The Man with the Iron Badge

by J. R. Roberts

“It’s just another bank with enough in deposits to keep us all healthy for years,” Vail said. “And most of that money comes from three ranches. And those three ranches have each put a man in the bank to guard it.”

  “So what? They’re ranch hands, right?” Evans asked. “Let’s just take ’em.”

  “Plus, there’s a sheriff and two deputies,” Vail said. “Did any of you geniuses know that?”

  “Well . . . sure,” Walker said grudgingly.

  The four of them were sitting in the Ace High Saloon, where’d they spent most of their time the past two days.

  “Nate will let us know when he’s ready to go,” Vail said. “Just drink your beer.”

  Nate Starkweather and Santino were sitting in a small café across the street from the bank. They had taken a table by the window and ordered coffee.

  “The men are getting restless,” Santino said. “According to Vail.”

  “Leo will keep them in line,” Starkweather said. “You notice somethin’ about these three men from the ranches?”

  “What?”

  “There are only ever two inside the bank at a time,” Starkweather said. “They got their own little schedule they’re keepin’ to.”

  “Where does the third man go?” Santino asked.

  “That’s what you’re gonna find out today,” Starkweather said. “And there goes one of ’em.”

  “You want me to follow each of them when they leave?” Santino asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “And you don’t think a Mexican followin’ three white men is gonna be noticed?”

  “Santino,” Starkweather said, “anybody ever tell you that you don’t look so Mexican?”

  “No, amigo, no one has ever told me that.”

  “Do the best you can.”

  Santino stood up, started to go, then stopped.

  “Wait,” he said. “You want them to see me.”

  “Let’s just say I wanna give them somethin’ to think about,” Starkweather said.

  “Amigo,” Santino said, “does it not hurt your brain to always be thinkin’?”

  “Yeah, amigo,” Starkweather said, “but it hurts so good.”

  In two days Starkweather had figured out the schedules of the three men in the bank, and of the three lawmen. He was pretty sure if his men did what they were told, they’d be able to take this bank. They only had a day left, because he didn’t want to be in town for three days. So far no one had seen him and Santino with Leo Vail or any of the others.

  Tonight he’d explain the plan.

  Tomorrow was the day they’d get rich—only some of them would stay rich longer than others.

  Clint and Dan Starkweather camped a day out of Apache Junction.

  In Pixly—of all places—they had been able to find Starkweather a little mustang that was managing to keep up with Eclipse, so long as Clint held the big Darley Arabian back some.

  “Are you going to figure out a name for that little horse?” Clint asked.

  “Why?” Starkweather said. “It’s just a horse. I’ve never understood naming a horse.”

  “If you don’t name him,” Clint said, “what will you call him when you’re talking to him?”

  “I don’t talk to my horse, Clint.”

  Clint shook his head.

  “It’s a good thing you’re not looking for a life on the trail, kid,” Clint said. “You can get awful lonely if you don’t talk to your horse.”

  “Why are we talking about this?” Starkweather asked.

  “Because you’re a little anxious, and I’m trying to keep you occupied.”

  “Tomorrow could be the day, Clint,” Starkweather said. “Tomorrow could be the day I meet my father—and take him in.”

  “Are you sure you’re going to be able to do this, Dan?” Clint asked.

  “Oh, I’ll do it,” Starkweather said. “He’s got this coming to him, Clint.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  “Everybody know what they got to do?” Nate Starkweather asked.

  He looked at each man in turn so that each man had to nod or say yes . . . or no.

  “Okay,” Starkweather said, “then go.”

  Ryan, Walker, and Evans left the saloon, while Starkweather, Santino, and Vail stayed.

  “What gives, Nate?” Vail asked.

  “You, me, and Santino are gonna take the bank,” Starkweather said.

  “And those three?”

  “They’re gonna be our distraction.”

  “So then . . .”

  “Only the three of us are going to get away with the money,” Santino said.

  “Do you have a problem with that, Leo?” Starkweather asked.

  “No, Nate,” Vail said. “No problem. I was gettin’ tired of hangin’ around those fellas anyway.”

  “Good,” Starkweather said. “Let’s give them some time to get into trouble, and then we move.”

  Three hours later Clint and Dan Starkweather rode into town and found it in turmoil. People were running in the streets, and there were still bodies.

  “We made up a lot of time,” Clint said.

  “And we still missed them,” Starkweather said bitterly.

  “But not by much, from the looks of things,” Clint said. “We better find a lawman so we can find out what happened.”

  When they stepped into the sheriff’s office, it was crowded with men who were shouting.

  “Okay, okay,” a man called, waving his arms, “settle down.”

  Clint and Starkweather took up a position in the back and waited. The man commanding attention was wearing a badge.

  “Look, we all know what happened today,” the sheriff said. “I lost my two deputies, and three men were killed at the bank.”

  “And how many of the gang got killed?” someone shouted.

  “Three,” the sheriff said.

  Clint and Starkweather exchanged a glance. Which three? they wondered.

  “I need men to volunteer for a posse,” the sheriff said.

  “Chasing these men down is your job, Sheriff, not ours,” someone shouted.

  “And you better get to it!” another man yelled.

  “Look, we figure three men got away with the money,” the sheriff said. “You expect me to track them down alone?”

  “Like we said,” someone called out, “that’s your job.”

  “Fine,” the lawman said. “I better leave right away. If you’re not gonna volunteer, then get out.”

  It didn’t take long for all the men to leave the room. The sheriff grabbed a rifle off his gun rack, turned, and saw Clint and Starkweather.

  “Who are you?”

  “My name’s Clint Adams, Sheriff,” Clint said, “and this is Sheriff Starkweather, from Kansas.”

  “What’s a sheriff from Kansas doin’ here?” the man asked.

  They had a clear view of him now, saw that he was in his late forties, with a square jaw and short, gray hair.

  “Tracking your bank robbers,” Starkweather said. “At least, the gang we think robbed your bank.”

  “And what gang was that?”

  “Nate Starkweather’s gang.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “You sure?”

  “Pretty sure,” Clint said. “Can we see the three dead men? Maybe that’ll tell us something.”

  “Be my guest,” the sheriff said. “Over at the undertaker’s. Come on.”

  On their way to the undertaker’s office, they found out the sheriff’s name was Franklin.

  “Sheriff,” the undertaker said as they walked in.

  “Let these two see the dead men.”

  “Of course. This way.”

  They followed the diminutive undertaker into a back room, where all three men were laid out on a table—one table. They were almost stacked.

  “Know ’em?” Franklin asked.

  Clint and Starkweather took a look. It was Starkweather who might have been able to recognize his father, if he’d been there.

  “No,” Star
kweather said, “he’s not here.”

  “Who’s not there?” the sheriff asked.

  “Nate Starkweather,” Clint said. “And none of these men are Mexican, so Santino’s not here, either.” He looked at Franklin. “How many got away?”

  “Three.”

  “With how much money?”

  “A lot,” Franklin said. “Three of our biggest ranchers had their payroll in there. They each supplied a man to guard the money.”

  “What happened to those three men?”

  “They’re dead.”

  “How’d you get these three?”

  “I believe they were sent as a diversion. They came barging into my office while I was there with my deputies.”

  “They just happen to break in while you were all there?” Starkweather asked.

  “They didn’t just happen to,” Clint said. “Like the sheriff said, Starkweather sent them in as a diversion, while he, Santino, and his other man hit the bank.”

  “How is it you know that Starkweather’s not here?” the sheriff asked Dan Starkweather.

  “That’s easy,” Starkweather said. “He’s my father.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  The three men left the undertaker’s office and stopped out front.

  “You fellas better tell me everything,” Franklin said.

  “Why don’t we do that while we ride, Sheriff?” Clint asked.

  “You fellas are gonna ride with me?” the man asked. “Be my posse?”

  “The way I see it,” Starkweather said, “you’re gonna ride with us. We’ve been looking for him for weeks. This is the closest we’ve been.”

  “Three hours,” Franklin said. “You missed by three hours.”

  “If we’re that close,” Clint said, “we’d better get started.”

  “Are you with us, Sheriff?” Starkweather asked.

  “As long as you tell me everythin’ while we’re ridin’,” Franklin said.

  “We’ll do that,” Clint said.

  Franklin pointed and said, “And you can start with that crazy badge.”

  By the time they’d ridden two miles, they had filled Sheriff Franklin in. Also in that time Clint had picked up the trail of three horses. And he found the print of the boot with the worn-down heel.

  “We’re on the right track,” he said, mounting up again.

  “These men killed both my deputies, and one of the guards in the bank,” Franklin said. “When we catch them, they’re mine.”

  “You can have Santino and the other one,” Starkweather said. “Nate Starkweather is mine, has been for a long time.”

  Starkweather gigged his horse and moved ahead of them.

  “He’s gonna take down his own old man?” Franklin asked Clint.

  “He says he is.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “I don’t think we’ll know until we catch up to them.”

  “Is the boy any good?”

  Clint nodded, and said, “Good enough.”

  “Hold up,” Nate Starkweather said.

  They reined in and looked at him.

  “This is where we split up.”

  “Why?” Vail said.

  “They’ll have a posse out by now,” Starkweather said. “We need to give them three trails to travel.”

  “Fine,” Vail said. “Who carries the money?”

  Each man had two money bags across his saddle. They were quite full. It was almost as if they each had two small bodies.

  “We take two each,” Starkweather said. “We’ll meet and make the split.”

  Vail asked, “Why don’t we each go our separate way with two bags?”

  Starkweather looked at Vail.

  “Because each bag doesn’t have an equal amount in it,” Starkweather said.

  “Gotta be close,” Vail said.

  “You willin’ to take that chance, Leo?” Starkweather asked. “The chance that your bags don’t have a lot less in them than our bags do? Remember, we got bills in all sizes. What if your bags are filled with small bills, and mine with bygones?”

  “I’d rather take that chance, Nate, than the chance that you’ll kill me rather than split.”

  “Why would I do that?” Nate asked.

  “You sacrificed Evans, Ryan, and Walker so we could get away,” Vail said. “Why not me?”

  Starkweather looked at Santino.

  “What about you, Mex?” he asked. “You think I’ll kill you rather than split?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because this is not all the money in the world,” Santino said. “If it was all the money in the world, then yes, I think you would.”

  Nate Starkweather laughed.

  “You’re good, Santino.” He looked at Vail. “He’s good, ain’t he?”

  “Yeah,” Vail said, “he’s great. What about it, Starkweather?”

  “What? Oh, you mean we each keep our bags? No, I don’t think so, Leo. In fact, I think you better drop yours to the ground . . . now.”

  “I’m not gonna do that, Nate.”

  “Then you’re forcin’ my hand.”

  Vail laughed.

  “Don’t kid me, Nate,” Vail said. “You were gonna kill me from the start.”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  Vail was watching Starkweather, so he never saw Santino draw his gun and point it at him.

  “But he was,” Nate said.

  Clint, Starkweather, and Franklin came across the body two hours out of Apache Junction.

  Clint dismounted and checked the body. “Shot once, in the back.”

  “So there’s two left.” Franklin.

  “And they split up,” Clint said, pointing to the ground.

  “Then we split up,” Franklin said.

  Clint mounted up. “How many money bags did they get?”

  “Six,” Franklin said, “packed.”

  “That explains why one of them took this man’s horse. To carry the extra bags.”

  “That’d be Nate,” Starkweather said. “He wouldn’t trust anyone else with that money.”

  “So that trail is Nate Starkweather’s,” Franklin said, pointing, “and this one is the other man’s.”

  “Santino,” Clint said. “The Mexican.”

  “I’m going this way,” Starkweather said, pointing to his father’s trail.

  “I’ll come with you—” Clint started, but Franklin interrupted.

  “No, I’ll go with the kid,” he said. “Nate Starkweather planned this whole thing, and he has most of the money. I want him.”

  “I’ve already told you, Sheriff,” Starkweather said. “He’s mine.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “I’ll track Santino, and you two can fight over Nate Starkweather.”

  Dan Starkweather looked at Clint.

  “Sorry, kid, we can’t just sit here and keep arguing. They’re getting farther away as we speak.”

  “You can run the Mexican down with your horse,” Starkweather said.

  “And you can run down Nate, because he’s got an extra horse. When a man’s leading another horse, he can’t go as fast.”

  “Are we clear, then?” Franklin said. “Starkweather’s mine?”

  “You can ride with me,” Starkweather said, “but nothing’s going to be clear until we find him.”

  “Kid,” Franklin said, “don’t get in my way.”

  Starkweather and Clint looked at each other. They both knew that Franklin was no match for Starkweather—for either Starkweather.

  “Good luck, boys,” Clint said, and started after Santino.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Sheriff Franklin and Sheriff Starkweather didn’t talk much as they concentrated to follow the trail left by Nate Starkweather.

  At one point they had to stop. They were on a road that was much traveled, and Nate’s tracks were being swallowed up.

  “What do we do now?” Starkweather asked.

  Franklin dismounted and started to walk
the area, staring down at the ground. When he started to walk, leading his horse with him, Dan Starkweather followed.

  Suddenly, Sheriff Franklin turned and looked at Sheriff Starkweather.

  “He got off the road here. Guess he don’t wanna run into anybody.”

  He mounted up.

  As he followed, Dan Starkweather was thinking of how many lawmen he’d traveled with lately, not to mention Clint, and how he was learning something from each of them.

  Picking up tracks on a dirt road was easy. Now he watched as Franklin picked up the trail on hard dirt, rocks, and grass.

  Clint tracked Santino across the same type of terrain. He wondered how the two men intended ever to ride into a town carrying those bank bags. At some point they’d have to transfer the money to some normal-looking saddlebags.

  It occurred to Clint that if he just followed Santino, and didn’t ride him down, the Mexican would lead him to Nate Starkweather. But if Dan Starkweather and Franklin managed to run down Nate Starkweather, there would be no one for the Mexican to meet.

  Well, too many cooks spoil the damn broth. If the decision of which way to go had been left to one man, they all might have followed the trail of one in order to be led to the other.

  He’d have to make a final decision when he came within sight of the man—whenever that would be.

  The bank bags were unwieldy on Nate Starkweather’s horse. Castillo had taken Vail’s saddlebags, so the Mexican had about six saddlebags stuffed with the bills that had been in two bags. Vail always carried an extra set of bags. He was a man who was usually prepared for anything—until the end. It was too bad they’d had to kill him, but they really had no choice. There was just too damn much money to split. Starkweather would not have even split with Santino, but to tell himself the truth, he wasn’t sure he could take the man. He was sure Santino felt the same way. Neither of them wanted to test it out.

  So what Starkweather needed was some more saddlebags, and then he’d be able to make the switch. As if in an answer to a prayer, he heard something up ahead. Whatever it was, it wasn’t moving. It was somebody . . . singing.