Slade never appeased the curious or volunteered his name without reason. His name had become a curse, inspiring fear beyond that caused by a stranger who carried a gun like he knew how to use it. The name had become an obstacle only a month after he began his search, and all because some fool cowboy in a small mining settlement had challenged him. Many witnesses saw Slade’s gun clear his holster before the other man had touched his. That was all it took. In the next town he came to, they knew about him. Too late he learned about rumors. A man who had never drawn his weapon could be reported to have ten to fifteen notches on his gun. But if he let his speed be observed, he’d be counted as one of the bad guys.
Slade had yet to kill anyone, yet he was a known killer! He had only reappeared in the white man’s civilization a year ago, but rumor had it that he’d come up from Texas five years before, after killing his first man. All his killings had been fair and square, it was said, the assumption being that a fast gun didn’t have to fight dirty. Yet marshals quickly asked him to leave their towns, and Slade found it impossible to get information out of anyone once they knew his name.
He had changed his appearance. He had let his hair grow again and wore kneehigh moccasins instead of boots. It helped a great deal. He didn’t have to lie and say he was a half-breed, but he gave that impression, and people thought he was. So after a year of searching, he had finally found Feral Sloan.
He found him in Newcomb, a town of less than two hundred even if you counted the surrounding ranches and their hands. It galled the hell out of Slade when he learned that Sloan had settled in this town seven years ago, soon after it was founded. It galled him most because Sloan was foreman on the ranch nearby that he and Billy Wolf had raided that last time. He had been that close to his father’s killer and hadn’t even known it. And he was closer now, for Feral Sloan was in the saloon, sitting at one of the card tables with two other men, his back to the wall.
Slade had spotted him immediately. His image had never left Slade’s mind. The gunslinger was about thirty now, with slicked-back hair and a chin that jutted aggressively. But the lanky body had gone soft, and his hairline had receded. There were lines of dissipation on his face. But if those years had not been kind to his appearance, they had obviously been profitable years. He dressed in an ostentatious display of silver conchas and diamond jewelry and fancy duds.
Slade concluded that Feral Sloan was either one of the town’s main guns or the only one. The latter was likely. There were many cowboys from the nearby ranches in the room, it being Saturday night. Slade had learned to judge a man in the first instant the other fellow looked at him. He could dismiss all the men in the room except Sloan.
It was only a waiting game now, and Slade Holt had become good at waiting. He knew Sloan would come to him, would have to, for the sake of his reputation. Approaching a menacing stranger was a task that always fell to the town gun. The people expected it, demanded he ask questions to appease their curiosity. When the town toughs didn’t get the answers they wanted, they either commenced a show of friendliness or walked away grumbling loudly, praying the stranger wouldn’t take offense and start a fight.
Slade had only twenty minutes to wait before Feral Sloan joined him at the bar. Those men who had moved to the ends of the bar to give Slade plenty of room now moved over to the tables. If there was to be any shooting between these two dangerous men, the tables offered cover.
“Where you headin’, mister?”
He remembered the voice all too well.Easiest hundred dollars I ever earned. His head began to ache with the memory, but nothing marred his expression, even as he faced this hated man.
“You talking to me, Sloan?”
Feral was surprised and suspicious. “You know me?”
“Sure. I heard of you a long time back. But that was years ago. Thought you were dead.”
Slade was playing his man perfectly. Men like Sloan loved their reputations, and Sloan was quick to defend his absence from the public eye.
“I got such a nice little setup here, I couldn’t resist settlin’ down,” Feral bragged. “But you know how it is. A man’s name sometimes gets so big, people just won’t leave him alone.”
“I know.” Slade nodded solemnly. “I hear you’re a foreman now on the biggest spread in these parts. Must be a nice job.”
Feral chuckled. Here was a man who could appreciate his cleverness. “The nicest—seein’ as how I work only when I feel like it.”
Slade lifted a dark brow, pretending interest. “You mean you get paid for doing nothing? How is that?”
“I work for Samuel Newcomb, and you might say I know somethin’ about him that he don’t want to become public knowledge.”
Slade whistled softly. “He’s rich then, Newcomb?”
“Let’s just say he owns half the town and his bank holds mortgages on the other half.”
“I guess he can afford to keep you on his payroll then, rather than—”
“—pay someone to get rid of me?” Feral finished, finding this quite amusing. “That might be his style, but he don’t dare. I left a confession with a friend, you see. If anythin’ happens to me…well, you get my drift.”
Slade looked down at his drink. “A man that rich must have a lot of enemies.”
“Oh, he’s well liked around here, but with his past he can’t take no chances. He’s got himself a small army of men to protect him. And get this,” Feral chuckled again and leaned forward as if imparting a secret. “He’s even got a special attachment to his will that if he dies by malice, a hundred thousand goes to the man who gets his killer! That’s common knowledge, see? Smart, real smart. The man who kills him wouldn’t live out the day, and that’s a fact. Hell, the only way you could hurt that bastard would be to ruin him financially. But it would take a powerfully rich and clever man to do that.”
“You don’t sound as if you like your benefactor.”
Feral shrugged. “Comes from knowin’ a man too well too long. We rub each other the wrong way these days.”
“You’ve been with Samuel Newcomb a long time, have you? He wouldn’t have been the man you worked for over in Tucson back in ’66, would he?”
Feral’s expression changed abruptly. “How the hell did you—? No one around here knows that. Who are you, mister?”
“Is he the one, Sloan?” Slade persisted in a calm voice.
