if you don't, you're gonna be takin' from a plot six feet long an'
three wide."'
The old sourdough grimaced with sudden fear. "You-you wouldn't-
"
Slade drew one sinister.45.
The old geezer started to run in grotesque flying hops. Slade
sighted carefully along the barrel of his sinister.45 and winged him
once for luck. Then he dropped his gun back into its holster, turned
and strode into the Brass Cuspidor, pushing the bat-wing doors
wide.
Every eye in the place turned to stare at him. Faces went white.
The bartender dropped the knife he was using to cut off the foamy
beer heads. The fancy dan gambler at the back table dropped three
aces out of his sleeve - two of them were clubs. The piano player
fell off his stool, scrambled up, and ran out the back door. The
bartender's dog, General Custer, whined and crawled under the
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
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.
Slade's huge black stallion, Stokely, carried him rapidiy 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 himseif 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 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.
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 scallion 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.
"Ain't you going after her?" Hart asked, his eyes rolling wildly.
"Sam Columbine may try to rape her - or even rob her! Ain't you
gonna get on their trail?"
"Right now," Slade snarled, "I'm gonna check into the Dead Steer
Springs Hotel and catch a good night's sleep. Since I got to this
damn town I have had to blast three gunslingers and one Chinese
cook and I'm mighty tired."
`Yeah," Hart said sympathetically, "It must really make you feel
turrible, havin' snuffed out four human lives in the space of six
hours."
"That's right," Slade said, tying Stokely to the hitching rack, "And
I got blisters on my trigger finger. Do you know where I could get
some Solarcaine?"
Hart shook his head, and so Slade started down towards the hotel,
his spurs jingling below the heels of his Bonanza cowboy boots
(they had elevator lifts inside the heels, Slade was very sensitive
about his height). When old men and pregnant ladies saw him
coming they took to the other side of the street. One small boy
came up and asked for his autograph. Slade, who didn't want to
encourage that sort of thing, shot him in the leg and walked on.
At the hotel he asked for a room, and the trembling clerk said the
second floor suite was available, and Slade went up. He undressed,
then put his boots on again, and climbed into bed. He was asleep in
moments.
Around one in the morning, while Slade was dreaming sweetly of
his chlldhood sweetheart Miss Polly Paduka of Peachtree, Illinois,
the window was eased up little by little, without even a squeak to
alert Slade's keen ears. The shape that crept in was frightful indeed
- for if Jack Slade was the most feared gunslinger in the American
Southwest, the Hunchback Fred Agnew was the most detested
killer. He was a two foot three inch midget with a hump big
enough for a camel halfway down his crooked back. In one hand
he held a three foot Arabian skinning knife (and although
Hunchback Fred had never skinned an Arab with it, he was known
to have put it to work changing the faces of three U.S. marshals,
two county sheriffs and an old lady from Boston on the way to
Arizona to recuperate from Parkinson's disease). In the other hand
he held a large box made of woven river reeds.
He slid across the floor in utter silence, holding his Arabian
skinning knife ready, should Slade awake. Then he carefully put
the box down on the chair by the bed. Grinning fiendishly, he
opened the lid and pulled out a twelve-foot python named Sadie
Hawkins. Sadie had been Hunchback Fred's bosom companion for
the last twelve years, and had saved the terrifying little man from
death many times.
"Do your stuff, hon." Fred whispered affectionately. Sadie seemed
to almost grin at him as Hunchback Fred kissed her on her dead
black mouth. The snake slid onto the bed and began to crawl
towards Slade's head. Giggling fiendishly, Hunchback Fred
retreated to the corner to watch the fun.
Sadie wiggled in slow S-curves up the side of the bed, and drew
back
to strike. In that instant, the faint hiss of scales on the sheet
came to Slade's ears.
A woman was in bed with him! That was his first thought as he
rolled off the bed and onto the floor, grabbing for the sinister
derringer that was always strapped to his right calf. Sadie struck at
the pillow where his head had been only a second before.
Hunchback Fred screamed with disappointment and threw his
three-foot Arabian skinning knife, which nicked the corner of one
of Slade's earlobes and quivered in the floor.
Slade fired the derringer and Hunchback Fred fell back against the
wall, knocking the picture Niagara Falls off the dresser. His
sinister career was at an end.
Carefully avoiding the python (which seemed to have gone to sleep
on the bed), Slade got dressed. lt was time to go out to Sam
Columbine's ranch and put an end to that slimy coyote once and
for all.
Strapping on the twin gunbelts of his sinister.45s, Slade went
downstairs. The desk clerk looked at him even more nervously
than before. "D-did I hear a shot?" He asked.
"Don't think so," Slade said, "But you better go up and close the
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 Collective Page 12
