Clint didn’t like Kelly. He’d have to tell Rick that before he forgot.
“That for me?” Starkweather asked.
“It is.”
Starkweather stepped forward and picked the beer up.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d still be talking to me,” the kid said.
“Sure, why not?” Clint asked. “No harm was ever done by talking.”
“Look,” the kid said, “I’m sorry, okay? I don’t know what I was thinking, suggesting that we face off. I’m just . . . anxious.”
“Do you know where your father is?” Clint asked.
“Exactly? No,” Starkweather said, “but I’ve got a general idea.”
“And where would this general idea take you?” Clint asked.
“New Mexico.”
“And if I don’t go with you, will you go alone?” Clint asked.
“Yes, sir,” Starkweather said. “This is something I’ve got to do.”
“Do you think your father will come in with you?”
“No, sir,” Starkweather said honestly. “In fact, he might not even believe I’m his son.”
“And if he doesn’t, he’ll try to kill you.”
“I guess.”
“And there’s no way I can talk you out of this?” Clint asked.
For what seemed to be the hundredth time Starkweather said, “No, sir. No way.”
Clint sighed.
“Drink your beer, kid,” he 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 friends the others had recruited.
“There!” Brody shouted, pointing at either Clint or Starkweather or maybe both.
The six men went for their guns. Customers dove for cover.
Clint and Starkweather drew their guns.
The air was filled with hot lead, smoke, the sounds of breaking glass, and 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 noticed that there were no other men standing. All six were on the floor, either on their stomach or their back.
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.
Same amount he had fired.
People started getting themselves up off the floor. Lew Kelly crawled out from behind the bar, and Rick Hartman came running from his office, gun in hand.
“Easy, Rick,” Clint said. “It’s all over.”
“What the hell—”
“Brody came back with his friends, and with some help,” Clint said. “Guess he figured they had the numbers on their side.”
“You gunned all six?” Hartman asked.
“I fired three shots,” Clint said, “and so did my friend.”
Hartman walked over to the fallen bodies, checked them each.
“All dead,” he said, “plugged dead center. Come on, boys, give me a hand getting these bodies out of here.” He looked at Clint and Starkweather. “Go wait in my office. I’ll handle the law.”
Clint turned to retrieve his beer, and found that a stray bullet had shattered the mug.
“Kelly!”
“Comin’ up, Mr. Adams.”
Clint and Starkweather sat in Rick Hartman’s office and drank their beer.
“You did pretty good out there,” Clint said to the younger man.
“So did you.”
“You didn’t set that up, did you?” Clint asked. “To prove something?”
Starkweather smiled. “No, sir, but now I’m wondering why I didn’t think of it.”
Clint also approved of the way Starkweather had quickly replaced the spent shells in his gun with live rounds before he holstered it.
“Okay,” Clint said.
“Okay . . . what?” Starkweather asked.
“I’ll go along with you on this . . . quest of yours,” he said.
“All ri—”
“But there have to be some ground rules.”
“Name them.”
“Give me some time,” Clint said, “I’ll think of some. You got a horse?”
“I do.”
“Okay. You want to leave in the morning?”
“I’m ready now.”
Clint swirled the beer at the bottom of his mug and said, “Tomorrow will be soon enough, kid.”
NINE
Clint stayed in Rick’s Place after the front doors were closed and locked.
“Need me for anything else, Boss?” Kelly asked.
“No, Lew,” Hartman said. “Go on home.”
“Okay,” Kelly said. “ Night, Mr. Adams.”
Clint just waved his hand.
Hartman followed the bartender to the front doors and locked them behind him.
Clint moved around behind the bar.
“You want a beer?” he asked.
“Sure.”
Hartman approached the bar and Clint set a mug of beer in front of him.
“I don’t like that guy,” he said.
“Can’t say I’m crazy about him, either,” Hartman admitted.
“Why don’t you fire him?”
“He hasn’t given me any reason to,” Hartman said. “He does his job.”
“Poor reason not to fire somebody.”
“What are you mad at?” Hartman asked. “Or who?”
“Well, for one thing I don’t like killing people, so I’m mad about that.”
“Then be mad at the dead men, don’t be mad at me,” Hartman said. “What else?”
“The kid.”
“What about him?”
“His father’s name is Nate Starkweather.”
“Well, I’ll be . . . and is he on the level? I mean, with that badge?”
“I only have his word for it, but yeah, I think he’s on the level.”
“So what’s he want with you?”
“He wants to go after his father.”
“For what?”
“To bring him in.”
“So, tell him to go ahead. Why does he need your blessing?”
“He wants me to go with him.”
“What for? Do you know Nate Starkweather?”
“No, but he’ll have a gang with him.”
“So he handles the father and you handle the gang?” Hartman asked. “Sounds a little uneven to me.”
“He handled himself okay tonight,” Clint said.
“Oh hell,” Hartman said. “You’ve already made up your mind, haven’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re going with him?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“If I let him go alone, it’ll be the same thing as shooting him myself.”
“I don’t follow that logic at all,” Hartman said, “but never mind. I never understand it when you take a hand in somebody else’s trouble. When are you leaving?”
“In the morning.”
“Does he know where his old man is?”
“He’s got it narrowed down to New Mexico.”
“Yeah,” Hartman said, “and by the time you get to New Mexico, where will he be?”
“I don’t know, Rick,” Clint said. “I guess we’ll just have to find out.”
“Well, I know you well enough to know I can’t talk you out of this.”
“I’ll see you when I get back,” Clint said.
“As always, watch your back, my friend.”
The two men shook hands, and Clint left the saloon.
TEN
Nate Starkweather watched his men empty the bank safe and fill some bank bags with coin and paper money. Another of his men had the bank employees and a few customers backed ag
ainst a wall and was keeping them covered.
Nate was staring out the front window, waiting for the arrival of the law. He liked nothing better than watching lawmen run toward him, with the sun glinting off their badges. His mentor, the Mexican gunman Jose Batista, had told him to use that reflected light as targets, and he had spent his life doing just that.
“Here they come!” he shouted. “Right on time. Are we ready?”
“Ready, Boss!” his number one man, Santino, called out.
He had one man out front holding the horses, four men with him in the bank. Three of them came out from behind the tellers’ cages with money bags.
“Let’s go!” Starkweather called out.
He opened the door and ran out, his men behind him. He heard a shot from inside the bank, but didn’t let that concern him. His only concern was the approaching lawmen, running with their guns out.
“Hold it right there!” the sheriff yelled.
“Mount up!” Starkweather shouted to his men.
As his men grabbed their horses and mounted up, Starkweather stepped clear of the excited animals so he could have a clear shot. He drew his gun and fired two shots. With unerring accuracy each of his bullets drilled a hole in one of the tin stars pinned to the chests of the lawmen. Both men staggered and went down.
Starkweather holstered his gun, mounted his horse, and led his men out of town. He was careful to have all of his men ride their horses right over the bodies of the sheriff and his deputy.
The townspeople of Lost Mesa, New Mexico, watched helplessly as the gang rode out of town.
Nate Starkweather waited until they were several miles outside of town before he raised his hand to halt the gang’s progress.
“Think we should be stoppin’ here, Boss?” one of the men asked.
“Yeah,” another man said. “What about a posse?”
“There won’t be any posse,” Santino said. “Not for a while. They will need to appoint a new sheriff first.”
Starkweather took the time to replace his spent shells with live ones, then holstered his gun.
“Evans, gimme your bag,” he said.
Paul Evans looked reluctant to part with his bag of money, but Santino went over and grabbed it from him, carried it to Starkweather.
“Walker,” Starkweather said. “Your bag.”
“Sure, Boss.”
Walker dismounted, and carried his bag to his boss.
“Santino, you take Ryan’s bag.”
Santino did as he was told. Now he had two bags tied to his saddle, and so did Starkweather. A man named Leo Vail had the fifth bag.
“Okay, now we split up,” Starkweather said. “The four of you ride west, while Santino and me ride north. Then we all circle around and meet in that canyon. Got it?”
“We got it,” Vail said. “Let’s go, boys.”
Walker and Evans remounted, and the four men turned their horses and rode west.
“Why did you let them keep one bag?” Santino asked. “They might just keep going.”
“Did you see which bag I left them?” Starkweather asked. “Vail filled it from the tellers’ cages. There ain’t enough there for a five-way split.”
“Maybe they’ll fight over it,” Santino said. “End up killing each other.”
“Nobody but Vail is worth a damn,” Starkweather said.
“How smart can he be if he filled his bag from the tellers’ cages?”
“Because he knew I’d let him keep that bag,” Starkweather said. “If the others try to take it from him, he’ll kill them.”
Santino grinned.
“That is what you want,” he said, shaking his head. “If Vail kills them, then we have a three-way split of this money.”
“And if they all meet us in that canyon, we have enough money for a six-way split,” Starkweather said, “although it won’t be an even split, will it?”
“Is it ever?” Santino asked.
“Mount up, Mex,” Starkweather said. “We left some grub in that cabin in the canyon, didn’t we?”
“Food and whiskey, amigo.”
“Food and whiskey,” Starkweather said, “and bags of money. Can life get any better?”
ELEVEN
The first night in New Mexico they camped by a water hole. Clint made the fire and cooked some beans. Starkweather saw to the horses. He had learned how to handle Eclipse without losing a finger.
When Starkweather joined him by the fire, Clint handed the young lawman a plate of beans and a tin cup filled with coffee.
“You never sent that telegram, did you?” Starkweather asked around a mouthful of beans.
“What telegram is that?”
“The one checking to see if I was really the sheriff of Danner.”
“Oh, that telegram,” Clint said. “No, I never did get around to that.”
“So you believe me?”
“I don’t think a man would go to the trouble of having a badge made out of iron and then lie about it,” Clint said. “I’ve decided to take you at your word.”
“Thank you,” Starkweather said.
“What part of New Mexico do you expect to find your father in?” Clint asked.
“If I know anything about the man, it’s that he can’t help himself. He has two weaknesses.”
“What are they?”
“Banks,” Starkweather said, “and killing lawmen.”
“Well,” Clint said, “I guess if he’s done that lately, the word will get around.”
“That’s what I figured,” Starkweather said. “Next town we come to, we might hear word.”
They finished eating and had more coffee. Both of them were careful not to stare into the fire. They weren’t being tracked, but they still didn’t want to ruin their night vision.
“There’s something else about that iron badge, isn’t there, Dan?” Clint asked. “Something you’re not telling me.”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to tell me now?”
“My father has this habit,” Starkweather said. “When he kills a lawman, he likes to shoot him right through his badge.”
“And you think the iron badge will protect you against a bullet?”
“He won’t be able to crimp it,” Starkweather said. “Maybe he won’t be able to shoot through it.”
“It’s a possibility, I guess,” Clint said. “Depends on the caliber of the ammo, and the range.”
“And I guess I wouldn’t mind if people started calling me the man with the iron badge.”
“A reputation,” Clint said.
“What’s wrong with that?” Starkweather asked. “You’ve got one.”
“And it’s not something I went looking for,” Clint said.
“Well,” the younger man admitted, “it’s really not high on my list.”
“I thought there was only one thing on your list,” Clint said.
“You’re right,” Starkweather said. “Stopping my father, and his gang.”
“I’ll take first watch tonight,” Clint said. They’d been taking turns on watch, just to be safe.
“Okay,” Starkweather said. “See you in four hours.”
The young lawman rolled himself in his blanket, first removing his gun, but keeping it close. Clint had told him their first night out not to sleep with his gun belt on. There was always the chance of rolling over and shooting yourself. Clint recalled a man who had not only shot himself, but set his pants on fire at the same time. Talk about a rude awakening.
Clint dumped the remnants of coffee from the pot, cleaned it out, and then put an extra handful of coffee in the pot this time. He enjoyed strong coffee, but he didn’t think the kid would be able to handle it. Not many men had been able to handle Clint’s strongest trail coffee.
The horses nickered, but Clint didn’t think anything of it. Probably some kind of critter outside the circle of light given off by the campfire. Eclipse would kick up a fuss if there was anything to worry about.
He poured himself a cu
p of coffee when it was ready, then decided to clean his gun while he was on watch. While he did, he kept his rifle close, just in case.
Dan Starkweather watched while Clint Adams cleaned his gun. It had taken several days of traveling with Clint before he felt comfortable enough to sleep, effectively turning his back on Adams. By now, though, he pretty much trusted the man, although he was still curious about him. He was learning things from him every day, and it still took him a while to fall asleep on the ground.
Tracking his father was a responsibility, but after this Starkweather didn’t think life on the trail was for him.
TWELVE
The first town they came to was called Artisia. They had a newspaper and a telegraph office, and Clint and Starkweather dismounted and split up to find some information. They agreed to meet at the hotel they had passed on their way in.
Starkweather went to the telegraph office, while Clint went to the newspaper office. He entered, and didn’t even need to say anything. There were newspapers stacked everywhere. He took one and saw the story on the front page about a bank robbery where a teller and two lawmen were killed. The people of Lost Mesa did not know if the gang had a name, but oddly, both lawmen had been shot right through their badges.
“Can I help you?” a middle-aged man with ink-spotted fingertips asked.
“That’s okay,” Clint said. “I found out what I came to find out. Do you mind?” He held the newspaper up questioningly.
“Go ahead, take it.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s in the newspaper,” the telegraph key operator told Starkweather, “but yeah, we got a telegram from the mayor of Lost Mesa. Wanted to know if our sheriff would form a posse and go after them.”
“And did he?”
“Our sheriff?” The man made a face. “We’re lucky that gang didn’t pick our bank. He wouldn’t’ve gone after them even then.”
“Okay,” Starkweather said, “much obliged.”
“You after that gang yerself, are ya?” the man asked, staring at Starkweather’s iron badge.
“I wasn’t when I got to town,” Starkweather said, “but I think I am now.”
“Lemme give ya some advice.”
The Man with the Iron Badge Page 3