Read Online Uncollected Stories 2003 by Stephen King - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephen King
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course."
And then Slade was off, grimly determined to find Sam Columbine
and put a crimp in his style once and for all.
Slade shoved his way into the Brass Cuspidor where the foreman of
Sandra Dawson's Bar-T, Mose Hart, was leaning over the bar with a
bottle of Digger's Rye (206 proof) in one hand.
"Okay, you slimy drunkard," Slade gritted, pulling Hart around and
yanking the bottle out of his hand. "Where is Sam Columbine's ranch?
I'm going to get that rotten liver-eater, he just sent Hunchback Fred
Agnew up against me."
"Hunchback Fred?!" Hart gasped, going white as a sheet. "And you're
still alive?"
"I filled him full of lead," Slade said grimly. "He should have known
that putting a snake in my bed was a no-no."
"Hunchback Fred Agnew," Hart whispered, still awed, "There was
talk that he might be the next Vice President of the American
Southwest."
Slade let go of a grating laugh that even made the bartenders dog,
General Custer, cringe.
"Well I reckon that now he can be Vice President of Hell!" Slade
proclaimed. He motioned to the bartender, who was standing at the far
end of the bar reading a western novel.
"Bartender! What have you got for mixed drinks?"
The bartender approached cautiously, tucking the dog-eared copy of
Blood Brides of Sitting Bull into his back pocket. "Wal, Mr. Slade, we
got about the usual – The Geronimo, The Fort Bragg Backbreaker,
Popskull Pete, Sourdough Armpit – "
"How about a shot of Digger's Rye (206 proof)?" Mose Hart said with
a glassy grin.
"Shut up," Slade growled. He turned to the bartender and drew one of
his sinister.45s.
"If you don't produce a drink that I ain't never had before, friend,
you're gonna be pushing up daisies before dawn."
The bartender went white, "W-well, we do have drink of my own
invention, Mr. Slade. But it's so potent that I done stopped serving them.
I got plumb tired of having people pass out on the roulette wheel"
"What's it called?"
"We call it a zombie," the bartender said.
"Well mix me up three of them and make it fast!" Slade commanded.
"Three zombies?" Mose Hart said with popping eyes. "M'God, are you
crazy?"
Slade turned to him coldly "Friend, smile when you say that."
Hart smiled and took another drink of Digger's Rye.
"Okay," Slade said, when the three drinks had been placed in front of
him. They came in huge beer steins and smelled like the wrath of God.
He drained the first one at a single draught, blew out his breath,
staggered a little, and lit one of his famous Mexican cigars. Then he
turned to Mose.
"Now just where is Sam Columbine's ranch?" He asked.
"Three miles west and across the ford," Mose said. "It's called the
Rotten Vulture Ranch"
"That figursh," Slade said, draining his second drink to the ice-cubes.
He was beginning to feel a trifle woozy. It probably had something to
do with the lateness of the hour, he thought, and began to work on his
third drink.
"Say – " Mose Hart said timidly, "I don't really think you're in any
shape to go up against Sam Columbine, Slade. He's apt to put a crimp in
your style."
"Doan tell me what to do," Slade, swaggering over to pat General
Custer. He breathed in the dog's face and General Custer promptly went
to sleep. "If there'sh one thing that I can do, it's lick my holder, I mean
hold my liquor. Ho get out of my way before I blon you in to."
"The door's out the other way," the bartender said cautiously.
"Coursh it is. You think I doan tinow where I'm goin'?"
Slade staggered across the bar, stepping on General Custer's tail (the
dog didn't wake up) and managed to make his way out through the
batwing doors where he almost fell off the sidewalk. Just then a steely
arm clamped his elbow. Slade looked around blearily.
"I'm Deputy Marshall Hoagy Carmichael," the stranger said, "and I’m
taking yuh in – "
"On what charge?" Slade asked.
"Public intoxication. Now let's go."
Slade burped. "Everything happen'sh to me," he groaned. The two of
them started off for the Dead
And then Slade was off, grimly determined to find Sam Columbine
and put a crimp in his style once and for all.
Slade shoved his way into the Brass Cuspidor where the foreman of
Sandra Dawson's Bar-T, Mose Hart, was leaning over the bar with a
bottle of Digger's Rye (206 proof) in one hand.
"Okay, you slimy drunkard," Slade gritted, pulling Hart around and
yanking the bottle out of his hand. "Where is Sam Columbine's ranch?
I'm going to get that rotten liver-eater, he just sent Hunchback Fred
Agnew up against me."
"Hunchback Fred?!" Hart gasped, going white as a sheet. "And you're
still alive?"
"I filled him full of lead," Slade said grimly. "He should have known
that putting a snake in my bed was a no-no."
"Hunchback Fred Agnew," Hart whispered, still awed, "There was
talk that he might be the next Vice President of the American
Southwest."
Slade let go of a grating laugh that even made the bartenders dog,
General Custer, cringe.
"Well I reckon that now he can be Vice President of Hell!" Slade
proclaimed. He motioned to the bartender, who was standing at the far
end of the bar reading a western novel.
"Bartender! What have you got for mixed drinks?"
The bartender approached cautiously, tucking the dog-eared copy of
Blood Brides of Sitting Bull into his back pocket. "Wal, Mr. Slade, we
got about the usual – The Geronimo, The Fort Bragg Backbreaker,
Popskull Pete, Sourdough Armpit – "
"How about a shot of Digger's Rye (206 proof)?" Mose Hart said with
a glassy grin.
"Shut up," Slade growled. He turned to the bartender and drew one of
his sinister.45s.
"If you don't produce a drink that I ain't never had before, friend,
you're gonna be pushing up daisies before dawn."
The bartender went white, "W-well, we do have drink of my own
invention, Mr. Slade. But it's so potent that I done stopped serving them.
I got plumb tired of having people pass out on the roulette wheel"
"What's it called?"
"We call it a zombie," the bartender said.
"Well mix me up three of them and make it fast!" Slade commanded.
"Three zombies?" Mose Hart said with popping eyes. "M'God, are you
crazy?"
Slade turned to him coldly "Friend, smile when you say that."
Hart smiled and took another drink of Digger's Rye.
"Okay," Slade said, when the three drinks had been placed in front of
him. They came in huge beer steins and smelled like the wrath of God.
He drained the first one at a single draught, blew out his breath,
staggered a little, and lit one of his famous Mexican cigars. Then he
turned to Mose.
"Now just where is Sam Columbine's ranch?" He asked.
"Three miles west and across the ford," Mose said. "It's called the
Rotten Vulture Ranch"
"That figursh," Slade said, draining his second drink to the ice-cubes.
He was beginning to feel a trifle woozy. It probably had something to
do with the lateness of the hour, he thought, and began to work on his
third drink.
"Say – " Mose Hart said timidly, "I don't really think you're in any
shape to go up against Sam Columbine, Slade. He's apt to put a crimp in
your style."
"Doan tell me what to do," Slade, swaggering over to pat General
Custer. He breathed in the dog's face and General Custer promptly went
to sleep. "If there'sh one thing that I can do, it's lick my holder, I mean
hold my liquor. Ho get out of my way before I blon you in to."
"The door's out the other way," the bartender said cautiously.
"Coursh it is. You think I doan tinow where I'm goin'?"
Slade staggered across the bar, stepping on General Custer's tail (the
dog didn't wake up) and managed to make his way out through the
batwing doors where he almost fell off the sidewalk. Just then a steely
arm clamped his elbow. Slade looked around blearily.
"I'm Deputy Marshall Hoagy Carmichael," the stranger said, "and I’m
taking yuh in – "
"On what charge?" Slade asked.
"Public intoxication. Now let's go."
Slade burped. "Everything happen'sh to me," he groaned. The two of
them started off for the Dead
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