The Man with the Iron Badge (13 page)

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Authors: J. R. Roberts

BOOK: The Man with the Iron Badge
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“Ride?”
“Yeah,” he said, leering at her, “ride. You know . . .”
“Oh God . . .”
“But first,” he said, pushing his bowl at her, “get me some more of that beef.” He grabbed his gun. “I'll just make sure your hubby don't interrupt us.”
 
When Jessup grabbed his gun, Clint knew he had to move now or the other man was dead. At least the woman was at the stove.
He ran to the door, drew his gun, and kicked it in.
 
As the door slammed open, the woman screamed. Jessup looked up and saw the man in the doorway. He lifted his gun, but suddenly he felt a pain in his chest, and the man in the doorway lifted his gun . . .
. . . or was that the other way around . . .
Clint fired one time. The bullet hit Jessup in the chest. The man staggered, frowned at Clint, and then fell over, landing on the other man.
The woman kept screaming.
THIRTY-FIVE
Clint was dragging Jessup's body out of the house when Starkweather rode up.
“I keep missing all the action,” he said to Clint.
“You've got to get a better horse.”
Starkweather dismounted. “Dead?”
“Yup.”
“Inside?”
“Husband and wife,” Clint said. “They're okay. Where's Dock?”
“His ankle was pretty bad. I convinced him to go to a doctor.”
“Where?”
“A town called Pixly?”
“What a stupid name for a town.”
“That's what he said.”
“Okay,” Clint said, “we might as well take Jessup to Pixly and dump him in Dockery's lap.”
“And then what?”
“And then we go back to town and see if any of those telegrams he sent panned out.” He put his hand on Starkweather's shoulder. “We go back to looking for your father.”
 
When they got to Pixly, Dockery was hobbling around with a crutch.
“The doctor says it's not broken,” he said. “And yeah, he had to cut my boot off.”
Pixly was a small town that had come to terms with that fact. They didn't have a lawman. Sheriff Dockery was who they went to for that. But they did have a telegraph key.
“I already sent a telegram back to town,” Dockery said. “I heard from a friend of mine, Ray Crocker. He's the law in Chandler.”
“Was it about Nate?” Starkweather asked.
“Yeah,” Dockery said. “He's sure the gang passed through there.”
“Does he have any idea where they were headed?”
“He gave me an educated guess,” Dockery said. “He knows of a bank with big deposits. He says any gang worth its salt would want to hit it.”
“And where is that?” Clint asked.
“Apache Junction.”
“How far is that from here?”
“Chandler's about a hundred miles. Apache Junction's a little further east.”
“About a hundred miles,” Starkweather said. “That's going to take us three days, even if we push. Can't he hold them there?”
“They're gone already.”
Starkweather looked at Clint.
“If they're going to hit a bank in Apache Junction, they're going to have to case it first. That'll take some time,” Clint said. He looked at Dockery. “He say when they left?”
“Yeah,” Sheriff Dockery said, with a smile. “Yesterday.”
“Kid,” Clint said to Starkweather, “we're four days behind them.”
“We better get mounted, then,” Starkweather said. “We have some hard riding to do.”
“Oh, no,” Clint said. “First, you need a better horse.”
THIRTY-SIX
Vail was getting tired of placating Evans, Ryan, and Walker. On the one hand, he blamed Nate Starkweather for taking so long to come up with a plan to hit the Apache Junction bank. On the other, these three should know by now that Starkweather always comes up with a plan.
“What's he waitin' for, Leo?” Walker complained.
“Yeah,” Ryan said, “it's just another bank.”
“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,” Starkweather 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.”

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