His Name Is Slade - Book 2: Slade, #2

By Scott Howey

Jock and Mitch Foster sought revenge against their parents killer. Mayor Douglas Blay and Sheriff Sam Payne were at the centre of the chaos that descended upon them.

The brothers hired the man who killed their brother to help them achieve justice.

His name was Slade.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outlaws Publishing LLC
• Release date: May 11, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224516551

Scott Howey

Scott Howey was born in small town in rural Australia. He spent his youth traveling and working in a variety of jobs from truck driving to working with youth, before settling down into the education sector. He is the father of three daughters. Scott wrote his first western in 2017.

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HIS NAME IS SLADE

Book 2

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SCOTT HOWEY

Copyright © 2018 Scott Howey

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recorded, photocopied, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copywritten material.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

This book may contain views, premises, depictions, and statements by the author that are not necessarily shared or endorsed by Outlaws Publishing LLC.

For information contact: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Michael Thomas

Cover design by Outlaws Publishing LLC

Published by Outlaws Publishing LLC

May 2024

10987654321 

For Madilyn

I am proud of you Baby.

Chapter 1

I’m going to whoop the next man that walks through that door.

Hank Foster, nicknamed the Mule, had a penchant for violence. Well, a particular sort of violence. He didn’t carry a gun because he couldn’t shoot straight. He didn’t possess a knife, because he had no special need for one. But, when a man finds something, he’s good at, and it's the only thing he knows, well he tends to favour his ability and likes to show others how good he is. 

A man who’s quick on the draw is both admired and feared and Hank Foster was seeking his own reputation in and around Amarillo.  

He was a fighting man and sought to impress others with his ability to maim. Impressing others was difficult, because instilling fear in men doesn’t impress many, but he knew no better and persisted. The Mule claimed to never have tasted defeat and the men who saw him in action could testify to this statement. He stood no taller than six-foot, but his wide frame connected to thighs as round as oil barrels held a firm, thick and square torso. An over-sized bald head sat between his shoulders where there was hardly a neck. His shoulders ached, and to the casual observer, he could have been considered a hunchback.

Spit dribbled out his mouth as his voice rose louder, the next man, you hear?

He walked around in a circle eyeing the patrons of the watering hole, his gaze daring them to challenge him. He intimidated and scared them and this pleased him. He laughed and his thick red moustache, that curled at the ends, moved slightly. You call yourself men.

The goading didn’t work. The men had seen the Mule in action before, and they had no desire to be whipped. Sure, he had spent his fair share of time in the hoosegow, but he had a knack of inciting others to strike first. It could be argued that he wasn’t bright and he didn’t know how to read, but every man has his strengths, which are not always visible at first.

He paced the floor parallel to the bar which ran along the left side of the room. His heavy frame squeaking the floorboards as he walked. He paused and eyed the patrons, his glare daring them to challenge him. When they refused to look at him, he cursed, you call yourselves men? 

The barman and owner of the saloon, a nondescript gentleman, by the name of Stanley Coates was wiping down the bar when the Mule’s movements caused him some agitation. You just can’t go beating up on people Hank.

The Mule stopped in the middle of the bar and eyed the barman, why not?

Stanley Coates had a failing, honesty, the man couldn’t help but tell the truth. It had gotten him into trouble in the past and no doubt would again, but he knew no other way, it’s bad for business, you’re scaring everyone away, I’m losing customers because of you.

The antagonist eyed the barman and considered the small man’s features. He was a dandy looking fellow, short, almost effeminate with glasses that perched on a long thin nose. I’ll make you a deal Stanley.

The barman removed his glasses and cleaned them on his apron, what’s it to be Hank?

I’ll quit this godforsaken watering hole, he laughed, confident and pleased with his next statement, when a man takes me down.

Stanley’s hopes faded. He had seen Hank the Mule Foster in action too many times to have much hope that the man would leave his establishment forever, still he had nothing to lose and everything to gain from the deal. Eying the man carefully, he extended his hand and the men shook. The deal had been sealed. 

Hank turned to face the patrons, I’m a man of my word and you’re the witnesses. When I get licked, I will leave this poor excuse of a saloon forever.

The patrons were pleased with the deal, but considered it didn’t matter much since the Mule had destroyed all the men that stood before him.

All heads turned towards the bat wings when they heard the soft fall of hooves approach. They moved steady and slow, coming to a complete stop. The footfalls on the hard ground could be heard and it was clear that a man had dismounted. A tense minute ensued before they heard footsteps on the steps that lead up into the saloon. The footsteps stopped and the patrons, along with Stanley Coates and Hank Foster waited in anticipation at the man’s entrance. They wanted to see the man Hank Foster was going to whoop, and what a whooping it would be.

The light but sure steps of a man approached the bat wings and they squeaked in the silence as he stepped inside. He stood a little over six-feet, lean and muscular, though not overly so. He wore his Colt.45 on his right hip and the dull handle of a Bowie knife rested on his belt buckle.  Black hair fell over a faded blue bandana and a thick moustache ran towards the end of his chin. 

His eyes, the color of gun-barrel gray scanned the room. He absorbed the silence and took a deep breath. His eyes scoured the room and came to rest on the bald-headed man who stood by the bar eyeing him intensely. He had stepped into trouble, but it didn’t matter what it was, he wanted a drink. 

He moved slowly to the bar and rested his hands on the finished top. Whiskey.

Stanley Coates responded to the man's request, but Foster reached across the bar and grabbed him by the shirt collar and took the bottle from his grasp. He eyed the stranger and sneered before uncorking the bottle and taking a swig. He took two steps closer to his next victim and placed the bottle on the bar. We don’t like strangers around here.

The stranger eyed him carefully. I don’t care what you, or anybody else likes mister.

Hank Foster snarled, it was sure going to be nice beating this stranger to a pulp. You’ve got a mouth on you stranger.

Slade was tired. He had just ridden into Amarillo from the place with no name, where a series of events left him in a cantankerous mood. Time often makes the difference between thought and action and the scene of events that transpired were still too fresh in his mind for him to be anything but amenable to the demands of a good for nothing loud mouth. 

Quick thinking you lummox, did you come up with that all by yourself?

Foster took another swig, and spat the liquor back in the bottle, sat the bottle on the bar and pushed it towards the stranger. This is the only drink you’ll be getting today.

Slade wasn’t apt to indulge the man in trivialities so went straight for the throat. Grasping the bottle by the neck with the speed that shocked the barman, the witnesses and Foster, he crashed the bottle against the antagonist’s right ear. Blood gushed out of a severe wound as Fosters ear went limp and hung loose. 

Screaming in pain he stepped back in shock and fright. The blow had made his ear ring and his eyes water. He didn’t know whether to grab his ear or wipe the tears away from his eyes. Either way it didn’t matter. In Slade’s hand was the jagged neck of the broken bottle. He took a step forward and jammed the broken glass into the man’s neck. 

The Mule, Hank Foster, didn’t know what to do. He was done for and it was only a matter of time before he was dead. The patrons were stunned and some men escaped through the bat wings, though most stood to get a better look at the bleeding form of Foster as he crashed to the floor, whining like a mangy dog.

I’ll shoot any man that tries to save him.

Men stopped and watched as the stranger loosed the string off the hammer of his Colt.45. It was a tall skinny man, with a jugular as protrusive as his nose that spoke. Now mister, we only want to watch him die. It’d sure give us some pleasure to do so.

He nodded resignedly, knowing through experience as he eyed the men, that he would see no trouble from them, this or any other day.

The Mule had bled out and lay dying as Slade moved around behind the bar, grabbed a bottle, a glass and left his money on the bar. He stared at the barman who approached him and took the money in his thin bony hand and held it out in front of the stranger. Your money's no good here mister.

Slade lowered the bottle and his eyes pierced the barman who saw in the stranger’s gaze sorrow, pain and anger. It was the sort of feeling that was deep-seated, had its roots in the earth of a troubled youth. It wasn’t one that would be distinguished easily. 

Foster was a pest and deserved everything and more of what you did to him... um.

Slade.

The barman gasped. The name had been discussed in and around Amarillo for a few weeks now. Men both admired and feared him, though some had made an open challenge to him. Mostly it was the booze that loosened their lips and filled them with a courage, that in the cold light of day amounted to almost nothing. 

Slade was a man that felt his way through life instead of living it how others expected him to. Running from his name and his past was a habit he had grown out of. It was the old man who indirectly taught him that hiding does no man any favors. You were saying?

Your money's no good here Slade, that bottles on the house, He leaned forward as Slade put the money back in his shirt pocket.

The man called Slade moved to the corner of the room and sat with his back to the wall. Pouring himself a glass of rotgut. He watched the men file in and out of the bat wings and heard the muffled talk of the men at the bar. He sat by the window that had a clear view of the sheriff’s office. Grasping the glass with a firm, yet caressing grip he raised it to his mouth. A movement to his left caught his attention and a large man came out the front door of the sheriff's office followed by two men of smaller, yet unforgiving stature.  

The man at the center stood taller than himself, heavier in the stomach, though broad across the shoulders. A thick moustache, like his own ran down to the corners of his chin. He was well-kept and took pride in his appearance. A black Stetson, sat evenly on his head, as a hat should be worn. He stepped into the street and made his way stoically