Tin Badge

by Len Levinson

  Stone raised his Colts and opened fire. The loud explosions tore the night apart, and the man on the roof staggered. He dropped his rifle, clutched his stomach with both hands, and teetered from one side to the other. Stone shot him again, and the man’s knees gave out. He dropped onto the roof and rolled down the shingles, toppling over the gutter and falling through the air, landing with a loud thump on the ground, where he lay still on his stomach.

  Stone walked toward him, both his Colts ready to fire again, but the man wasn’t moving. Stone dug his boot underneath him and flipped him over onto his back.

  The first thing he saw was the tattoo of a skull on the man’s meaty bicep. Stone looked at the man’s face and recognized him as the one who’d been standing behind him in the Acme Saloon earlier in the evening. Who is this son of a bitch?

  He bent over and searched through the man’s pockets, hoping to find some identification, but all he came up with were a few coins, a jackknife, and a filthy handkerchief.

  He heard footsteps behind him and turned around. A man in a nightshirt, carrying a rifle, approached him.

  “What the hell’s goin’ on?”

  “This man tried to shoot me.”

  Another man came from the other direction, a pistol in his hand. He was fully dressed, but hadn’t had time to tuck in his shirt. A third man advanced through the alley, and he also carried a pistol in his hand.

  Stone thumbed fresh cartridges into his Colts. He finished loading his guns and looked down at the man with the tattoo, wondering who he was. He couldn’t recall ever seeing him before tonight. A few other people came out of buildings in the vicinity and joined the crowd forming around the body of the dead man.

  “Who is he?” somebody asked.

  “Don’t know,” replied Stone.

  Stone puffed his cigarette and thought back to when he was inserting his key in the door of the sheriff’s office. If it hadn’t been a full moon, he might not’ve seen the man on the roof behind him reflected in the glass window, and he might be dead right now.

  Two men came through the alley, one carrying a black bag.

  “What’s the problem here?”

  “This man tried to shoot me.”

  The man with the black bag wore a suit and a long curving white mustache. “You’re Captain Stone, aren’t you? I’ve heard about you, but haven’t had the opportunity to meet you yet. I’m Dr. McGrath, a member of the town council. Have you ever seen this man before?”

  “No.”

  “I wonder why he tried to shoot you.”

  “So do I.”

  “He must’ve had something against you.” Dr. McGrath dropped to one knee and felt the man’s pulse. “He won’t ever try to shoot anybody else, that’s for sure. Where were you when he tried to shoot you?”

  “I was unlocking the door to the sheriff’s office, and he was on the roof up there with a rifle.”

  “Sounds like he was laying for you. You sure you never saw him before?”

  “I saw him earlier tonight, but that’s all. We didn’t have a run-in or anything like that.”

  “You must’ve offended him somehow, or offended somebody else who paid him to kill you. You can’t think of anybody you might’ve offended?”

  “I just arrived in town today, and haven’t had time to offend anybody yet. You don’t need me for anything else, do you, Doctor?”

  “Not right now.”

  Stone pulled the dead man’s pistol out of his holster and jammed it into his belt. Then he picked up the dead man’s rifle and carried it through the alley and across the street to the sheriff’s office. Dropping the rifle and pistol on Pritchard’s desk, he sat on the cot underneath the framed portrait of Robert E. Lee.

  He felt drained of energy, and still had several hours to go. Puffing his cigarette, he tried to figure out why the man with the tattoo had tried to shoot him. Who the hell was he?

  Stone couldn’t think of any enemies he had in Petie, except Sheriff Rawlins. Everybody in the town seemed favorably disposed toward him, except Rawlins. Why had the man with the tattoo made himself Stone’s enemy?

  He couldn’t figure it out. Maybe the man with the tattoo just didn’t like lawmen. Stone couldn’t think of any other possible explanation.

  He lay down and closed his eyes, but his nerves were jangled and he couldn’t sleep. He’d killed two men and the night wasn’t even half over.

  He rolled over onto his side, but couldn’t get comfortable. After several minutes it occurred to him that he wasn’t going to get any sleep, and he decided he might as well try to stay awake until it was time for him to go off duty. He brought his feet around and placed them on the floor. I could use some coffee, he thought.

  He stood and walked to the washbasin, splashing water on his face, drying it with the soiled towel. Then he put on his hat and left the sheriff’s office.

  He walked down Main Street to the Acme Saloon and went inside. Most of the crowd he’d seen earlier had gone home. There was one card game involving six men, and a number of solitary drunks scattered around at tables, staring into space. Several men stood at the bar, drinking alone or in groups. The piano player had gone home, and only one waitress was on duty. She was on the hefty side, with a large bosom and short brown hair, in her forties.

  Stone plopped down at a table against the far wall, facing the front doors, and pushed his hat to the back of his head. He took out his tobacco and rolled another cigarette. The waitress walked toward him.

  “Strong black coffee,” Stone said.

  She shuffled toward the bar. Stone lit his cigarette, and his mouth tasted foul. He wondered how long it’d take before he became accustomed to working at night and sleeping during the day. He thought the rest of the night should be quiet, because most of the drunks were asleep.

  The waitress returned with a pot of coffee and a mug, which she placed in front of him, and he tossed a few coins onto her tray.

  “Mind if I sit down?” she asked.

  “Go right ahead.”

  She dropped onto the chair opposite him and sighed, pulling her hair back from her forehead. “So you’re the new deputy. Glad to meet you, my name’s Rosie. Heard you been havin’ a busy night. Saw you and Rawlins in here a little earlier. You’d better watch out for him. He don’t like you at all.”

  “You been in Petie long?” Stone asked, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

  “I’m Rawlins’s woman.”

  Stone looked at her with more than casual interest. She’d probably been pretty once, before she started gaining weight.

  “Well, it’s true,” Stone said, “Rawlins doesn’t have much use for me. Can’t say why. I’ve never done anything to him. Don’t even hardly know him.”

  “He looks at you and sees himself the way he used to be,” Rosie said. “It makes him mad, but I reckon he’s more mad at himself than he is at you. In the old days he used to walk around this town like he owned it, and everybody loved him, but people got short memories. They didn’t mind his drinkin’ and bad manners in the old days, as long as he was cleanin’ up the town for them, but now that the town’s cleaned up, they’d rather have somebody more presentable, somebody like you.”

  Stone sipped his coffee. “I’m leaving in a month. I’ve got other things that I want to do.”

  She looked askance at him. “Wait’ll the mayor and the town fathers git to workin’ on you. They’ll offer you the moon, and you’ll snap it right up.”

  “No, I’ve got things to do.”

  “They’ll change yer mind. The big boys in this town always git what they want.”

  The sound of an angry voice filled the saloon. “Who in the hell do you think you’re callin’ a liar!”

  “You, you son of a goddamn whore!”

  Stone looked toward the bar and saw two men facing each other. They were dressed like cowboys and looked like they were ready to get down to it.

  “Clem, you’d better apologize right here and goddamn now!” said the man on t
he left, who wore a plaid shirt and a hat with a torn brim.

  “Like hell I will!” replied the man on the right, who was tall and lanky, with a nose like a finger.

  “You no-good varmint—I’ll kill you!”

  The man in the plaid shirt dived on the lanky one, and they tussled in front of the bar. One of their elbows knocked over a mug of beer, and it spilled onto the floor. Men sitting at nearby tables got up and stepped backward out of the way.

  Stone placed his cigarette in the ashtray. Under normal circumstances, he would’ve watched the fight but steered clear of it. Now he was a deputy sheriff, and had to stop it.

  “Be right back,” he said to Rosie.

  Stone placed his hat on the table and walked toward the two men shoving each other in front of the bar.

  “I always knowed you was no fuckin’ good!” shouted the man in the plaid shirt.

  “Go shit in yer hat and pull it down over yer ears!”

  Stone approached the two men and stopped a few feet away from them. “I think you two’d better settle down,” he said.

  They turned and looked at him.

  “Who the hell are you?” asked the one in the plaid shirt.

  “Deputy Sheriff Stone. Why don’t you boys go home and sleep it off?”

  The man in the plaid shirt narrowed his eyes as he looked at Stone’s tin badge. “Well, well, well,” he said. “Look what we got here. A fuckin’ lawman.”

  “Hit the trail, lawman,” said the lanky man, “or else we’ll take yer gun and shove it up yer ass.”

  “Look, Clem,” said the man in the plaid shirt, “he’s wearin’ two guns.”

  “Oh, he must be a helluva lawman, if he’s wearin’ two guns. We’d better go home like he says.”

  The man in the plaid shirt faced Stone. “You think you’re tough enough to make me go home, lawman?”

  “Like I said, I think you boys’d better sleep it off.”

  “You gonna make me?”

  “If I have to.”

  The man in the plaid shirt stepped forward belligerently. “You have to.”

  Stone smiled and held up his hands. “Let’s calm down, gents. C’mon, I’ll buy the both of you a drink.”

  “You can’t buy me off,” said the man in the plaid shirt. “I don’t like cheap lawmen who talk big but can’t back it up. You said you’re gonna make me go home? Well go ahead, make me go home.”

  Stone looked at both of them. They were facing him, spoiling for trouble, ready to jump. He took a step backward. “Just settle down,” he said, “and everything will be all right.”

  “It’s too late for that, lawman. You done put yer nose where it don’t belong. Now I’m gonna have to break it off and push it down yer throat.”

  “Here I stand,” Stone said.

  The man in the plaid shirt looked at his lanky friend and grinned, and his lanky friend grinned back. They took off their hats and laid them on the bar, then turned toward Stone and charged.

  Stone picked up the chair nearest to him and crashed it over the head of the lanky man, then threw a sharp left jab into the face of the man in the plaid shirt. The man in the plaid shirt went flying back into the bar, bounced off it, and came at Stone again, hurtling a punch toward Stone’s jaw, but Stone timed him coming in, dodged the punch, and landed a powerful right cross to the point of his jaw. The impact of the blow raised the man a few inches off the floor and sent him sprawling backward against the bar again.

  Meanwhile, the lanky man raised himself groggily from the floor and touched his hand to his scalp. His fingers came back with blood on them, and he let out a roar of displeasure as he dived toward Stone, tackling him and knocking him backward.

  Stone fell onto a table covered with cards, poker chips, and glasses, and the table collapsed. The lanky cowboy landed on Stone and raised his fist, trying to punch Stone in the mouth, but Stone caught his fist in his left hand and grabbed the lanky cowboy’s throat with his right hand. He squeezed with all his strength, and the lanky man gagged, his face turning blue. Stone hurled him away and climbed to his feet just as the man in the plaid shirt jumped on him again.

  Stone fell back onto the floor, and the man in the plaid shirt was on top. of him in an instant. He slammed his fist into Stone’s mouth, but Stone always had been able to take a good punch. The cowboy raised his fist to punch again, but Stone hit him first with a rocking blow to the left eye, and the cowboy lost his balance. Stone pushed him away and got to his feet just as the lanky man dived on him, knocking him to the floor again.

  This time Stone rolled when he hit the floor and jumped to his feet quickly, raising his fists. His two adversaries attacked him from both sides, and he took a step back to get some punching room. They converged on him, hurling blows at his head, and he ducked underneath their fists, shooting a powerful jab into the gut of the man in the plaid shirt, who was on Stone’s left, and then Stone sidestepped farther to the left to get out of the range of the lanky man’s punches.

  The man in the plaid shirt was bent over with the worst stomachache of his life, and Stone brought both his fists down on his head, propelling him toward the floor, which the man struck with his face, flattening his nose and knocking himself unconscious.

  The lanky man jumped over his fallen friend and reached his fingers toward Stone’s throat, but Stone whacked the man’s arms out of the way with his left hand and hooked him between the eyes with his right hand. The lanky man stopped cold, stunned momentarily, so Stone hooked him again with his right hand, jabbed him with his left, and smashed him in the face with his right. The lanky man stumbled backward and fell onto a table. Stone lifted him by his shirt and threw him into the air. The lanky man flew over the bar and crashed against the rows of bottles on the shelves behind the bar, then dropped unconscious to the floor.

  “Watch out!” somebody shouted.

  Stone turned around and saw the man in the plaid shirt standing there with his face a bloody mask and a bottle in his hands.

  “I’m gonna cut yer fuckin’ throat,” the man said, breaking the bottle on the table beside him.

  Whiskey and shards of glass splattered in all directions, and the jagged edge of the bottle glinted in the light of the lamps as the man in the plaid shirt held it up in the air.

  “Are you sure that’s the way you want it?” Stone asked.

  “That’s the way I want it.”

  Stone reached into his boot and pulled out his knife. “Are you still sure that’s the way you want it?”

  The man in the plaid shirt bellowed like a wild animal and rushed toward Stone, pushing the broken bottle toward Stone’s throat. Stone dodged to the side and jammed the blade of his knife into the man’s wrist, and the man’s forward motion caused the blade to rip his arm open nearly all the way to his shoulder. The man closed his eyes and screamed horribly as blood spurted out of the arteries in his arm. He dropped the bottle involuntarily, and Stone stepped forward, putting all of his weight behind a left hook. It landed on the man’s forehead, and his knees sagged. Stone hit him again, this time in the mouth, and the man stumbled backward, falling against the bar, striking his head against it, and dropping sideways to the floor.

  The lanky man raised his head behind the bar, displaying a black eye, a split lip, and a dazed expression.

  “Want some more?” Stone asked.

  The lanky man looked at the bloody knife in Stone’s hand and shook his head. Stone wiped the knife on the pant leg of the man lying on the floor, and thrust the knife back into his boot.

  “Call the doctor,” he said to the bartender.

  He walked across the saloon to the table where he’d been sitting and dropped onto the chair, reaching for his cup of coffee. He raised the cup to his lips and drained it dry.

  Rosie stood beside the table. “Can I get you anything else?” she asked.

  “Whiskey,” he said.

  Rosie walked toward the bar. Stone lifted his cigarette out of the ashtray and took a drag. The shit a
person has to go through to earn a living. He looked at the man lying in a widening pool of blood in front of the bar. His lanky friend tried to bandage his arm with a length of torn shirt. Stone wondered whether he should arrest both of them. He supposed they’d been disturbing the peace, and he believed it was illegal in most places to attack an officer of the law. Guess I’ll have to arrest them.

  Rosie returned with a bottle of whiskey and a glass. “That was some fight.”

  Stone poured himself three fingers of whiskey and drank it down. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he stood and put on his hat. He walked toward the lanky man, who was tying the bandage around his friend’s arm.

  “You and he are under arrest,” Stone said. Reaching down, he pulled the gun out of the lanky man’s holster. “Get moving.”

  “What about my pardner?”

  “I’ll take care of him. Get moving, and if you start up with me again, I’ll kill you.”

  The lanky man scowled as he walked toward the door. Stone grabbed the collar of the other man and dragged him away from the bar, leaving a trail of blood behind him.

  “When the doctor comes,” Stone said to the bartender, “tell him his patient’s in jail.”

  Stone dragged the man in the plaid shirt out of the bar and onto the sidewalk. The lanky man, who was walking ahead, turned around to look.

  “Keep going,” Stone told him. “The jail’s straight ahead.” “My pardner’s gonna bleed to death.” “He shouldn’t go at people with broken bottles.” Stone made his way toward his office, pulling the unconscious man in the plaid shirt behind him. Stone’s mouth hurt from where he’d been punched during the fight, and he had a cut on his forehead. I don’t think I’ll last a month if every night’s gonna be like this, he thought.

  Tom Hurley lurked behind the boulder, holding his rifle in his hands, aiming at the rider approaching along the moonlit trail. The rider came closer and Hurley squinted his eyes at him. If he was a stranger, Hurley’d shoot him dead, but it was unlikely that a stranger would wander into Deke Casey’s outlaw camp in the middle of the night.