Uncollected Stories 2003 (5 page)

“In some ways the most exciting of King
^’
s uncollected juvenilia, an engaging
explosion of off the wall humor, literary pastiche, and cultural criticism, all
masquerading as a Western – the adventures of Slade and his quest for Miss
Polly Peachtree of Paduka” (
The Annotated Guide to Stephen King, p45
).
‘Steve’
King wrote this while attending the University of Maine and had it published in
the UMO college newspaper
The Maine Campus
June-August 1970 over eight
installments during his final semester and in the summer following his
graduation.

I
t was almost dark when Slade rode into Dead Steer Springs. He was
tall in the saddle, a grim faced man dressed all in black. Even the
handles of his two sinister .45s, which rode low on his hips, were black.
Ever since the early 1870s, when the name of Slade had begun to strike
fear into the stoutest of Western hearts, there had been many whispered
legends about his dress. One story had it that he wore black as a
perpetual emblem of mourning for his Illinois sweetheart, Miss Polly
Peachtree of Paduka, who passed tragically from this vale of tears when
a flaming Montgolfier balloon crashed into the Peachtree barn while
Polly was milking the cows. But some said he wore black because Slade
was the Grim Reaper's agent in the American Southwest – the devil's
handyman. And then there were some who thought he was queerer than
a three-dollar bill. No one, however, advanced this last idea to his face.

Now Slade halted his huge black stallion in front of the Brass
Cuspidor Saloon and climbed down. He tied his horse and pulled one of
his famous Mexican cigars from his breast pocket. He lit it and let the
acrid smoke drift out onto the twilight air. From inside the bat-wing
doors of the Brass Cuspidor came noises of drunken revelry. A
honkytonk piano was beating out "Oh, Them Golden Slippers."

A faint shuffling noise came to Slade's keen ears, and he wheeled
around, drawing both of his sinister.45s in a single blur of motion.
"Watch it there, mister!"
Slade shovelled his pistols back into their holsters with a snarl of
contempt. It was an old man in a battered Confederate cap, dusty jeans
and suspenders. Either the town drunk or the village idiot, Slade
surmised. The old man cackled, sending a wave of bad breath over to
Slade. "Thought you wuz gonna hole me fer sure, Stranger."
Slade smoked and looked at him.
"Yore Jack Slade, ain'tchee, Pard?" The old man showed his toothless
gums in another smile. "Reckon Miss Sandra of the Bar-T hired you,
that right? She's been havin' a passel of trouble with Sam Columbine
since her daddy died an' left her to run the place."
Slade smoked and looked at him – the old man suddenly rolled his
eyes. "Or mebbe yore workin' fer Sam Columbine hisself – that it? I
heer he's been hiring a lot of real hardcases to help pry Miss Sandra
off'n the Bar-T. Is that – "
"Old man," Slade said, "I hope you run as fast as you talk. Because 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 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
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 SingLoo, 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.
"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
childhood 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,
then 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.