The Man with the Iron Badge Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  Six vs. Two

  “Drink your beer, kid,” Clint said. “I’ve got some thinking to do.”

  At that moment the batwings slammed open and six men rushed in. Clint recognized Brody and his two friends. He didn’t know the other three, but they must have been recruits.

  “There!” Brody shouted, pointing at Clint or Starkweather or maybe both of them. The six went for their guns. Customers dove for cover. Clint and Starkweather also drew their guns.

  The air was soon filled with the unmistakable sound of lead hitting flesh. Clint made every shot count, putting a slug first in Brody’s chest, then in one of the other men. As he shot the third, he readied himself for the onslaught of lead. He turned his gun toward the fourth man, but there were no men standing. All six were on the floor, on their stomachs or on their backs.

  He turned and looked at Starkweather. The boy stood tall, didn’t seem to have been hit.

  “How many shots did you fire?” Clint asked.

  “Three,” Starkweather said as he reloaded.

  “You did pretty good,” Clint said to the kid.

  “So did you.”

  “You didn’t set that up, did you?” Clint asked. “To prove something?”

  Starkweather smiled . . .

  DON’T MISS THESE ALL-ACTION WESTERN SERIES FROM THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  THE GUNSMITH by J. R. Roberts

  Clint Adams was a legend among lawmen, outlaws, and ladies. They called him . . . the Gunsmith.

  LONGARM by Tabor Evans

  The popular long-running series about Deputy U.S. Marshal Custis Long—his life, his loves, his fight for justice.

  SLOCUM by Jake Logan

  Today’s longest-running action Western. John Slocum rides a deadly trail of hot blood and cold steel.

  BUSHWHACKERS by B. J. Lanagan

  An action-packed series by the creators of Longarm! The rousing adventures of the most brutal gang of cutthroats ever assembled—Quantrill’s Raiders.

  DIAMONDBACK by Guy Brewer

  Dex Yancey is Diamondback, a Southern gentleman turned con man when his brother cheats him out of the family fortune. Ladies love him. Gamblers hate him. But nobody pulls one over on Dex . . .

  WILDGUN by Jack Hanson

  The blazing adventures of mountain man Will Barlow—from the creators of Longarm!

  TEXAS TRACKER by Tom Calhoun

  J.T. Law: the most relentless—and dangerous—manhunter in all Texas. Where sheriffs and posses fail, he’s the best man to bring in the most vicious outlaws—for a price.

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

  Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand

  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,

  South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the 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 entirely coincidental.

  THE MAN WITH THE IRON BADGE

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Jove edition / July 2009

  Copyright © 2009 by Robert J. Randisi.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-06023-0

  JOVE®

  Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  JOVE® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  The “J” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  ONE

  The sun did not glint off the star the boy was wearing on his shirt. It wasn’t shiny or polished. It wouldn’t do any good to polish this star, and nobody would ever call it tin.

  So as he rode down the main street of Labyrinth, Texas, nobody really noticed the badge on his chest. Nobody could see it, because it swallowed the sun, didn’t reflect it.

  He reined in his horse in front of the saloon called Rick’s Place. He’d been told he’d find the man he was looking for there.

  He tied his horse and went into the saloon. At midday there wasn’t much activity. He approached the bar and the bartender looked at him, then looked at his badge.

  “What happened to your badge, Deputy?”

  “Sheriff,” the young man corrected, “and there’s nothing wrong with my badge.”

  “Sorry,” the barman said, “no offense. Just thought it looked dirty.”

  “Can I get a beer?”

  “Sure enough, Sheriff,” the bartender said. “Comin’ up.”

  The bartender filled a mug and set it down in front of the young lawman.

  “I’m looking for a man,” he said, after a sip.

  “Any man in particular?”

  “Clint Adams.”

  The bartender didn’t react.

  “The Gunsmith?”

  “I know who he is,” the barman said.

  “Is he around?”

  “Can’t say.”

  “Can’t, or won’t?”

  “Look, Sonny—” the barman started.

&
nbsp; “Look,” the sheriff said, “my age has nothing to do with anything, but this badge does.”

  “You’re out of your jurisdiction,” the bartender said, squinting at the badge, “wherever that is.”

  “Why don’t you get me somebody I can talk to,” the sheriff said. “Like your boss.”

  “You’re in luck,” the bartender said. “The boss is here.”

  “Good, then get him!”

  “Yeah, sure . . .”

  Rick Hartman looked up when the knock came on his door. Since he hated any kind of paperwork, he welcomed the opportunity to turn his attention elsewhere.

  “Come!”

  The door opened and Lew Kelly, his new bartender, stuck his head in.

  “Somebody out here lookin’ for you, Boss.”

  “Who?”

  Kelly shrugged. “Some kinda weird lawman.”

  “What makes him weird?” Hartman asked.

  “Well, for one thing he looked like he’s twelve years old.”

  That was something Rick had noticed since hiring Kelly. The man didn’t like being fifty, and usually took it out on those younger than him. Unless he got that under control he wasn’t going to last very long in his job.

  “And second?”

  “He’s wearin’ some kinda weird badge.”

  “What do you mean weird?” Hartman asked.

  “Well, it don’t got no shine to it,” the man said. “Looks kinda . . . dirty. You know? Covered with . . . crud.”

  “You’ve got my curiosity up,” Hartman said.

  “Well, then this’ll clinch it,” Kelly said. “He’s lookin’ for your buddy, Clint Adams.”

  “He asked for him by name?”

  “Both of ’em,” Kelly said. “Adams and the Gunsmith. What’s it like havin’ a friend so famous?”

  “Well,” Hartman said, standing up, “sometimes it gets me out of paperwork. Let’s go see what this young lawman wants.”

  Kelly led the way out of the office.

  The young lawman saw the two men approaching and turned to face them, holding his beer in his left hand. He wore his gun on his right hip.

  “You looking for Clint Adams?” the second man asked, while the bartender went back behind the bar.

  “That’s right.”

  “Rick Hartman. I own this place.”

  “Must be why it’s called ‘Rick’s.’ ”

  “And what might your name be?”

  “Dan Starkweather,” the young man said. “Sheriff Dan Starkweather.”

  “Sheriff of where?”

  “A town called Danner, in Kansas.”

  “Your badge is kind of hard to read,” Hartman said.

  The lawman smiled.

  “That’s okay,” he replied. “I know what it says.”

  “What brings you here looking for Clint Adams?” Hartman asked.

  “I have a proposition for him.”

  “You’re not looking for a face-off against him, are you?” Hartman asked. “Because if you are, I can advise you not—”

  “No, no,” Starkweather said, “nothin’ like that. I just want to talk to him. Is he around?”

  “Well,” Hartman said, “he’s in town.”

  “I heard he comes in here a lot.”

  “Some, I guess.”

  “Good,” Starkweather said, facing the bar again, “then I guess I’ll just wait for him.”

  “You want another beer while you do that?” Hartman asked. “On the house?”

  The young man smiled and said, “I never turn down free beer.”

  TWO

  Clint rolled the woman over, buried his face between her big sweet-smelling breasts, and buried his rigid cock between her thighs. Not inside her, though, not yet. Just between her big thighs. It still felt really good, though, rubbing his cock between her thighs while he nursed on her chewable nipples.

  That’s when the knock came at the door.

  “Damn!” he swore.

  She held him tightly when he tried to move.

  “I’ve got to get that,” he said.

  “If you were inside me,” she said, “I wouldn’t let you go.”

  He smiled, kissed her, and slid free of her thighs. He pulled on his trousers and went to the door. It was Rick Hartman.

  “I’ve got a lawman at my place waiting to see you,” the saloon owner said.

  “Who is it?”

  “Young fella named Starkweather. You know him?”

  “I know that name,” Clint said. “But in my memory it doesn’t go with a young face. What’s his first name?”

  “Dan.”

  “Uh-uh,” Clint said. “I don’t know him. Guess I better come on over and see what he wants.”

  “Clint?” the woman called out. “I’m getting cold.”

  Hartman smiled.

  “There’s no reason you have to hurry,” he said. “He said he’s going to wait until you get there. I just figured you needed to know what you were walking into, so I slipped out the back.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “I’ll finish up here and then come over for a drink.”

  “I’ll see you then.”

  Clint closed the door and turned to face the woman on the bed. She had her hands up over her head, pulling her big breasts taut.

  “Either get over here or throw me a blanket.”

  “Well,” he said, “I don’t seem to have any blankets, so . . .”

  Sheriff Dan Starkweather nursed his third beer. He didn’t want to be drunk when Clint Adams showed up. He figured since Rick Hartman had done a disappearing act, he had probably slipped out the back to warn Adams that somebody was waiting for him. Starkweather didn’t mind if Adams knew he was waiting.

  The saloon began to fill with more men as the afternoon wore on. Starkweather got a spot at one end of the bar and stayed out of everyone’s way. Up close his badge was catching some stares, but nobody said a word—not yet, anyway. He knew his youth and the odd sight of his badge sometimes made him the target of some ridicule. Usually, it was just somebody having fun, but sometimes it escalated into something dangerous. He hoped that wouldn’t be the case here.

  Just then three men entered the saloon, looked around, and approached the bar. Starkweather had not been wearing his badge for very long, but he knew men on the prod when he saw them. These three were obviously looking for some action, or some trouble.

  They elbowed their way to the bar and loudly ordered three beers. Starkweather hoped they wouldn’t look over at him, but he had been in Rick’s Place long enough for the trouble to be inevitable.

  And then one of three did look over at him, and nudged his buddies.

  Here we go, Starkweather thought.

  THREE

  The woman’s name was Laurie, and Clint had met her in Rick’s saloon. She didn’t work there, and she wasn’t a whore. She had simply come in to get a drink. Immediately, the men in the place had surrounded her, and Clint took it upon himself to cut her from the herd for himself. He bought a bottle of whiskey for them and invited her to his room, where it was quiet. She accepted. That’s where they had been since the night before. The whiskey had run out long before they lost interest in sex and went to sleep.

  But sleep didn’t last long. He woke that morning with the big-breasted blonde between his legs, rolling his cock between her tits until it was good and hard, and then taking it into her mouth. She sucked him then, until he exploded into her mouth with a roar.

  They continued to have sex during the day until Rick Hartman showed up at the door.

  When he went back to bed with Laurie, Clint resumed the position he had been in, stretched out on top of her. She’d been lying. She wasn’t cold at all, she was burning hot.

  This time when he slid his penis between her thighs, he found her vagina wet and waiting. He plunged into her right to the root and she gasped, brought her legs up around him, and held on tightly.

  “Oh, God,” she gasped as he fucked her. “Oh, yeah, just like that, don’
t stop, Clint, don’t . . .”

  And he didn’t stop, not until they were both exhausted . . .

  She watched him get dressed and asked, “When will you be back?”

  “I probably won’t be long,” he said. “When I come back, we’ll get something to eat.”

  “Good,” she said. “I’m starved.”

  “And then over supper,” he said, “We can get to know a little about each other.”

  She laughed. “We ain’t done much talking, have we?”

  “No, we haven’t.”

  He strapped on his gun and headed for the door.

  “Aren’t you going to kiss me good-bye?”

  “No,” he said. “If I touch your skin, I won’t leave this room.”

  As Clint was going out the door, she yelled, “That might be the nicest thing anybody’s ever said to me!”

  “What’s wrong with yer badge?” one of the three men asked.

  Starkweather thought about ignoring them, but he knew that wouldn’t work. It never did.

  “There’s nothing wrong with it,” Starkweather said. “It’s just the way I like it.”

  “I ain’t never seen a badge like that,” a second man said around a huge chaw of tobacco.

  “What’s it made from?” the third man asked.

  “Iron.”

  “An iron badge?” the first man asked. “That’s why it ain’t got no shine.”

  “Is it real?” the man with the chaw asked.

  “Yes,” Starkweather said.

  “No, it ain’t,” the third man said. “It can’t be. If it was real, it’d be a tin star, like all the rest.”

  “This one is special,” Starkweather said.

  “How so?” the first man asked.

  “Had it made for myself.”

  “Tol’ ya it wasn’t real,” the third man said.