The Man with the Iron Badge Read online

  “Oh, it’s real,” Starkweather said. “When I got the job, I had a blacksmith make me the badge.”

  “I say it ain’t real!” the third man said.

  “Yeah, me, too,” the man with the chaw said.

  “Hear that?” the first man said. “We don’t none of us think it’s real. That means if we was to take you, we wouldn’t be takin’ no lawman.”

  “Now, why would you want to do that?” Starkweather asked.

  “Look atcha,” the man with the chaw said. “You ain’t old enough ta drink let alone wear a badge. And yer lookin’ at us like yer better than us.”

  “I’m not looking at you at all,” Starkweather said. “In fact, you started the conversation, not me.”

  “I say we take ’im,” the third man said.

  “Me, too,” the man with the chaw said.

  “That would be a bad idea,” Starkweather said.

  “Why?” the first man asked.

  “Because if you try to take me, I’ll have to kill you.”

  “All three of us?” the man with the chaw laughed.

  “That’s right,” Starkweather said. “All three of you. It would only be fair.”

  FOUR

  As the three men stepped away from the bar, everyone in the saloon knew there was going to be trouble, so they started moving out of the way. Some of them overturned tables to hide behind.

  “Now wait a minute!”

  Rick Hartman moved quickly, positioning himself between the three men and the sheriff with the iron badge.

  “This is my place and I’m not about to have it busted up,” he said.

  “You don’t get outta the way,” the first man said, “a lot more than your place is gonna be busted up.”

  “Look,” Hartman said, “this man is an officer of the law.”

  “That badge ain’t real,” the man with the chaw said. “I ain’t never seen no iron badge.”

  “It’s real,” Hartman said. “If you kill him, you’re killing a lawman. They’ll never stop hunting you.”

  The three men looked confused.

  “You better step aside, Mr. Hartman,” Starkweather said. “Only one thing will stop these men.”

  “You think you can stop us?” the first man asked.

  “It’s my job.”

  “Not in this town it ain’t,” Hartman said. “You may be a lawman, but you don’t have jurisdiction in this town.”

  “Okay, saloon owner,” the first man said. “Time for you to make a move.”

  “Go ahead, Rick,” another voice said. “Move out of the way.”

  Eyes turned to the batwing doors. Clint Adams had entered quietly and was standing right in front of the doors.

  “Your name’s Brody, isn’t it?” he asked the spokesman of the three.

  “That’s right.”

  “You know who I am?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Brody said, “you’re Clint Adams.”

  “I came over here to talk with this young fellow,” Clint said, indicating Starkweather. “And when I get here I find you trying to kill him.”

  “Well, we—”

  “If you kill him,” Clint went on, “I wasted my time coming here, and I hate to waste my time.”

  Brody exchanged glances with his two compadres.

  “So go ahead,” Clint said. “Make your play, but if you kill him, I’m going to be upset, because I still have to talk to him. And then you’ll have to deal with me before you can leave this saloon.”

  The three men stared at him.

  “Time to make a decision,” Clint said.

  They looked at Starkweather. Rick Hartman had stepped out of the way.

  “Like he said, gents,” Starkweather said. “Time to make your decision.”

  There was a long moment of pregnant silence, and then Brody started toward the door. His two compadres followed him.

  As they passed Clint, he said in a low voice, “Don’t come back here . . . ever.”

  Brody nodded and left, his two friends right behind him.

  Clint approached the bar, waved at the bartender, and said, “Cold beer.”

  “Comin’ up.”

  Hartman came up next to Clint and said, “Thanks. You cost me two customers.”

  “How did I do that?”

  “You didn’t have to tell them not to ever come back here.”

  “Sorry,” Clint said. “I thought I did.” He turned to look at the young lawman. “Beer?”

  Starkweather looked at the one in his hand. It had gone warm and flat.

  “Sure.”

  Clint turned to Hartman.

  “Rick? Join us?”

  “No,” Hartman said. “I’ll leave the two of you to get acquainted. I need to get my business back to normal.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  As the bartender gave Starkweather a fresh beer, Clint walked down to join him at the end of the bar.

  “I’m Clint Adams,” he said. “I understand you want to talk to me.”

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

  “Danner? I don’t know it.”

  “It’s about five miles east of Ellsworth,” Starkweather said. “It’s not much.”

  “But you’re the sheriff?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Danner got a telegraph office?”

  “It does.”

  “And if I sent a telegram, I’d find out you’re telling the truth?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay then,” Clint said. “Drink up and tell me what’s on your mind.”

  FIVE

  “My name’s Dan Starkweather,” the sheriff said. “That mean anything to you?”

  “Well,” Clint said, “I’ve heard the name Starkweather before, but not Dan.”

  “You’ve heard of Nathan Starkweather.”

  “Yes.”

  “The gunman.”

  “For want of a better word.”

  “I have another word to describe him,” Starkweather said, “but I don’t know if it’s better.”

  “What word is that?”

  “Father.”

  “Ah.”

  “Yes,” Starkweather said, “ah.”

  “Well, judging from your badge, you haven’t taken up the family business.”

  “No, sir,” Starkweather said. “I prefer to walk on the right side of the law.”

  “Tell me something, son.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty.”

  “How did you get to be sheriff?”

  “Nobody else wanted the job.”

  “And what about that badge?”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s a little unusual, don’t you think?”

  “It’s a lot unusual,” Starkweather said, “but it won’t bend so easy.”

  “No, I guess it won’t.”

  “So, now I guess I should tell you why I’ve come looking for you.”

  “You sound fairly well educated to me, Dan,” Clint said.

  “I went to a university in the East,” Starkweather said. “I came back west when I graduated.”

  “And what did you study?”

  “The law.”

  “So you’re a lawyer?”

  “Not yet,” he said. “I haven’t taken the bar exam yet.”

  “When do you intend to do that?”

  “When I’ve finished with this.”

  “And what’s this?”

  “I was about to tell you,” he said.

  “Right, right, I interrupted you. But wait, are you hungry?”

  “Well, seeing as how I’ve been standing around here all day drinking beer and waiting for you, yes, I am very hungry.”

  “Well, at the risk of making a young lady very mad at me,” Clint said, “why don’t you let me buy you a steak, and we can talk?”

  “Sounds good.”

  They both put the remainder of their beer on the bar a
nd left Rick’s Place.

  Clint took Starkweather to a restaurant down the street that had opened only a few months ago. It was the first time Labyrinth had ever had something larger than a café. It used to be that each time Clint left town and came back, he enjoyed the fact that he saw no growth in the town. Lately, however, over the past few years, things had begun to change. This restaurant—called Del Rio’s—was part of that change.

  Clint had been there a few times since it had opened, and they recognized him now when he walked in.

  “Welcome back, Mr. Adams. Table for two?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Clint felt bad that he didn’t recall the man’s name.

  “Henry will be your waiter,” the man said.

  “Thank you,” Clint said again when they were seated.

  As they waited for the waiter, Starkweather said, “This looks like a place I used to eat in Philadelphia.”

  “Yeah,” Clint said, “the East and West are starting to blend a little too much for my taste. But I can’t deny the food is good.”

  When a man in a black suit came over to their table, he introduced himself as Henry.

  “Two steak dinners, please, Henry,” Clint said.

  “Right away, Mr. Adams. And two beers?”

  “Yes, two beers would be great.”

  Henry brought the beers quickly, soon followed by the steak dinners. Clint and Starkweather paid strict attention to their meals until they were both about halfway through.

  “Okay,” Clint said, “I think I’m ready to hear your story now.”

  Starkweather said, “I think I’m ready to tell it.”

  SIX

  “You don’t know what it’s like growing up and hearing the stories about your father, the killer,” Dan Starkweather said. “My mother sent me to live with members of her family in Philadelphia, and I ended up getting most of my education there. And I was living there when I heard that my mother had died.”

  “That’s tough,” Clint said. “I’m sorry.”

  “You know what’s tougher?” the kid asked. “Knowing that your father killed your mother.”

  “He killed her?”

  “Well, I don’t mean he pulled the trigger,” Starkweather said. “I mean being married to him killed her.”

  Clint understood that. He’d heard lots of men and women put that kind of blame on a parent.

  “My father has run roughshod over the West for as long as I can remember. He’s not as well known as you, but he has a more vicious reputation. I read dime novels about him back East. His vicious crimes are well documented.”

  “Dan, I’ve had dime novels written about me,” Clint said. “Believe me, you can’t believe everything you read in those rags.”

  “Even if twenty percent of it is true, he needs to be stopped, and nobody seems to be able to do it.”

  “So you’re going to do it?”

  “I am,” he said. “I knew a town that needed a sheriff, and I went and got the job. And I had this badge made up.”

  “Why did you have it made out of iron?”

  “Because there’s something my father does that didn’t make it into the dime novels. I know about it, and anybody who knows him knows about it.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Whenever he kills a lawman, he crimps his badge.”

  “Crimps.”

  “My father has very strong hands,” the boy explained. “He takes a badge in his hand and bends it in two.”

  “I see what you mean.”

  “Well,” Dan Starkweather said, “he’s not going to be able to do that to my badge. So even if he kills me, I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that.”

  “I see.” Clint ate the last piece of his steak and pushed the plate away from him. Henry was at his elbow immediately.

  “Anything else, Mr.Adams?”

  “Coffee for me, Henry, and a piece of peach pie. Sheriff?”

  “I’ll have the same,” the young lawman said.

  “Right away, sir.”

  Henry removed their plates and went to the kitchen.

  “Okay, Dan,” Clint said, “this is where you tell me how I fit in.”

  “My father doesn’t ride alone,” Starkweather said. “He usually has a gang of about half a dozen men riding with him.”

  “You want me to come along and take care of them?” Clint asked.

  “Well,” Starkweather said, “not all of them. I do intend to bring my father in myself, but between the two of us I think we can take care of his gang and get them out of the way.”

  Clint sat back as Henry arrived with the coffee and pie. When the waiter left, he remained back in his seat, regarding the young man across from him.

  “Dan—can I call you Dan?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You can call me Clint, not sir.”

  “Yes, si—Clint.”

  “What makes you think you’ve got what it takes to do this?” Clint asked. “And . . . why should I put my life in your hands, because that’s what I’d be doing if I threw in with you on this.”

  “Because,” Dan Starkweather said, “the only thing I inherited from my father is his ability with a gun. And, from everything I’ve heard, I’d put him up against you and give him a good chance.”

  “Your father’s fast, there’s no denying that.”

  “Have you met him? Or gone up against him already? No, if you had, one of you would be dead.”

  “You’re right, I haven’t gone against him, and I haven’t met him. I just know his reputation.”

  “And would you be afraid to face him?”

  “You know,” Clint said, “some good healthy fear can’t hurt.”

  “Then you are.”

  “It wouldn’t matter,” Clint said. “Fear’s got nothing to do with the way I live. Or with the way your father lives.”

  “What about the way I live?” Starkweather asked.

  Clint leaned forward to cut off a chunk of his pie with his fork and said, “Especially the way you live.”

  SEVEN

  “You didn’t see any fear in me with those three yahoos in the saloon, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Clint said. “I should have, but I didn’t. You would have stood there and drawn down on the three of them.”

  “Yes, I would have. And I’d have killed them.”

  “Without taking a bullet yourself?” Clint asked.

  “I think so.”

  “Eat your pie.”

  “Will you come with me?”

  “I’ve got to think about it, Dan.”

  “You are afraid,” Starkweather said.

  “If that’s what you want to believe, then I can’t stop you,” Clint said.

  “We can go outside and I can show you how good I am,” the sheriff said.

  “How? You going to shoot at some bottles? Some targets?”

  “How about we face each other?” Starkweather asked. “If I outdraw you, you come with me.”

  “And if I outdraw you?”

  Starkweather shrugged. “Then I’ll go alone.”

  “I’ve got a better idea,” Clint said. “That is, if you’re really sure about your ability.”

  Starkweather looked suspicious. “What have you got in mind?”

  “We face off,” Clint said. “Like you said, if you beat me, I go along.”

  “And if you beat me?”

  “You forget the whole thing and go back East, where you belong.”

  “I don’t belong back there!” Starkweather snapped.

  “Okay, okay,” Clint said, aware that he’d hit a nerve. “So you stay here in the West, but you still forget about bringing your father in.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t let him get away with what he did.”

  “But if you’re so sure you can beat me, where’s the risk?”

  “There’s always a risk,” Starkweather said.

  “So you don’t think you ca
n beat me.”

  “I think I can,” Starkweather said, “but I don’t know for sure.”

  “You can never know anything for sure, kid, until you try,” Clint said.

  “Come on,” Starkweather said. “Do it my way.”

  “I don’t like to draw my gun on a man unless I aim to kill him,” Clint said.

  Starkweather ignored his pie and chewed on his lips, instead. “Okay.”

  “Okay you’ll do it my way?” Clint asked.

  “No,” Starkweather said, “but I’ll do it for real.”

  “What?”

  “You and me, in the street,” Starkweather said. “No contest. For real.”

  “You’d risk killing me—or being killed—to make your point?” Clint asked.

  “Yes.”

  “But you won’t risk . . .” What should he call it? “ . . . your quest?”

  “No.”

  “But if I kill you, your father goes scot-free.”

  Suddenly, Starkweather looked confused.

  “Son,” Clint said, pushing his chair back, “you better give this a lot of thought before you go any further. I don’t think you’re thinking straight.”

  “Wait—”

  “Finish your pie and coffee,” Clint said. I’ll pay the check on my way out. If you want to talk some more, I’ll be in the saloon later on. Right now I’ve got to try to make amends to a lady.”

  “But Clint—”

  Clint walked away without another word and left the restaurant.

  “You bastard!” Laurie said when he walked into his room. “You ate something.”

  “I did,” he said, “but I’m here to make it up to you. Come on, I’ll take you for something to eat.”

  “I am dressed,” she said, “and I’m not ready to forgive you, so you can stay here while I go get something to eat.”

  She stormed to the door, then turned and said, “I better not find out you ate with another woman.”

  As she left, he realized they still knew nothing about each other, and he didn’t even know her last name.

  EIGHT

  Clint was standing at the bar in Rick’s Place, nursing a beer and talking to the new bartender, Lew Kelly, when Dan Starkweather came walking in.

  “Here’s that kid,” Kelly said. “I think he’s a good one to stay away from.”

  “Why don’t you put a beer on the bar for him, and then you can do that,” Clint suggested.