(Rover Homepage)


First episode (first series) taken from The Rover issue: 1283 January 28th 1950.


“He’s coming! I saw him coming up the trail. Slade’s coming!” The man who burst into the saloon at the little mountain town of Roan, on the borders of Colorado and Montana, that evening in 1860, could not have caused more consternation if he had thrown a live bomb. The mixed crowd of ranchers, miners, and Pony Express officials all reached for their guns, for the name of J.A. Slade brought terror to whoever heard it. The most ruthless, vindictive, merciless gunman in the whole of the Wild West was J.A. Slade. A few moments later a solitary rider came over the brow of the saloon expelled their breath in a long sigh. J.A. Slade the champion “killer” of the west, was coming sure enough. Straight towards the saloon he headed, and more than one of the occupants came out in a cold sweat. There was nothing very terrifying about the appearance of the newcomer. He was neither over tall nor broad. His clothes were tidy and neatly patched. He wore the usual flat broad-brimmed hat of the Westerner, and sat erect in his saddle. At his side was slung a heavy naval revolver, old, chipped, and shabby. It was his face that impressed the onlookers most. Smooth-shaven, very broad across the cheek-bones, he had peculiar, thin, straight lips. His eyes were deep-set and menacing. The men in the saloon shivered. They were like rabbits fascinated by the sight of a snake, terrified, yet unable to run away. But J.A. Slade did not turn towards the saloon. He rode straight by, without even glancing into the room. Not until the crowd in the saloon saw the tail of his pony disappear round the next bend did they breathe easily. Slade was not going to call on them. An excited jabber of voices broke forth. “It’ Loader he’s after. They say he’s been after him for five years. This time they’re goin’ to shoot it out. Agent Street of the Overland Stagecoaches, said they’d fixed it all up. It’s to be a fight to the finish.” “Yes, and it’s to take place on the Rocky Ridge road. Loader starts from the other end and Slade from this side. They’ll meet somewhere up there near the peaks, and then – My, I’d like to see that gun-fight from a safe place!” And so it went on. The whole of the Wild West knew of the deadly feud that had existed for years between J.A. Slade and Wal Loader. Once they had met in the streets of Julesburg, Loader with a shot-gun and Slade with a revolver. They had emptied lead into each other, and both had been left for dead, but they had recovered in amazing fashion, and carried on the bitter feud which they had declared could only be finished by the death of one or the other. Now the long quarrel was going to be settled once and for all. Wal Loader was coming from the north and Slade from the south-west. They had agreed to take the same trail, the one used by the famous Pony Express riders. Along this trail the enemies were approaching each other from opposite ends. When they met it would mean fireworks.


J.A. Slade was thinking of nothing but Loader as he rode steadily upwards. This time he was determined to kill his foe. There was a clatter on the upper trail, and Slade wheeled his pony aside under the shadows of a huge boulder. He shaded his eyes and stared ahead. Was this Loader already? If Slade hid and ambushed his rival he would have a great advantage. “Huh!” The grunt that escaped the killer a moment later was one of disappointment. It was not his enemy at all, but one of the Pony Express men. Down the mountainside raced the mail-bearer, leaning forward low over his pony’s neck. A little slip of a man, wizened by constant exposure to blizzard, sunshine, and rain, he wore thin, close-fitting clothes. Everything was sacrificed for lightness. His pantaloons were tucked into his boots, and on his head was a skull-cap. On either side of the rider’s horse, were the mail-pockets. J.A. Slade came out of hiding. He had no quarrel with the riders of the Pony Express; he rather admired them. Usually they flashed past other travelers with no more than a wave of the hand, and the gunman was rather surprised to see this one slowing up. “Don’t go on!” roared the express rider over his shoulder as he went by. “The Indians are out. There’s been a massacre on the road.” That was all. The flying rider dared not stop for even a minute. Without any weapons – his only defence against foes was speed – and times taken were checked to a second. Men who did not maintain the speed required were ruthlessly kicked out of the service. J.A. Slade ground his teeth. His eyes were cold and wolfish as he looked up the trail. He did not turn back. He kept straight on, but under his breath he was muttering – “Wonder if they got Loader? Just my luck, I suppose, if they did!” Slade was afraid that his opponent, coming to those same mountains from the opposite side, had been murdered by the redskins. When the Indians went on the warpath, they slaughtered all who came in their way. Many a man would have turned back, but not Slade. He meant to make sure that his enemy was dead. So he pressed on, and, about five miles farther on, he came to the settlement at the top of the pass. Rifle Falls it was called. It was utterly destroyed. Not a roof was intact. Three men, one with his arm in a sling, were raking amongst the ashes. They looked up dully as J.A. Slade rode up. Even in their misery they recognised and feared him. “It – it’s Slade!” whispered one of them. “Yeah. It’s Slade!” snapped the rider. “You all know what I’m lookin’ for. Anyone seen Loader?” The wounded man nodded. “Yes, Loader was here looking for you this mornin’,” he replied. “He came a long way last night, and was in the saloon when the Indians attacked. I’ve never seen such pretty shootin’ in my life.” “Never mind about that. What happened to him?” growled Slade. “Where’s he now?” “Under them ruins, I guess. He’ll be ashes now. The injuns got a cordon round that saloon and not a man escaped. You’re too late, Slade.” “Too late! It can’t be true! It’s impossible! There was never an Indian who could trap Wal Loader. I’m goin’ to make sure!” roared Slade, his face white with rage. The three men shrugged their shoulders. They were too numb with the horror of recent events to heed him very much. Out of a settlement of thirty people, they were the only living survivors, and they owed their lives to the fact that they had hidden in a store cellar until the Redskins had finished the massacre. Slade dismounted and strode over to the remains of the saloon. Charred beams, some tin roofing, a mass of glowing ashes; nothing else remained. Then suddenly Slade noticed something amongst the ashes and fished it out with a stick. It was a Derringer pistol. Wal Loader had carried a Derringer as well as his revolver. That settled it. Slade was convinced that his rival had perished in the fire. The gunman’s lips drew back from his white teeth, and he spat in the glowing ashes. “You skunk, loader!” he gritted. “Just the sort of mean trick a rat like you would do, to get yourself killed before I came.” Then Slade spun round and clambered automatically into the saddle of his patiently-waiting pony. Life suddenly seemed very empty to him. For years he had dreamed of killing Loader, and now he was too late. The gunman’s expression stilled the tongues of the survivors of the massacre. He rode aimlessly and was level with the last smoking ruin of a shack in the former settlement when the clatter of hooves made him look up. Two sweating horses the remains of the traces dangling from them, and a bleary-eyed, white faced man clinging to one of them, came dashing into the settlement. “It’s part o’ the coach team!” shouted one of the three survivors of Rifle Falls. “They’re from the incomin’ Overland Stagecoach. That’s Agent Street!” The three men ran to meet the new arrival, and Slade reined in his horse and listened with a curl of contempt about his thin lips. “What’s happened?” they gasped. “Did the Indians attack the coach?” “Yes, hundreds of ‘em,” gasped Agent Street. “I was travellin’ in it along with five other passengers. The Piutes were on us from all sides before we knew where we were. They wiped out the others in less than five minutes. All scalped. Those two horses broke loose, and I managed to grab one. I was followed part of the way by the Injuns, but shook ‘em off. It was terrible!” He held his hands to his face as though to shut out the vision, and then a cold, sneering voice broke in from alongside. “Aren’t you Agent Street, in charge of this stretch of trail for the Overland Stagecoaches?” Hump Street, as he was known because of an injured shoulder, turned and looked at the speaker. It was J.A. Slade who had asked the question.


“Sure, that’s me,” drawled Street. “Who are you?” If the agent had not been half-blinded with sweat and caked blood he would have known. Slade ignored the question. “Didn’t I hear of a coach bein’ held up on this section two months ago?” he continued. “Maybe you did.” Replied Street. “We’ve had three coaches wrecked by Indians this last season. Nothing can stop the fiends from comin’ down from the mountains – nothing!” Slade sneered contemptuously. “What kind of agent d’you call yourself, Street?” he growled. “It’s your job to see that the Indians don’t do these things. Beats me why the Overland employ a rat like you!” There was calculated insolence in the gunman’s tone. The other men fell back, for they knew what was going to happen. They did not even dare whisper warning of who Slade was. It would have been all the same if they had, for Hump Street had won his present job, as controller of the two hundred and fifty miles of Rocky Ridge section of the trans-continental roadway, by shooting the previous holder of the job. So now as the red blood surged to the agent’s face, he snatched for his six-shooter. He saw the grinning face of J.A. Slade, then three quick shots rang out, and Street slumped forward with three bullets in his thick-set body. “Huh! No wonder the Indians walk over this section just as they like if the agent’s such a slow-witted muddler!” grunted Slade. “Reckon the Overland Stage Company need a live man around these parts. Anyone here able to write?” One of the three men confessed that he could. “Then as soon as you find pencil and paper write a note to the Overland telling ‘em that J.A. Slade has taken over the job of agent on the Rocky Ridge section,” snapped Slade. “You mean – you – you’re going to take over Street’s job?” gasped the man who was to write the message. “That’s what I said. Any objections.” N-n-no!” was the strangled reply. “I’ll see that goes down on the next west-bound coach. Yes, sir-r!” Slade snorted and led his pony over to a nearby stream. He scarcely knew why he had taken on this job, but it would at least take his mind off his big disappointment. The survivors of the Indian massacre watched the gunman turn his back, and not till then did they dare attend to Street. The former agent was not dead; he was still breathing. All three bullets had missed his heart, although he had severe wounds in the chest and shoulder.


About that time a short, wizened smoke-blackened, little man staggered into the settlement at Roan. His eyebrows and eyelashes were completely burned away. The men in the saloon stared as he reeled to the bar. “A drink!” he croaked. The bartender obliged quickly and when he had gulped it down the stranger let loose a long flow of words against Redskins in general and Piutes in particular. The men in the saloon crowded around him and asked what had happened. “I was up at Rifle Falls,” he grunted, “waiting for someone. Piutes swarmed down on us – eight of us in the saloon – we fought ‘em. Then the red fiends fired the roof over our heads. Five of us had been killed. The place went up in flames with the Piutes dancing like demons around us.” “How many of you escaped?” asked someone. “Only me! I doused myself all over with beer, then crawled through the flames where the smoke was thickest. Had to leave my gun or it would have exploded. Guess half my hide is burnt off.” The stranger coughed and demanded another drink, and as he drained his glass his bright blue eyes flamed brightly in his blackened face. A tall coach driver who was waiting for the east-bound coach, asked his name. “Loader – Wal Loader,” grunted the newcomer, and straightened up. “That reminds me. Anyone seen a guy called Slade around these parts?” The crowd of men exchanged looks. “We sure have,” they chorused. “He rode up the trail to meet you about five hours ago. Must have been heading for Rifle Falls.” “The clumsy hound,” growled Wall Loader, stiffening “That means he rode slap into the Piutes. That means he’s finished, and I’d promised myself the pleasure of pumping him full of lead. Four hundred miles I came to do that.” He fell silent, staring ahead without seeing anything. “Dead!” he kept muttering. “Dead! If that ain’t the wickedest luck. Then he staggered to a table and slumped with his head on his arm, for he was exhausted. There he slept, and nobody dared disturb him. In the farther corner the men of Roan discussed in whispers the remarkable way in which the gun-fight of the century had fizzled out. The men in the saloon tip-toed away and left Wal Loader asleep. Darkness was falling outside, and there was a certain amount of concern because the Pony Express rider from the west was overdue. Time passed, and the Pony Express was an hour overdue when someone heard the familiar clatter of hooves. There was a rush to the open street. “Here he comes!” was the cry. “Here’s Mick Simms! Look there’s something the matter with him!” There was. The Pony Express rider was in this case a red headed man who rode barefooted, for he would otherwise have exceeded the hundred and thirty-five pounds which was all riders were allowed to weigh. He was swaying to and fro, clinging to his thin racing-slip of a saddle with both hands. Then, as he drew near, the watching townsfolk saw that an arrow was sticking in his side. The express rider saw the crowd closing around him, saw someone grab his pony’s head, and then he reeled sideways. Willing hands caught him safely and carried him into the saloon. “Don’t touch the arrow!” he begged. “If you pull it out I’ll bleed to death. Got-got to mount again in a minute. The mails must – must go through.” “But, Mick, it’s impossible!” protested someone. “You can’t ride in that state. You’ve lost too much blood already. You’ve got to stop here.” The red-haired man struggled to his feet. “No!” he roared. “I’m going on. The mails must go through, and there’s nobody else here to take over. I’m –” He coughed, spat blood, and collapsed. As the helpers stretched him out more comfortably on a bench, there was movement at a nearby table. Wal Loader was wide awake and coming to see what was wrong. “Pony Express rider wounded, eh? That’s bad.” He muttered. “If he don’t go through there’ll be forty other riders held up along the route. Can’t he ride? Someone’s got to take the mail on.” “Better do it yourself!” snapped a burly man who was bending over Mick Simms. “Mick ain’t going to be fit for any more riding for a while, that’s certain.” Wal Loader’s blue eyes glittered with determination. “Right! I will” he snapped. “Where’s that pony? Where’s the next stage for changing ponies?” “Rifle Falls was the depot, but as that’s been burnt down I guess you’ll have to do the double trip to Lonecone,” was the reply. “Better think twice about it, Loader. If the Indians are out ---“Don’t talk to me about Indians!” snarled Loader, and he was into the saddle almost before anyone realised that he really meant to take the job on. A second later the startled pony was away at a fast gallop out of the settlement.


Flying along, with the night air whistling past his head. Loader felt more satisfied than he had done since hearing the bad news of Slade’s death. An hour or so before, life had seemed empty and meaningless, but now he had found a job he liked. The Pony Express business was man’s work. If he could get a regular appointment he would take it. Fifty miles at a stretch a Pony Express rider had to do, using four ponies. Daylight, moonlight, foul weather or good, it was all the same to the express riders. On the steeper slopes he checked the eager pony, although it had pluck and strength enough to want to carry on. Here was the most dangerous part of the route. Here he expected to hear the whistle of arrows, or the shrill blood-curling war-cries of hidden Redskins. On the level again, and Loader increased the pace. They burst into a clearing where the smouldering remains of settlers’ homes testified to the ferocity of the raiders. Over in one corner three men were clustered round a camp-fire. They turned their heads as the pony and rider came flying through the darkness. “Look out for the Indians! They’ve wrecked the Overland coach!” bawled someone. Wal Loader raised his hand to show that he had heard and understood, but he did not check his pace. He knew there was more than an hour to make up, and another dozen miles to go before he reached Lonecone. Straight out of the clearing he went, and into the darkness beyond, never knowing that he had passed within a few yards of the man he believed killed. For much of the way it was downhill, and it was on the side of this hill that Wal Loader saw the overturned coach. Bodies lay around on all sides, but Loader knew it was a waste of time to stop and examine them. The scene of this latest tragedy was soon left behind, and the flying horseman entered a long dark ravine, at the farther end of which Lonecone was situated. It looked to Wal Loader as though he was going to come through this first express ride of his. In less than half an hour he would be handing the mail pouches over to the anxious rider who waited at the next depot. He would have proved his fitness for the job.


J.A. Slade got his appointment confirmed. There was never any doubt about it. When the Overland Stagecoach Company heard that the most notorious gunman in the West was offering himself as agent and guardian of the most difficult stretch of their route, they jumped at the opportunity of signing him on. Slade duly swore to get the coaches through, to protect them and their passengers, and to prevent all unlawful persons interfering with them in any way. As the Pony Express was run in conjunction with the same company, he found himself promising to attend to the welfare of these mounted fliers as well. Shortly before he had arrived on the spot, there had been an epidemic of horse-stealing. Relays of horses were posted at various points, to be hitched on to the coaches when they arrived. Several times in recent months the coachman had arrived with their tired teams to find no fresh ones awaiting them. These teams had been stolen, and had never been found. Slade’s grim lips became even grimmer and tighter when he heard this. A number of settlers from Lonecone had come over to help build up Rifle Falls again, and to offer their help against the Redskins. The new road agent went amongst these newcomers very quietly and silently. Those who knew him nudged each other and kept their voices low as he passed. Others were not quite so cautious, and J.A. Slade heard a good many things. Among others, he learned that some of the stolen horses had been known to turn up on the ranch of a man named Backwater Bowker, who made a practice of altering the brands and then selling them back to the Overland Stagecoach Company. Slade said nothing, but the next day he made inquiries as to the whereabouts of the Bowker ranch. He might have been seen heading that way about mid-morning on his slate-coloured pony, sitting very erect in the saddle and looking neither to right nor left. The Bowker ranch was a poor place, hacked out of the edge of the forest. There were no fences, and the cabin was a ramshackle affair. Backwater Bowker and his two stalwart sons ran the place. They saw Slade coming long before he arrived, and all three were waiting in the doorway when he got there. “Morning stranger!” drawled Backwater, his hand behind his back. One of the sons had his right hand concealed as well. Slade guessed they had guns in their fists. His own was in his holster, but he did not attempt to draw it. “Morning,” he grunted. “You fellers are sure taking a chance out here with Indians on the warpath.” Backwater Bowker grinned. “We can take care of ourselves. I guess.” He replied. “Sometimes they try for our horses, but we’re straight-shooters.” Slade shrugged his shoulders. “Then I guess you’d better get ready to do some straight shootin’ right now,” he snapped. “I saw six Indians lurking behind them bushes on the right-hand side o’ the trail behind me. I’m not looking round, but you can tell which I mean.” The eyes of the three Bowkers widened, for Slade had lowered his voice confidentially, and they thought he meant it. Backwater Bowker gritted his teeth. “How d’you like the nerve o’ them Piutes? We’ve killed a score already, and still they come. Sons, as soon as I draw my gun we all three start shootin’. Riddle them bushes from end to end, and if we don’t get six Piutes within two minutes I’m a Dutchman. Ready?” Backwater’s sons nodded. The old man jerked out his gun, and the next moment three six-shooters were blazing away at top speed. The bushes on the other side of the trail were ripped to pieces. At last the volleys ceased. Three guns were empty. Backwater Bowker turned with a grin to his visitor, but the grin froze on his lips. Slade’s gun was in his fist, and there was a bleak look on his face which was easy to read. He had tricked his enemies into emptying their weapons before he used his. Crack-crack! Crack-crack! Four times Slade fired, and each of Bowker’s sons fell dead, each with two bullets in his head. The older man, paralysed with fear, expecting every second that a shot would finish his life, leaned limply against the doorpost as the dread weapon covered him. “Drop that gun!” barked Slade, and it was duly dropped. “I’m J.A. Slade---“ “N-not the Slade?” gasped Backwater Bowker, going even paler. “Yeah, there’s only one. I’m road agent for the Overland in this section. Stolen horses have been seen on your ranch. How did you get them? Who’s at the back o’ this stealin’?” “I – I guess you must have got the wrong idea!” stuttered old Bowker. “I never---“ Crack! A bullet tore into the speaker’s shoulder, shattering the bone. “Tell the truth!” snapped Slade. “I’m not takin’ no bluff. Those horses have been seen here. Who brings ‘em here? Who’s behind the stealin’?” Backwater Bowker swallowed hard. “It – they – it’s Capel, the stableman at point 17,” he replied. “Capel arranges it. There’s a half-breed named Baptiste who helps him. That’s the truth, I swear it.” “Are you sure?” roared Slade, raising his gun again. “I swear it’s true!” gasped the terrified man. “Good! Then I shan’t need you no more!” growled Slade, and shot Backwater through the heart. Leaving the three bodies lying where they had fallen, Slade coolly reloaded his gun and headed back the way he had come. There was now Pierre Capel, the French stableman, and his half-breed assistant to be dealt with, so, instead of heading straight back to his headquarters at Rifle Falls, Slade cut across country towards point 17.


It was just before dusk when he reached point 17. The half-breed saw him, and came running to meet him with a broken-toothed smile. “Where’s Capel?” snapped Slade, without a hint of his real feelings. Him wait for Pony Express due in five minutes now.” Explained Baptiste. “Huh, I’ll hang around till he’s finished,” grated Slade. He tethered his pony to a tree and sauntered over to the front of the depot. Under a tree beside the trail stood Pierre Capel, big burly, dark-haired. He was holding a fretful eager pony. It’s skin was shining like silk, its saddle was in place. It knew just what was expected of it. A twelve mile gallop lay ahead of that pony, and it was anxious to begin. Two minutes was the time allowed for the change of ponies. In that time an express rider had to transfer himself and his two mail-pouches to the new mount. Capel was fully aware of the importance of the task. Teamwork at the relay stations was just as important as good riding. He nodded affably to the new section chief, and strained his ears for the tell-tale clatter up the trail. Suddenly he stiffened. “Voila, he come!” Capel had heard the sound of the approaching pony. He eased the fresh beast forward and bent in readiness to run forward and snatch the other. Capel did not see the cold, calculating look Slade gave him. The gunman was going to shoot Capel whenever the change-over had been effected. The gunman patiently waited, and a few seconds afterwards the Pony Express rider came clattering up to them. Bent low over the neck of his mount, it was impossible to see the rider’s face or figure until he straightened up and leapt nimbly from the saddle. Then a cry of utter astonishment came from Slade. His gun appeared in his hand as though by magic. Blazing-eyed, he jumped forward. “You!” The Pony Express rider turned around, and his blue eyes became mere pin-points when he saw who had spoken. “Slade!” he hissed. “Yeah, it’s me, Wal Loader, and this time I’ve got you.” Snapped Slade. “How come you’re here? I heard the Indians had killed you. Maybe it would’ve been better for you if they had. I’ve waited a long time for this, and now I’m goin’ to ---“ To Slade’s amazement his rival did not reach for a gun, and suddenly it dawned upon him why. Wal Loader carried no gun Express riders were not allowed to cumber themselves with the extra weight. Loader was unarmed. Slade chuckled. He had looked forward to a shooting match with this enemy of his. Now he found himself in the position of being able to take his time over the shooting, then suddenly Wal Loader snapped—“How long are you goin’ to hold up the mail, Slade? If I had a gun you wouldn’t be standing there now, but as it is I only hope the section boss in these parts’ll shoot you full o’ lead after I’ve gone. I’ve heard Hump Street is a grand shot, and---“ “Hump Street is no longer section boss around here!” roared Slade. “I’ve got his job. I run this stretch o’ the road.” “Gosh!” Wal Loader stepped back and grinned viciously. “Ain’t that grand? It’ll be the first time in the history o’ the Pony Express that one o’ the company’s men has stopped the mail goin’ through. You sure will have made history, Slade.” There was a sneer in Loader’s voice, but no fear. Wal Loader faced death as coolly as he would have faced a meal. J.A. Slade’s face darkened with rage. “Get on to that pony!” he snapped. “The mail’s got to go through. I’m here to see it does, see? Get goin’, an’ if you hold up on me I’ll – I’ll – Get goin’!” Loader vaulted on to the new pony, which the frightened Capel had been holding all the time. “Kind of afraid to shoot me, eh?” drawled Loader. “No!” the word was almost an explosion. “I’ll shoot your rotten hide full o’ bullets the moment you leave the service o’ this company, but while you run the mail for the Pony Express you’re safe from me. I made a promise. Loader gripped the reins and replied- “That goes for me, too, but as soon as this job’s done, as soon as the Pony Express finishes runnin’, which they say will be in four months’ time, I’m comin’ right back to shoot the nose off your fool face. Let go!” Loader’s roar was to Capel, who released his hold on the pony. The beast at once sprang forward, and a moment later pony and man went galloping down the trail on their next lap. J.A. Slade stood staring after the retreating figure with rage in his eyes. Pierre Capel came over to him and muttered- “What-who is he? Why you hate him?” “Hate him!” snarled Slade. “I’ve hated that man for five years, and have hunted him a dozen times. I nearly broke my heart when I heard the Indians had got him. Now I find him alive and in the one job where I can’t touch him. But when the telegraph is through an’ this Pony Express business finishes, then I’ll let daylight into the skunk.” He turned, was about to mount his horse again, when he remembered the errand that had brought him there. Swinging about, he called- “Capel, come here! I’ve somethin’ to say to you. Come here!”

So ended the first episode.

First series PONY EXPRESS 30 weeks The Rover issues: 1283 – 1312 (1950)

Second series THE PONY EXPRESS RUNS AGAIN 12 weeks The Rover issues: 1325 – 1336 (1950 - 1951)

Third series THE LAST DAYS OF A GUNMAN 12 weeks The Rover issues: 1337 – 1348 (1951)

Fourth series THE FIRST FIGHTS OF J.A. SLADE 12 weeks The Rover issues: 1365 – 1376 (1951)

Fifth series THE START OF MY DESPERATE DAYS by J.A. Slade 10 weeks The Rover issues: 1392 – 1401 (1952)

Sixth series SLADE OF THE PONY EXPRESS 14 weeks The Rover issues: 1497 – 1510 (1954)

Seventh series SLADE RIDES ALONE 12 weeks The Rover issues: 1597 – 1608 (1956)


© D. C. Thomson & Co Ltd 

Vic Whittle 2006