The Man with the Iron Badge

by J. R. Roberts

  When Franklin and Starkweather came across the camp and the body, they dismounted. An older man had obviously been there. The fire was still going, and there were some burnt beans in a pan. The dead man was a traveling drummer, and off to one side stood his wagon and his team.

  “Why would he kill this man?” Starkweather wondered aloud. “He couldn’t have been a threat to him.”

  Franklin had started to walk the camp, and now he stopped and pointed.

  “Saddlebags,” he said. “Starkweather stole this man’s saddlebags. Look, he emptied out the contents.”

  Franklin walked to the wagon and looked inside.

  “There’s a pile of clothes in here,” Franklin said. “I bet he got a carpetbag, or a trunk, out of here. He could tie that to the second horse.”

  “If he’s got the money in saddlebags, and some other kind of bag, he’ll be able to ride into another town,” Starkweather said.

  “Not close to here,” Franklin said. “Not when the word gets out about the bank, and the killings.”

  “Then he’ll keep going and he won’t stop until he’s crossed the border into . . . somewhere.”

  “He can go to Utah, Nevada, or California.”

  “And I’ll go right after him.”

  Franklin frowned. “I can’t. At some point, I’ll have to turn back. I don’t have an iron badge, just this tin one that the people in town gave me. I can’t leave them.”

  “This badge is no different than that one, but when I accepted it they understood what I was going to do. I’m going to track him until I find him.”

  “Well,” Franklin said, “some other lawman won’t accept your badge as official, not as long as you’re outside of Kansas.”

  “That’s okay,” Starkweather said. “This is a symbol that I’m nothing like my father.”

  “Well,” Franklin said, “I’ll go with you as far as I can.”

  “Then let’s ride. Maybe we can catch up to him before he crosses one of those borders.”

  FORTY

  When Santino’s horse went lame, he cursed everyone he could think of. He had four saddlebags full of money, which were too heavy for him to carry for any distance. He dismounted and checked the horse’s left foreleg. It wasn’t broken, but the animal was favoring it. Santino figured he could walk, and leave the saddlebags on the horse. First ranch or homestead he came to, he could pick up another horse. Since he had money, he could buy a horse rather than steal one. That would leave no trail.

  He grabbed his horse’s reins and started walking.

  Clint rode Eclipse hard. Every so often he stopped to check the tracks, and knew he was getting closer. When the tracks showed that the horse had gone lame, and the man was now walking, he knew he’d catch up. Finally as the day neared dusk, he saw a man leading a horse up ahead of him. He urged Eclipse on even faster.

  Santino heard the horse and turned. He saw the man on the big black coming at him at breakneck speed. He went for his gun, but he could see that he was too late. The man on the horse was fast . . . so fast . . .

  Clint gunned Santino down with one shot. Clint leaped to the ground, kicked the man’s gun away, and then checked the body. He wasn’t dead. He went to the horse and looked in the saddlebags. They were packed with money.

  He went back to Santino. He was bleeding and would be dead soon. Clint slapped the man’s face to bring him around.

  “Madre de Dios . . .”

  “You’re going to be dead in minutes, Santino,” Clint said. “Where were you supposed to meet Starkweather?”

  “Doctor,” Santino gasped, “I need a doctor . . .”

  “A doctor can’t help you, my friend,” Clint said. “You’re going straight to hell unless you come clean and help me.”

  “I—I must pray—”

  “No, no,” Clint said, “no praying. I’m not going to let you pray until you tell me. I won’t leave you alone until you die, and if you die without making your peace with God, you’re going to hell.”

  “God—”

  Clint smacked Santino to stop him. “No prayers!”

  “M-Mesquite.”

  “What?”

  “Mesquite, Nevada.”

  Right on the border.

  “You better be telling the truth, Santino.”

  “I—I will pray now . . .”

  Clint looked at the wound. The deep color of the blood told him all he needed to know.

  “You can start,” he said, “but I don’t think you have much time left.”

  “Damn it!” Franklin said.

  “What is it?”

  “He’s doubled back on us,” Franklin said. “It looks like he’s gonna go west.”

  “Into Nevada?”

  “That’s my guess. It’ll take him a couple of days or so to get to the border. You’ll probably have to cross the border before you catch him.”

  “Before I catch him?”

  “I have to go back, Starkweather,” Franklin said. “I wish you luck. Don’t try to ride at night. Your horse will step in a chuckhole.”

  “If Clint and I recover the money, we’ll bring it back.”

  Franklin put out his hand. “I know you will.”

  The two men shook hands, and went their separate ways.

  Starkweather was angry. His father had a three-hour head start, and while there was every indication that they’d catch up to him, he seemed to have widened that gap. Starkweather knew he’d have to camp tonight and start again in the morning. He didn’t know the terrain, so he wouldn’t go against Franklin’s advice and travel at night. He was willing to bet that wouldn’t stop Nate Starkweather. He’d travel at night, putting a few more hours between them.

  But that didn’t matter. Dan Starkweather would continue to follow, and wouldn’t stop until he caught up. He figured he was on his own now. Clint was still after Santino. And there was no way Clint could know that Nate was heading for Nevada.

  No way at all.

  FORTY-ONE

  Nate Starkweather poured himself another drink from the bottle he’d bought about half an hour ago. He was drinking it slow while he tried to work on his problem. When he reached the outskirts of Mesquite, he’d realized he couldn’t ride into town with all that money—even if it was now in saddlebags and a canvas bag he’d taken from the drummer. The bag was bursting, and the saddlebags wouldn’t close all the way. That would arouse too much curiosity. So he’d had to find a place to hide the money, so he could ride into Mesquite, meet up with Santino, and get outfitted. He’d taken a couple of bundles of bills from one saddlebag and put them inside his shirt.

  Just why he had decided to keep the meeting with Santino he didn’t know. Maybe he was going soft, but he figured he needed somebody to watch his back. Of course, the Mexican might have been happy with the money he had and just kept going. Nate figured to give him a day or two and then be on his way.

  But he was nervous about the money. He’d hid it well, but that didn’t mean somebody wouldn’t stupidly stumble upon it.

  So he figured he’d finish this bottle of whiskey, get outfitted, and ride back out to pick the money up, and then head for California.

  Just a couple more drinks.

  Dan Starkweather had had to weather a few hardships on his way to Mesquite. The fine mustang he’d bought in Pixly stepped in a chuckhole after all, and it wasn’t even dark. Just a stupid, unavoidable accident. So he’d had to walk awhile before he came upon a ranch where he was able to buy another horse. That had put him even farther behind Nate Starkweather. But he kept going, using everything he’d learned from Clint and Dockery and Franklin to stay on Nate’s trail.

  He’d lost the trail just outside of Mesquite, so he was riding into town for two reasons. One, he was thirsty and starving, as he’d run out of water and beef jerky, which Clint had told him to always carry. And two, it was the town closest to where he’d lost the trail, so he had to check to see if Nate was there.

  As he rode down the main street of Mesqui
te, Dan Starkweather had a feeling his search was going to end here. Clint had preached following your instincts for weeks. Well, here it was. His instinct told him this was it. Get off your damn horse and start looking.

  He rode past the local sheriff’s office and didn’t stop. It would take too long to explain what he was doing there, and what the hell kind of badge he was wearing.

  Mesquite was not a large town, but there were two hotels and three saloons. He could ask at the hotels, see if Nate had checked in, but what was the use? He would have used a phony name. It was more likely the man was in one of the saloons.

  As for how he’d recognize the father he’d never met, his mother had once showed him a tintype of his father as a younger man. From that—and from the instinct Clint had preached to him about—he would recognize Nate Starkweather right away.

  He reined in in front of a hardware store, dismounted, and tied the horse off to a post. Then he started walking.

  Nate Starkweather was down to the bottom of the bottle. One more drink, and Santino had not yet arrived. So, he had either ridden off satisfied with the money he had in his bags, or he’d been caught.

  He poured the last of whiskey into his glass. Oddly, he wasn’t feeling the effects of an entire bottle of whiskey. He looked around. Everything was still in sharp focus. He’d deliberately chosen the smallest saloon in town. He and the bartender were the only ones there. Normally, he’d take over the largest saloon in town and dare anybody to do something about it. But in this town he’d wanted to be alone, just him and a celebratory bottle. He was rich, whether Santino showed up with the rest of the money or not.

  He was sitting at a back table with his back to the wall, and was about to down the last of his whiskey, when the batwings opened and a young man walked in.

  Dan Starkweather went through the first and second saloons without finding his father. That left the last one, and the smallest, which he was now standing in front of. He thought he’d find a man like Nate Starkweather in the biggest saloon, flashing his newfound wealth, but that wasn’t the case.

  If Nate was in town, he was in here.

  He pushed through the batwings and entered.

  Nate Starkweather looked at the man who’d entered the saloon, saw the iron star on his chest, then looked at his face.

  The young man approached his table.

  “Damn,” Nate said. “You look just like your mother.”

  “You know me?” Dan asked.

  “A man knows his own flesh and blood, boy,” Nate told him. “How’s your mom?”

  “She’s dead,” Dan said. “Died of a broken heart, thanks to you.”

  “Not my doin’,” Nate said. “She knew we was never gonna be together.”

  “She died because of the legacy you were intent on leaving me.”

  “I ain’t leavin’ you nothin’, kid. What’d you come here for, to take me in?”

  “I’ve been doggin’ your trail for months,” Dan said, “and I finally have you.”

  “That badge for real?”

  “It is.”

  “Then you’re just a man with a badge to me,” Nate said. “Nothin’ more.”

  “That suits me.”

  Nate laughed and sat back. “You’re gonna shoot your old man?”

  “You’re just a man with a price on his head to me,” Dan said.

  Nate and Dan Starkweather stared at each other. Neither had any remorse over what was about to happen. They may have been related, but they felt nothing for each other. For that, Dan could thank his father, Nate. If he’d inherited his mother’s gentle heart, this would have been hard.

  “You gonna let me stand up?” Nate asked.

  “First tell me where the money is.”

  “Ah,” Nate said, “you want the money.”

  “I want to take it back to the people you stole it from.”

  “Well, good luck with that,” Nate said. “Gonna be hard for a dead man to do that. So, like I said,” Nate spread his arms. “Gonna let me stand up?”

  “Go ahead,” Dan said. “Stand up.”

  Nate smiled, pushed his chair back, and when he got to a half crouch, went for his gun . . .

  Clint was riding into Mesquite when he heard the two shots. He wasn’t sure where they had come from, and neither were the other people in town. Some of them came out onto the street to see what they had missed.

  When Clint saw Starkweather stagger out of a small saloon, he rode over and dismounted quickly. He caught the boy as he fell off the boardwalk.

  “Dan?”

  “My chest . . . ,” Starkweather said.

  Clint looked at his chest, didn’t see any blood. But he did see a dent in the iron badge the boy was wearing.

  “Clint, h-he beat me.”

  “He may have beaten you to the draw, kid, but where is he?”

  “Inside,” Starkweather said. “He’s dead.”

  “Then it doesn’t matter if he beat you or not,” Clint said. “He’s dead. How do you feel?”

  “Like a mule kicked me in the chest.” Starkweather looked up at him. “How did you get here?”

  “I caught up to Santino and killed him. I was taking the money he had back to town when I ran into Sheriff Franklin. He told me that you had continued on, so I gave him the money and let him return it. And I started after you.”

  “That damn horse of yours,” Starkweather said. “You must’ve flown.”

  “Just about. Come on, let’s get you to your feet. Should be some law along by now.”

  Clint helped Starkweather to his feet. “Can you stand?”

  “Yeah,” Starkweather said, rubbing his chest. “Stupid badge saved me.”

  “Well, now we know why you wore it.”

  They both saw a man with a badge—a silver badge, reflecting the sun as he ran—coming toward them.

  “The money,” Starkweather said. “I don’t know what he did with the money, Clint.”

  “I do,” Clint said. “I found it outside of town. He stashed it in a dry creek bed.”

  “I passed that creek bed,” Starkweather said. “How’d I miss it?”

  “I think you had other things on your mind,” Clint said. “Here comes the law.”

  “I killed him, I guess I’ll do the talking,” Starkweather said.

  “Fine with me,” Clint said. “At least when he asks you about your badge, you’ll have something new to say.”

  Watch for

  THE TOWN COUNCIL MEETING

  332nd novel in the exciting GUNSMITH series

  from Jove

  Coming in August!