeling a great wave of longing for his one true love, Miss Polly Peachtree of Paduka, 'I guess you can't win them all.'
He started to reach for another famous Mexican cigar, changed his mind and rolled a joint. After he had begun to see all sorts of interesting blue and green lights in the sky, he climbed back on his sinister black stallion and started towards Dead Steer Springs.
When he got back to the Brass Cuspidor saloon, Mose Hart, the top hand at the Bar-T rushed out, holding a bottle of Digger's Rye in one hand, with which he had been soothing his jangled nerves.
'Slade!' He yelled. 'Miss Dawson's been kidnapped by Sam Columbine!'
Slade got down from his huge black stallion, Stokely, and lit up a famous Mexican cigar. He was still brooding over Sing-Loo, the Chinese cook at the Bar-T, who he had drilled by mistake.
