The Last Days of a Gunman

BRITISH COMICS

THE LAST DAYS OF A GUNMAN

THE FIRST AND LAST EPISODES

First episode taken from The Rover issue: 1337 February 10th 1951.

The story of the final reckoning between Wal Loader and the killer, J. A. Slade!

SON OF J. A. SLADE

Ever since dawn, the redskins had surrounded the camp and poured in their arrows. All day long, on their wiry little mustangs, they had circled the beleaguered Palefaces, sometimes galloping with twenty yards to discharge their short bows at the covered waggons, which formed the only defence these travelers had.

There were seven of these waggons, and there had been eighteen men, nine women, and ten children when the attack had begun. Already the Piutes had taken a grim toll. Half the men and several of the women and children had been killed outright or had died from arrow wounds. But there was one man among them who seemed to have a charmed life. Not over tall, thick-set, smooth-shaven, broad across the cheek-bones, with deep-set eyes and tight lips, he seemed to be in his element as he stalked up and down, his hat and jacket off, his sleeves rolled up. His hard, pale face showed the scars of many fights. Coolly he moved wherever the fight was thickest. His rifle thinned the ranks of the red men whenever he fired it. J. A. Slade, as he was named, never spoke. Men asked him what their chances were. Women screamed and begged him to do something to save them, for Slade was known as the greatest gunfighter in the West, and he had been employed by these would-be homesteaders to escort them across this dangerous stretch of the prairie on their journey to Oregon. He answered no questions, for he knew they were doomed. Only to Pike Wilkins, the leader and patriarch of the party, did he make any comment—“The Piutes will attack as soon as it’s dark. Better kill the women before then.” Only once did he glance towards the waggon where a woman hugged and fondled a little boy of some fifteen months. His eyes were just as cold and as expressionless then, even though the baby was his own son. The baby’s mother had died when the child was born. When Slade had learned that one of the other married women in the party would look after the little boy, he had consented to guide and act as guard to this party of homesteaders. The Indians continued to circle the covered waggons. Slade walked away to where a burst of firing from a number of Springfield rifles told that the Rawson brothers were in action. They were the best marksmen in the camp, apart from Slade. He found they were trying to check a number of Indians who were firing the grass to windward, but the Piutes had started fires in a dozen places, and the flames were sweeping down upon the camp. Worse still was the smoke which drifted ahead of the flames. “Watch the horses!” roared Slade, but it was too late. The first whiff of smoke had started a stampede, and the horses and mules began to race round and round the camp. Men and women ran to try to stop the maddened animals. As they did so, the Indians came out of the smoke and launched another close-range attack. For the first time Slade went into action with the heavy, old-fashioned naval revolver which had always been his favourite weapon. He fired six shots in quick succession. Six Indians died before the attack was broken, but some of them did manage to get in between two waggons, and when they withdrew they left behind five dead Palefaces—two women, a child, and two men. So it went on throughout the long, hot day, and Slade’s face grew grimmer and grimmer as he watched the sun go down. Their time was drawing near. Bull Bear, the Piute leader, was gathering his braves for the final rush. J. A. Slade knew that Bull Bear was the brother of Black Feather, the Piute chief whom he had killed two years before, when for a brief period he had acted as road-boss of the Rocky Ridge Division of the Overland Trail. During all the long hours of the afternoon he did not go near the waggon, where his son slept in the arms of a dead woman. Sh had been killed by a chance arrow during that last attack. By the time darkness fell, there were just three men left capable of holding a rifle, and four women with two children. Slade called them together in one corner of the camp, and they shifted a waggon to make a triangular barricade inside which they could shelter. It was there they would make their last stand. Slade collected every revolver dropped by a dead man and reloaded it, keeping the weapons on a waggon seat beside him. His own naval revolver he kept loaded in its holster. Soon after this, the Indians came, screaming their war-whoops—rising out of the grass like evil spirits, no longer troubling to use their bows and arrows, but rushing in to get close quarters with tomahawks and scalping knives. Slade stood on the waggon-seat and fired the four revolvers into the yelling horde before a thrown tomahawk caught him on the back of the head and knocked him to the ground. He lay there unconscious for five or six minutes, during which time the Redskins carried out their terrible work. It was s sharp nick of a knife in his scalp that brought J. A. Slade to his senses. One of the Piutes had just found him, and was beginning to claim his scalp, believing the Paleface dead. He soon discovered his mistake when Slade brought out his naval revolver from his side and shot the man through the heart at close range. Throwing off the body of the dead Indian, Slade staggered to his feet and looked about him. All the waggons were blazing, the horses were running madly through the smoke, and the Piutes were dragging out loot. He staggered, then braced himself, and turned towards the waggon where he had last seen his son. The woman in whose care he had left the child lay on the ground nearby. The waggon itself was a roaring furnace. His lips took on a firmer line. Two naked figures leapt at him out of the smoke, and he shot them both dead. The sound of the shots was heard above the general uproar, and a score of Redskins started towards the spot. Slade waited no longer. He ran at a loose mustang which was racing by, gripped it by the long mane, and hauled himself across it. The animal had neither saddle or bridle, but that did not matter to Slade. He hung on with one hand and used the other to shoot down three mounted Indians who tried to intercept him. Then he raced away into the smoky blackness of the prairie, and no one followed him, for only those three had seen him go. It was when they were searching for further loot around the flaming waggons that one of the Indians found a shivering little boy hidden under a horse blanket. With a yell of excitement, the Piute caught the boy by the arm and swung him into the air. Twice he tossed the screaming child aloft, and the third time he whipped out his scalping knife with the idea of catching his tiny victim on it. The next moment he received a cuff on the side of the head that sent him reeling six feet away, and as the child dropped with a thud to the ground and lay there senseless, the would-be killer saw that he had been struck down by Bull Bear, his own chieftain. “Let papoose live,” said Bull Bear. “My children would like a little Paleface to play with.” With that he carelessly picked up the son of J. A. Slade by the hair, and swung him under one arm as he continued on his way to give orders to his men.

THE MAN WITH THE LIMP

The years passed, and the son of J. A. Slade grew up without the knowledge that he was a white man’s child, and was accepted as one of the tribe.

They had named him White Scalp because of his fair hair. In all other respects he looked like the other eight children of Bull Bear, for he had never worn any clothing except a few scraps of buffalo hide, and his skin was a deep brown. His eyes were dark and expressionless. His cheekbones were broad, his mouth unusually tight. He rarely laughed like other children. Bull Bear brought him up exactly like his own sons, and just as rigorously. He taught him everything that a Piute boy knows about tracking, trapping, fishing and hunting. He trained him to be as stoical as a Redskin, to ignore pain, and to toughen his body in every way. When he was eight years of age, White Scalp was taken by the Indian chief to the edge of the encampment in the depths of winter, and was given a small bow, an arrow, a hunting-knife, a bird-trap, a cactus-barb fish hook, and a horsehair rabbit snare. “Go out from here and do not come back before the new moon rises, or I shall kill you as being unworthy to be my son!” growled the Piute chieftain. “If you die out there in the wilderness, that would be better than the shame of coming back too soon in fear. Go!” White Scalp went, but he did not die. He came back at the end of the month, as thin as a skeleton, but still alive, and when the women-folk would have made much of him. Bull Bear merely grunted and said he was to be given only scraps for the first few days, as he would not be able to eat much food for a while. All the sons of Bull Bear went through the same rigorous training. Behind the Indian village where White Scalp lived was a tall hillock, a sheer-sided mound going up more than a hundred feet. As White Scalp and his Indian brothers became older they were made to run up to the top without stopping, with a basket containing stones upon their backs. The weight of the stones in the basket was gradually increased as their strength and stamina developed, until they were carrying up to fifty pounds. So, as the years passed, White Scalp became at first the equal and then the superior in strength, skill, and cunning of all the sons of the old chief. He was the finest marksman with bow in the tribe, the finest rider, and the only youngster who had ever leapt from the back of a galloping horse on to the back of a buffalo, where he clung until, with his knife, he had brought the great beast down. Because of that he was renamed Buffalo Rider. He was sixteen years of age, and had been with the Piutes for fifteen of them, when some of the tribesmen found an unconscious Paleface riding a mustang across the prairie. He had a terrible wound in his stomach. A bullet had passed right through him and had nicked his spine as it had gone out. But in spite of this he had twisted the reins around his hands so that he could not fall off, and had been carried many miles. As there was peace at that time between Bull Bear’s tribe and the Palefaces, the Indians brought him back to their village and handed him over to the care of the squaws and the medicine man. Nobody expected him to live, but week after week passed as he lat there with closed eyes, slowly recovering, and day by day Buffalo Rider came to peep into the tepee and wonder at his appearance, for he had never, so far as his memory went, seen a Paleface at close quarters. The Paleface was small and wiry, in middle life, with hair as white as Buffalo Rider’s, but whereas Buffalo Rider’s hair had been like that since earliest days, the man’s had become like that through age and hard living. With him he also had a wonderful pair of revolvers and a rifle of a kind no Piute had ever seen before. Everyone coverted them, but Bull Bear said they were to be kept safely until the white man died or recovered. It was eight weeks before the wounded man looked about him with understanding, and was able to feed himself. The wounds had healed, but his spine was permanently twisted, and even the Redskins knew that he would be a cripple who would have difficulty in walking. As soon as Bull Bear heard that the man was conscious he came to him and sat down beside him. “Paleface, you have been wandering on the fringes of the Great Beyond for a long time, and it is a miracle that you have come back again. How did you get that terrible wound? Did one of my people shoot you, for if so he shall be punished. I have smoked the pipe of peace with the Palefaces, and keep my word.” The face of the white man twisted in ugly fashion. “No, it was no Injun who did that. It was a Paleface, one you may have heard about—J. A. Slade.” Bull Bear’s eyes glinted at the name. “J. A. Slade, the man who killed my brother years ago!” he said. “I have never seen him, but I heard of his skill with a gun. They say he was more terrible than any Paleface who ever crossed the plains, and that he has killed hundreds of our people.” “I guess that is right, but in the old days both sides killed and murdered. You say you have never seen him, but do you remember massacring a party of homesteaders about fifteen years ago near Boulder Brook?” The old chief nodded. “J. A. Slade was with that party. Somehow he escaped. I have heard the tale from someone he told it to,” said the Paleface. Bull Bear narrowed his eyes. “If I had known the killer of my brother was there he would not have got away. But all that is past, and there is peace between my people and yours. Why did he shoot you?” “For more than twenty years there’s been a feud between us,” was the answer. “Never mind how it started. You wouldn’t understand. My name’s Wal Loader, but I guess that means nothing to you. I used to ride for the Pony Express not far from here. But for twenty years Slade and I have been gunning for each other. We’ve fought for a dozen times, an’ I’ve left him for dead four times. He’s done the same for me. It seems we neither of us pack a bullet that can kill the other. The only time we didn’t shoot at one another on sight was when we were both in the Pony Express years ago, but he wasn’t evil. Now he is evil!” His face took on an expression of hatred. “From the day he escaped from you at Boulder Brook he has turned outlaw. He’s become a lone wolf—a killer. He’s held up coaches, raider banks, shot down me in cold blood for less than nothing. He’s become an outcast and a fiend. No one knows why he turned like that. In the old days Slade used to give a man a chance to reach for his gun, but not now. He’ll shoot on sight, an’ even from behind. He didn’t get me from behind, but just as I turned a corner, before I had a chance to draw on him.” “You were hunting him?” asked Bull Bear. “Yes, I hunted him for years, but when I heard the things he was doing I swore I’d rid the world of him. I’ve trailed him for the past ten years, but now I guess the trail is finished. He’s made a good job of me. He didn’t kill me, but he’s crippled me. I can never go after him again.” Bull Bear did not contradict him. He nodded gravely and went away, and it was not long after this that Wal Loader saw Buffalo Rider for the first time. The tall, fair-haired, brown skinned lad came to give him back the guns which Bull Bear had been keeping for him. “These belong to you, Paleface. My father kept them in a dry place,” he said in the Piute tongue. Wal Loader stared at the flaxen hair. “Who is your father?” “Bull Bear,” was the proud reply. “But you are a Paleface—white!” exclaimed Loader. The boy’s dark eyes flashed. “I am a Piute! I am my father’s son.” Wal Loader looked him over, and knew that he was mistaken. He knew this was a boy with white blood. But he did not ask questions. He merely nodded and looked admiringly after the straight, strong figure of the youth as he went from the tepee. He knew that he himself would never walk like that again. He would always drag one leg behind the other, and find difficulty in keeping upright for long. That was another score he had against J. A. Slade, and it seemed unlikely to him that the score would ever be settled.

WAL LOADER’S PLAN

Wal Loader’s recovery was a slow and painful business. He was not able to walk when the spring came, and stayed on with the Piutes. All through that summer and the following winter he watched the life of the village, and particularly Buffalo Rider.

He soon noted that the fair-haired boy was the finest athlete, the cleverest tracker, the best hunter he had ever known. The more Wal Loader saw of him the more he wished he had a sin like that. “If he were my son, I would send him after J. A. Slade, and he would settle the score for me,” he murmured to himself. They became firm friends. Wal Loader was able to tell Buffalo Rider much about the outside world, for he had been to many places, and unlike the ordinary Piute, this lad had a thirst for knowledge. Loader even began to teach him English. The second spring after his arrival, Wal Loader was able to walk with the aid of a stick, and the first thing he did was to go outside the camp and set up a target on a tree. He wanted to discover if he could still shoot. At first he contented himself with knocking the knots out of a piece of wood at twenty paces, then he set up a thin piece of bark at thirty paces and put six shots through it. Gaining more confidence, he stood another thin piece of bark edgewise, and sheared it through with the first shot. As he brought of this feat there came a gasp of wonder from behind the nearest bushes. Buffalo Rider stood up. “Paleface, you are a worker of miracles! You must be the finest shot in the world with a gun.” “No. There is one other equally good, perhaps better—J. A. Slade,” growled the ex-Pony Express rider. “But I’m glad I’ve not forgotten how to shoot. Have you ever handled a gun, Buffalo Rider?” The boy shook his head. He was now as big as any man in the tribe, although only eighteen years old. “Then have a shot. Hold the gun like this. Try at that tree.” For the next hour Wal Loader amused himself by teaching Buffalo Rider how to use a six-shooter, and he marvelled at the progress made. For someone who had never handled a gun before it was nothing short of amazing. Most Redskins were bad shots with a rifle, and with revolvers they were even more unskillful. Buffalo Rider was better than many white men became after long practice. It all came naturally to him. “We’ll have another go soon, Buffalo Rider,” he said, as the tall, powerful lad helped him back to the tepee which Bull Bear had given him. “I shall have to watch my cartridges, that is all.” Buffalo Rider frowned. “There are many boxes of things like that stored in my father’s tepee. They came from a waggon-train which my people raided towards the end of the war with the Palefaces. I will get them. Wal Loader did not have much hope that the cartridges would be in good condition or would fit his own .38s, but he nodded approval, and shortly afterwards Buffalo Rider came in with no less than four boxes. Only one had been opened. The Redskins who had looted them had tried to use these cartridges in their rifles, and had naturally found them useless, so they had set them aside. Three of the boxes were of cartridges that fitted Wal Loader’s .38s, and he was overjoyed to have them. “Now I can teach you how to shoot, Buffalo Rider,” he said, and looked at the fourth box. “Huh, these are .45s! I know only one man who used these old fashioned soft-nosed bullets in these parts. I bet your father got them from the waggon-train at Boulder Brook. They belong to J. A. Slade.” “The killer you have told me about, the Paleface who killed so many of my people before I was born?” asked Buffalo Rider. “Yes, the killer who killed so many Piutes before you were born,” agreed the ex-Pony Express rider. “But I’m not blaming him for that. Your people made war on us, and we were but a handful. They took our scalps when they had the chance, and we defended ourselves.” He broke off and thought over something. The young man at his side sat motionless. “There is still trouble between the Redskins and the Palefaces far to the West, and if Slade had wanted to go killing why didn’t he go out there and help his own people?” asked Wal Loader. “Instead of that, he’s up there in Montana running a reign of terror of his own, or that’s where he was headed when I failed to stop him. He’s shooting down innocent people who are trying to earn their living and do their jobs. I think he’s crazy.” “A mad wolf is always the worst,” murmured his companion. “Once we spent two months hunting down a mad wolf.” “Don’t blame you! That’s what I meant to do with J. A. Slade. That’s what I’d do now but for this back of mine, but it’s no use me going gunning for him now.” “Maybe I could go after him,” suggested Buffalo Rider. “No, I guess that wouldn’t do either. You’d stand no chance against Slade unless you had a six-shooter in your hand and knew how to use it. But—” He stopped suddenly, and stared hard at Buffalo Rider. “Why do you look at me like that, Paleface?” the youth asked. Wal Loader swallowed hard. “See here, I’m teaching you English, and I don’t want to be called a Paleface. I don’t want to call you Buffalo Rider either. I’ll just call you Rider, and you call me Loader. Is that settled?” “Yes, Loader—but that is not why you looked at me like that.” “No, I suddenly thought of something. I would like to speak to your father.” Buffalo Rider nodded, and went swiftly away, leaving Wal Loader to his thoughts. Ten Minutes later, the chief stepped into the tepee, and greeted the white man. “You wanted to speak to me, my friend?” he began. “Yes, you remember when first I came to after my wound, and I found your people nursing me, I told you that I had been crippled by the man who killed your brother and so many of your people?” Bull Bear inclined his head. “He is a bad and evil man,” Loader went on, “and does much harm in the world. It would be a good thing if someone killed him. I would do it myself, but for the fact that I’m crippled. Nobody crippled would stand a chance against J. A. Slade, but you would like vengeance for the death of your brother, and I would like Slade out of the way for the sake of everyone on the Frontier. I have an idea. Where did Buffalo Rider come from?” “He is my son,” said Bull Bear gravely. “He is no more a Redskin than I am. Where did you find him?” “He is my son,” repeated the Piute, a little more loudly. Wal Loader tightened his lips. He knew it was useless to pursue the question further. “Well no matter. To-day I started to teach Buffalo Rider how to shoot like a Paleface. Already he shoots well. That lad could be a marksman as good as myself inside six months or so. I could teach him everything I know, not only about shooting, but about gun-fighting as well, and that’s a very different thing. I could turn him into the finest gun-fighter in the West, and in addition he would have all the knowledge that you have given him, and all the training.” Bull Bear continued to stare at him unblinkingly. “What is your plan, my friend?” “To put him on the trail of J. A. Slade to carry out the task that I have failed to finish.” For a long time Bull Bear sat in silence, then he raised his head. “That would be a good thing,” he said. “I have done my part. I have taught Buffalo Rider all I know. Now do your part.”

THE LAST DAYS OF A GUNMAN

Last episode taken from The Rover issue: 1348 April 28th 1951.

J. A. Slade has a debt to repay – and he means to settle it with his own life in his last grim gun battle.

THE TRIUMPH OF SLADE

Wal Loader had intended camping for the night. He was exhausted. His horse was fresh enough to go on for a good many miles farther, but the former Pony Express man had come to the end of his tether.

His injured back and leg gave him agony. He meant to ride only as far as the top of the next ridge in order to pick out a suitable spot for a halt. But from the top of that ridge he saw smoke rising from the still burning debris in Bleak Settlement, and at once he knew the rumours he had heard about trouble with the Piutes were true. His jaw hardened. He steeled himself to resist the pain as he gave up all thought of rest and headed in the direction of the burning settlement. “Buffalo Rider will go there as sure as fate!” he muttered. “If the Piutes are mixed up in this he’ll go there. Doggone it, what’s come over Bull Bear to allow such things to happen now? We’ve trouble enough with Slade.” Wal Loader’s thoughts again turned to Slade. Wal Loader was sure the killer was somewhere ahead, luring Buffalo Rider into a trap. How would the Indian trouble affect Slade’s plans? Slade hated Piutes almost as much as he hated Loader. Would he be turned from his pursuit of Buffalo Rider in order to kill a few more Redskins? That was what Loader asked himself as he rode into what was left of the settlement after dark, and slid from his horse in a state of collapse. He was carried into the saloon where the last stand had been made. There he learned from the settlers what had happened. Loader nodded grimly as he lay flat on a bench to ease his spine. “How long was it after Slade had gone that this yellow-headed youngster you tell me about went after him?” he asked. “Less than twenty minutes. Slade must have seen him coming down the trail, and lit out just before the other came in,” said a settler. Loader’s thin lips tightened. He had feared as much. Slade would set an ambush, and it would be difficult for Buffalo Rider not to fall into it. Loader was afraid that he was too late. “I must get on. Get me a fresh horse,” he told them. Loader was helped on to a fresh horse. He headed in the direction taken by both Slade and his pursuer. His horse was fresh, and at first he tried to ride it hard, but the pain was so bad that he feared he would fall from the saddle, so he slowed to a steady trot. That was the pace he was making when a noosed rope sneaked out of the darkness and brought him down with a crash which knocked all the breath from his body. Before he could draw breath, someone had run in and relieved him of his revolver. It was J. A. Slade, wild-eyed with triumph. “I thought it would work out this way!” he growled. “Now I’ve got the bait it won’t take long to catch the fish.” He tied Loader’s wrists together. “We’re goin’ on a trip to Skunk Gulch,” he said. Presently Slade lifted him across the forepart of the horse and tied him in place with the same rope that he had used to bring Loader down. Then he mounted behind and headed for the gulch that he had mentioned, a well known passage through the steep escarpment that stretched many miles across the plain. Wal Loader finally lapsed into unconsciousness, and was mercifully saved from the agony of the rest of the ten mile journey. When he next opened his eyes, water was being poured down his throat and over him by Slade. They were in the narrowest part of Skunk Gulch, hidden behind some boulders, Slade had propped his prisoner up against the foot of a tree, and was making him as comfortable as possible. “I thought you’d croaked on me, Loader!” he said with a sneer. “I don’t want you to miss anythin’. That Piute pal o’ yours will be along about two hours after dawn, I reckon. Keep quiet meanwhile, because there’s plenty Piutes usin’ this short-cut to-night.” Even as he spoke they heard the clatter of hooves at the farther end of the gulch, and between the high cliffs there came galloping another Redskin war-party. The fever of war was spreading among the Piute Indians. Loader remembered how this same tribe had given him refuge when Slade had left him to die of his wounds, and how they had nursed him back to life and looked after him for nearly two years. The war-party clattered by and passed out of the other end of the gulch to join the braves camped on the prairie. Loader dozed off. He was so numb that he felt no more pain.

FAILURE OF A PEACE-MAKER

There had been no movement of Redskins through the gulch for nearly two hours. Unable to move or to speak, Loader lay listening. Presently he picked out sounds towards the western end of the gulch, very slight sounds, but sufficient to cause him to turn his head.

He looked at Slade to see whether the killer had noticed anything, but J. A. Slade was concentrating in the other direction, his gun in his hand. He was expecting the arrival of Buffalo Rider. He was expecting the young man to walk into the trap. Loader listened to those almost imperceptible rustles and wondered whether he ought to attract Slade’s attention. There was always a chance that it might be Buffalo Rider himself, who had in some way got round them. That was the only thing that held Loader in check. On the other hand it might be raiding Redskins. Minutes passed, and the sounds ceased. Wal Loader finally decided he had been mistaken. Slade moved impatiently. Loader made grunting noises behind his gag, and Slade turned to aim a warning kick at him. That sudden turn coincided with the twang of a bow nearby, and an arrow flashed between the bushes and knocked Slade forward. His movement had caused it to miss his heart, but it had penetrated his back. Even as he rolled over he began shooting, and the two painted Piutes who followed up the arrow with a rush were both caught by bullets. Then Slade was behind a boulder, and firing coolly at the horde that came behind. There was something to be admired about him then, as he lay with an arrow projecting from his back, defying the whole Piute tribe to take him alive. Four more men went down before the remaining bullets in his chambers, and the fifth tripped over the unseen legs of the bound Loader and fell headlong at Slade’s feet. J. A. Slade brought the butt of his gun down with shattering force on the back of the man’s skull, then had a breathing-space in which to reload. But whoops and shouts in the distance warned Slade and Loader that others were nearby. The shooting had been heard. Redskins were pouring into the gulch from the western end, and they were all in full war-paint. Slade’s eyes gleamed. He pulled the bodies of his victims across the only gap to give him better cover, then placed cartridges in readiness on a flat rock and prepared to sell his life as dearly as possible. He was in a strong position, and could command the narrow neck of the gulch. Copper-coloured figures came skulking between the trees from the west, and as fast as one showed himself he received a bullet from Slade. Howls and roars of rage echoed from the cliffs, and all the time Loader continued to work at his bonds and at his gag. He was freeing himself from the gag, but making little impression on the thongs that held his wrists, when suddenly the uproar ceased, and a deep voice boomed out. It was the voice of Bull Bear, chief of the tribe. “Fools, go back to your wigwams and forget the path of war!” he was shouting. “When our tribe goes to battle I will lead it, not a parcel of half-fledged hot-heads. We have no quarrel with the Palefaces. We have smoked the pipe of peace with them. Let us keep our word.” “No!” arose the cry. “There is a Paleface there who has killed many of our tribe. Shall we let him live?” Loader stole a look at Slade, and was horrified to see him aiming at the bushes behind which Bull Bear was hidden out of sight. Loader gulped, choked, and swallowed, drawing in air at last. “Any man who goes through the gulch after this does so against my wishes, and will answer to me!” insisted Bull Bear, and Loader managed to produce a shout at last—“Beware it is Slade!” The loud report of Slade’s revolver coincided with Loader’s warning, and a figure fell backwards into the bushes. Loader glimpsed red feathers, and knew it was the head-dress of the chieftain who had been his friend for so long. Slade had not missed, even though he had aimed by sound alone. Howls of wrath went up from the braves who had been held in check by their chief. Half a dozen of them leapt through the bushes and ran with upraised tomahawks. Slade shot down four of them, and the other two withdrew. His face paler than ever, Slade reloaded. He seemed to have an unlimited supply of cartridges. “Fool!” shrieked Loader. “You’ve killed the only man who could have stopped these Redskins from going on the warpath. Now nothing will stop them sweeping north to the Platte River. The blood of a hundred settlers will be on your head.” “Who cares?” snarled the killer. “I’ve got the man who killed my son nineteen years ago. The more of them that come on, the better.” Loader noticed movements and heard rustlings at the spot where Bull Bear had fallen. Evidently the old chief was not dead. He was trying to drag himself along the ground. “Cut my hands free and give me a gun!” snapped Loader. Slade did not even look round. “No! I can deal with these rats myself.” He was waiting for the Redskins to come on again. Itching to kill more of them. Loader then raised his voice and shouted out in the Piute tongue. “I am Loader, called by you ‘Pony Rider.’ You know me, I am your friend and have lived with you. Why do you war against the Palefaces when there is peace between us?” “Peace! How can there be peace when your Paleface friend has shot down Bull Bear, our chief?” demanded a harsh voice. “Bull Bear was also your friend, yet you did not save his life.” “I could not, I am Slade’s prisoner – tied!” yelled back Loader. “But what is done cannot be undone. Go back to your tepees and forget the path of war. It was the wish of your dead chief.” Howls of disapproval greeted his attempt to act as peacemaker, and Loader relaxed almost in despair, but he suddenly stiffened when immediately behind him a cold voice in English barked—“Drop that gun, Slade! Raise your arms!” Not even Loader had sensed or seen the approach of Buffalo Rider. Now his revolver protruded from a bush not a yard from Slade’s back. A grunt escaped the killer. He was on his knees. Just for a moment he became rigid and did not obey, then he relaxed his hold on his gun and raised his arms halfway as he turned. “Your Piute friend is back again, Loader!” he jeered. “Perhaps you’ll help him hand me over to those who want to burn me at the torture-stake?” Under cover of the grass, he gently pushed his revolver before him with his knee. Buffalo Rider, watching his eyes did not see the movement. The bush parted, and Buffalo Rider stepped out. His face was almost unrecognizable, so twisted was it with rage. “What’s is this I hear about Bull Bear being killed?” he demanded. Slade smiled maliciously. “It is the truth! I killed him. He killed my son, so now I have killed him.” Buffalo Rider’s lips trembled. He crouched with his gun pointing directly at the kneeling man before him. Then Buffalo Rider said, almost in a whisper.—“I am going to kill you Slade! I promised Loader I would, but now it is a pleasure. You have killed my father. Reach for your gun, and reach—quickly!”

SLADE PAYS HIS DEBT

Slade would have reached and fired at the same moment, from ground level, but behind him there was a choking gurgle and crackling of branches as a figure reared up and hoarsely commanded in the Piute tongue—

“Stop! Do not fire, Buffalo Rider. You will be killing your own father!” Not only Buffalo Rider, but J. A. Slade himself was petrified by the voice. They both turned their heads and saw Bull Bear on his feet, clinging to a tree with both hands to hold himself erect. He was a ghastly sight as he gasped for breath. “What did you say?” croaked Slade, himself fighting for breath, for the arrow had wounded him gravely. “Buffalo Rider is your son—unless there was more than one baby boy with that waggon train the night I attacked it nineteen years ago,” gasped the Piute chief, and now all those within hearing were listening to his words. “There was only one baby there—but—” answered Slade. “Then this is your son. I found him under a burning waggon beside a dead woman, and took him back to my tepee for my papooses to play with. The squaws took a fancy to him and brought him up.” Bull Bear began to sway and sink at the knees, Buffalo Rider leapt forward and caught him before he could fall, and lowered him to the ground. “What did you say, Bull Bear? Did you say that this man—this killer—is my real father?” Buffalo Rider asked. “I am not your father, though I brought you up as my own son,” wheezed Bull Bear. “Do not—do not kill him! Let others do that. It is not good to—to kill your own father.” Buffalo Rider bowed his head as though stunned. Wal Loader finally succeeded in ridding himself of his bonds, and brought his numbed hands to the front. He saw Slade was still on his knees, holding the tree-trunk with one hand as he stared at the back of Buffalo Rider. On his face was an expression no man had ever seen there before, a look of wonder, pride, and finally horror. He whispered something to himself. His gun still lay beside him. Loader made a sudden grab and got it in his grasp. Slade did not even look round. Loader heard him say—“My son – my own son – and I was going to shoot him!” Under the next tree, Bull Bear had become a heavy weight in the young man’s arms, and was being set down. Buffalo Rider turned, and his eyes sought those of Loader, who was now covering Slade. “Don’t—don’t shoot him!” pleaded the son who suddenly found his father. “He will—will—” “Yes, I’ll die anyway, son!” broke out Slade, with astonishing strength. “So you’re the little bundle o’ nothin’ I left in the waggon that day, and I thought those murderin’ Piutes had killed you. If I’d only known, things would’ve been different these past nineteen years.” Buffalo Rider did not go near him. He was distressed. His gun hung loosely at his side. He looked back to Loader, who in his turn felt uncomfortable and muttered—“I didn’t guess, son or I’d never have trained you to—to do what you did with me, I swear I never guessed. I knew you were no Piute, but when I asked Bull Bear where he got you he merely said you were his son. You’re a Paleface, son, that’s all there is to it.” “Yes, an’ your father was the best shot and the worst man in the West!” came from Slade, and he was actually smiling, a wan, mirthless smile. “Listen, son, let me tell you a few things about your mother. Her name was Mary, an’ she was goin’ to call you Daniel.” A copper-skinned figure rose not ten feet behind the speaker and flung a knife. It caught Slade between the shoulder-blades and drove him forward on his hands. Simultaneously Loader fired the gun in his hand and the Redskin went down with a screech. A howl went up from the swarm of Piutes at the western end of the gulch, and arrows passed over the heads of the three men. Daniel Slade swung about, and his voice rang out in the Piute tongue, the tongue that he knew better than his own. “Stop, Piutes! Go back to your wigwams. It is I Buffalo Rider, who speaks to you in the name of Bull Bear!” An arrow whistled past his ear, and a voice roared back— “You are Paleface! Bull Bear said so. You are not one of us. You will die with the others.” There came another rush, and this time both Loader and the son of Slade were shooting. When it was over, the sullen Redskins had withdrawn, and there were six more dead men among the trees at the foot of the cliff. Then the younger man thought of Slade, and he went to him, but J. A. Slade needed no help. He had wedged himself behind a group of rocks. He was still smiling. “Son, listen to me! I’ve not go long to live, but I can do one good thing before I die. I’d like to die with that gun in my hand. I always wanted to kill Loader before I died, but now I don’t. I want you to live long enough to see my son in his proper place amongst white men, Loader. That’s why I ask you to give me that gun – loaded. Let me sit here an’ hold back those Redskins while you two ride away to safety. It’s not too much to ask.” Loader looked at the dying man’s son, and Buffalo Rider nodded slightly. His eyes were misty. The Pony Express rider of twenty years before handed the old naval revolver to young Slade, who carefully loaded it and knelt to give it to his father. Loader turned away, and another arrow whistled past his head. When he glanced back Loader saw Daniel Slade spreading the remaining cartridges close beside his father. What words passed between these two Loader did not hear. He hobbled across to the spot where the horse was hidden, and found it untouched. A few moments later Daniel Slade arrived. His face was stern, and his eyes were dry now. Without a word, he lifted Loader up to the front, then climbed up behind him so that he might take the reins and give him the support of his arms. Kicking in his heels, he headed for the eastern end of the gulch, the end that led to safety. Neither of them looked back. A howl came from somewhere in the background. The Piutes had heard the sound of hoofs, and thought their intended victims were getting away. There was a crashing in the undergrowth as they surged forward. Then came the sound for which the two riders had been waiting, the sharp – Crack! Crack! Crack!—of the old naval revolver which had served J. A. Slade a lifetime. Loader felt Dan Slade stiffen, but neither of them uttered a word. The first six shots were followed by a chorus of howls and screams, and then the shooting began again. J. A. Slade had not yet finished. He was dying hard, and if his aim was even half as good as it usually was, it was going to cost the Piutes a lot of men before they got through the gulch. Only once did Daniel Slade falter, and that was when they reached the end of the gulch and should have turned towards the north. He almost reined in. “No, lad!” said Loader. “He would want you to go on and save your life. This is his one little payment for all the wrongs he did in life, his one way of making up to you. Don’t cheat him out of that!” Daniel Slade grunted, kicked the horse almost savagely, and they sped across the open prairie towards the Platte River, hearing just once more before they went the deep, echoing report of that heavy naval revolver within Skunk Gulch.

J. A. Slade was settling his debt with his life.

THE END

THE LAST DAYS OF A GUNMAN – 12 Episodes appeared in The Rover issues 1337 – 1348 (1951)

Vic Whittle 2007