The Man with the Iron Badge (3 page)

“Sounds good.”

They both put the remainder of their beer on the bar and left Rick's Place.

 

Clint took Starkweather to a restaurant down the street that had opened only a few months ago. It was the first time Labyrinth had ever had something larger than a café. It used to be that each time Clint left town and came back, he enjoyed the fact that he saw no growth in the town. Lately, however, over the past few years, things had begun to change. This restaurant—called Del Rio's—was part of that change.

Clint had been there a few times since it had opened, and they recognized him now when he walked in.

“Welcome back, Mr. Adams. Table for two?”

“Yes, thank you.” Clint felt bad that he didn't recall the man's name.

“Henry will be your waiter,” the man said.

“Thank you,” Clint said again when they were seated.

As they waited for the waiter, Starkweather said, “This looks like a place I used to eat in Philadelphia.”

“Yeah,” Clint said, “the East and West are starting to blend a little too much for my taste. But I can't deny the food is good.”

When a man in a black suit came over to their table, he introduced himself as Henry.

“Two steak dinners, please, Henry,” Clint said.

“Right away, Mr. Adams. And two beers?”

“Yes, two beers would be great.”

Henry brought the beers quickly, soon followed by the steak dinners. Clint and Starkweather paid strict attention to their meals until they were both about halfway through.

“Okay,” Clint said, “I think I'm ready to hear your story now.”

Starkweather said, “I think I'm ready to tell it.”

“You don't know what it's like growing up and hearing the stories about your father, the killer,” Dan Starkweather said. “My mother sent me to live with members of her family in Philadelphia, and I ended up getting most of my education there. And I was living there when I heard that my mother had died.”

“That's tough,” Clint said. “I'm sorry.”

“You know what's tougher?” the kid asked. “Knowing that your father killed your mother.”

“He killed her?”

“Well, I don't mean he pulled the trigger,” Starkweather said. “I mean being married to him killed her.”

Clint understood that. He'd heard lots of men and women put that kind of blame on a parent.

“My father has run roughshod over the West for as long as I can remember. He's not as well known as you, but he has a more vicious reputation. I read dime novels about him back East. His vicious crimes are well documented.”

“Dan, I've had dime novels written about me,” Clint said. “Believe me, you can't believe everything you read in those rags.”

“Even if twenty percent of it is true, he needs to be stopped, and nobody seems to be able to do it.”

“So you're going to do it?”

“I am,” he said. “I knew a town that needed a sheriff, and I went and got the job. And I had this badge made up.”

“Why did you have it made out of iron?”

“Because there's something my father does that didn't make it into the dime novels. I know about it, and anybody who knows him knows about it.”

“And what's that?”

“Whenever he kills a lawman, he crimps his badge.”

“Crimps.”

“My father has very strong hands,” the boy explained. “He takes a badge in his hand and bends it in two.”

“I see what you mean.”

“Well,” Dan Starkweather said, “he's not going to be able to do that to my badge. So even if he kills me, I'll have the satisfaction of knowing that.”

“I see.” Clint ate the last piece of his steak and pushed the plate away from him. Henry was at his elbow immediately.

“Anything else, Mr.Adams?”

“Coffee for me, Henry, and a piece of peach pie. Sheriff?”

“I'll have the same,” the young lawman said.

“Right away, sir.”

Henry removed their plates and went to the kitchen.

“Okay, Dan,” Clint said, “this is where you tell me how I fit in.”

“My father doesn't ride alone,” Starkweather said. “He usually has a gang of about half a dozen men riding with him.”

“You want me to come along and take care of them?” Clint asked.

“Well,” Starkweather said, “not all of them. I do intend to bring my father in myself, but between the two of us I think we can take care of his gang and get them out of the way.”

Clint sat back as Henry arrived with the coffee and pie. When the waiter left, he remained back in his seat, regarding the young man across from him.

“Dan—can I call you Dan?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You can call me Clint, not sir.”

“Yes, si—Clint.”

“What makes you think you've got what it takes to do this?” Clint asked. “And . . . why should I put my life in your hands, because that's what I'd be doing if I threw in with you on this.”

“Because,” Dan Starkweather said, “the only thing I inherited from my father is his ability with a gun. And, from everything I've heard, I'd put him up against you and give him a good chance.”

“Your father's fast, there's no denying that.”

“Have you met him? Or gone up against him already? No, if you had, one of you would be dead.”

“You're right, I haven't gone against him, and I haven't met him. I just know his reputation.”

“And would you be afraid to face him?”

“You know,” Clint said, “some good healthy fear can't hurt.”

“Then you are.”

“It wouldn't matter,” Clint said. “Fear's got nothing to do with the way I live. Or with the way your father lives.”

“What about the way I live?” Starkweather asked.

Clint leaned forward to cut off a chunk of his pie with his fork and said, “Especially the way you live.”

“You didn't see any fear in me with those three yahoos in the saloon, did you?”

“No, I didn't,” Clint said. “I should have, but I didn't. You would have stood there and drawn down on the three of them.”

“Yes, I would have. And I'd have killed them.”

“Without taking a bullet yourself?” Clint asked.

“I think so.”

“Eat your pie.”

“Will you come with me?”

“I've got to think about it, Dan.”

“You are afraid,” Starkweather said.

“If that's what you want to believe, then I can't stop you,” Clint said.

“We can go outside and I can show you how good I am,” the sheriff said.

“How? You going to shoot at some bottles? Some targets?”

“How about we face each other?” Starkweather asked. “If I outdraw you, you come with me.”

“And if I outdraw you?”

Starkweather shrugged. “Then I'll go alone.”

“I've got a better idea,” Clint said. “That is, if you're really sure about your ability.”

Starkweather looked suspicious. “What have you got in mind?”

“We face off,” Clint said. “Like you said, if you beat me, I go along.”

“And if you beat me?”

“You forget the whole thing and go back East, where you belong.”

“I don't belong back there!” Starkweather snapped.

“Okay, okay,” Clint said, aware that he'd hit a nerve. “So you stay here in the West, but you still forget about bringing your father in.”

“I can't do that.”

“Why not?”

“I can't let him get away with what he did.”

“But if you're so sure you can beat me, where's the risk?”

“There's always a risk,” Starkweather said.

“So you don't think you can beat me.”

“I think I can,” Starkweather said, “but I don't know for sure.”

“You can never know anything for sure, kid, until you try,” Clint said.

“Come on,” Starkweather said. “Do it my way.”

“I don't like to draw my gun on a man unless I aim to kill him,” Clint said.

Starkweather ignored his pie and chewed on his lips, instead. “Okay.”

“Okay you'll do it my way?” Clint asked.

“No,” Starkweather said, “but I'll do it for real.”

“What?”

“You and me, in the street,” Starkweather said. “No contest. For real.”

“You'd risk killing me—or being killed—to make your point?” Clint asked.

“Yes.”

“But you won't risk . . .” What should he call it? “ . . . your quest?”

“No.”

“But if I kill you, your father goes scot-free.”

Suddenly, Starkweather looked confused.

“Son,” Clint said, pushing his chair back, “you better give this a lot of thought before you go any further. I don't think you're thinking straight.”

“Wait—”

“Finish your pie and coffee,” Clint said. I'll pay the check on my way out. If you want to talk some more, I'll be in the saloon later on. Right now I've got to try to make amends to a lady.”

“But Clint—”

Clint walked away without another word and left the restaurant.

 

“You bastard!” Laurie said when he walked into his room. “You ate something.”

“I did,” he said, “but I'm here to make it up to you. Come on, I'll take you for something to eat.”

“I am dressed,” she said, “and I'm not ready to forgive you, so you can stay here while I go get something to eat.”

She stormed to the door, then turned and said, “I better not find out you ate with another woman.”

As she left, he realized they still knew nothing about each other, and he didn't even know her last name.

Clint was standing at the bar in Rick's Place, nursing a beer and talking to the new bartender, Lew Kelly, when Dan Starkweather came walking in.

“Here's that kid,” Kelly said. “I think he's a good one to stay away from.”

“Why don't you put a beer on the bar for him, and then you can do that,” Clint suggested.

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.”