The Man with the Iron Badge (2 page)

That's when the knock came at the door.

“Damn!” he swore.

She held him tightly when he tried to move.

“I've got to get that,” he said.

“If you were inside me,” she said, “I wouldn't let you go.”

He smiled, kissed her, and slid free of her thighs. He pulled on his trousers and went to the door. It was Rick Hartman.

“I've got a lawman at my place waiting to see you,” the saloon owner said.

“Who is it?”

“Young fella named Starkweather. You know him?”

“I know that name,” Clint said. “But in my memory it doesn't go with a young face. What's his first name?”

“Dan.”

“Uh-uh,” Clint said. “I don't know him. Guess I better come on over and see what he wants.”

“Clint?” the woman called out. “I'm getting cold.”

Hartman smiled.

“There's no reason you have to hurry,” he said. “He said he's going to wait until you get there. I just figured you needed to know what you were walking into, so I slipped out the back.”

“Okay,” Clint said. “I'll finish up here and then come over for a drink.”

“I'll see you then.”

Clint closed the door and turned to face the woman on the bed. She had her hands up over her head, pulling her big breasts taut.

“Either get over here or throw me a blanket.”

“Well,” he said, “I don't seem to have any blankets, so . . .”

 

Sheriff Dan Starkweather nursed his third beer. He didn't want to be drunk when Clint Adams showed up. He figured since Rick Hartman had done a disappearing act, he had probably slipped out the back to warn Adams that somebody was waiting for him. Starkweather didn't mind if Adams knew he was waiting.

The saloon began to fill with more men as the afternoon wore on. Starkweather got a spot at one end of the bar and stayed out of everyone's way. Up close his badge was catching some stares, but nobody said a word—not yet, anyway. He knew his youth and the odd sight of his badge sometimes made him the target of some ridicule. Usually, it was just somebody having fun, but sometimes it escalated into something dangerous. He hoped that wouldn't be the case here.

Just then three men entered the saloon, looked around, and approached the bar. Starkweather had not been wearing his badge for very long, but he knew men on the prod when he saw them. These three were obviously looking for some action, or some trouble.

They elbowed their way to the bar and loudly ordered three beers. Starkweather hoped they wouldn't look over at him, but he had been in Rick's Place long enough for the trouble to be inevitable.

And then one of three did look over at him, and nudged his buddies.

Here we go, Starkweather thought.

The woman's name was Laurie, and Clint had met her in Rick's saloon. She didn't work there, and she wasn't a whore. She had simply come in to get a drink. Immediately, the men in the place had surrounded her, and Clint took it upon himself to cut her from the herd for himself. He bought a bottle of whiskey for them and invited her to his room, where it was quiet. She accepted. That's where they had been since the night before. The whiskey had run out long before they lost interest in sex and went to sleep.

But sleep didn't last long. He woke that morning with the big-breasted blonde between his legs, rolling his cock between her tits until it was good and hard, and then taking it into her mouth. She sucked him then, until he exploded into her mouth with a roar.

They continued to have sex during the day until Rick Hartman showed up at the door.

When he went back to bed with Laurie, Clint resumed the position he had been in, stretched out on top of her. She'd been lying. She wasn't cold at all, she was burning hot.

This time when he slid his penis between her thighs, he found her vagina wet and waiting. He plunged into her right to the root and she gasped, brought her legs up around him, and held on tightly.

“Oh, God,” she gasped as he fucked her. “Oh, yeah, just like that, don't stop, Clint, don't . . .”

And he didn't stop, not until they were both exhausted . . .

 

She watched him get dressed and asked, “When will you be back?”

“I probably won't be long,” he said. “When I come back, we'll get something to eat.”

“Good,” she said. “I'm starved.”

“And then over supper,” he said, “We can get to know a little about each other.”

She laughed. “We ain't done much talking, have we?”

“No, we haven't.”

He strapped on his gun and headed for the door.

“Aren't you going to kiss me good-bye?”

“No,” he said. “If I touch your skin, I won't leave this room.”

As Clint was going out the door, she yelled, “That might be the nicest thing anybody's ever said to me!”

 

“What's wrong with yer badge?” one of the three men asked.

Starkweather thought about ignoring them, but he knew that wouldn't work. It never did.

“There's nothing wrong with it,” Starkweather said. “It's just the way I like it.”

“I ain't never seen a badge like that,” a second man said around a huge chaw of tobacco.

“What's it made from?” the third man asked.

“Iron.”

“An iron badge?” the first man asked. “That's why it ain't got no shine.”

“Is it real?” the man with the chaw asked.

“Yes,” Starkweather said.

“No, it ain't,” the third man said. “It can't be. If it was real, it'd be a tin star, like all the rest.”

“This one is special,” Starkweather said.

“How so?” the first man asked.

“Had it made for myself.”

“Tol' ya it wasn't real,” the third man said.

“Oh, it's real,” Starkweather said. “When I got the job, I had a blacksmith make me the badge.”

“I say it ain't real!” the third man said.

“Yeah, me, too,” the man with the chaw said.

“Hear that?” the first man said. “We don't none of us think it's real. That means if we was to take you, we wouldn't be takin' no lawman.”

“Now, why would you want to do that?” Starkweather asked.

“Look atcha,” the man with the chaw said. “You ain't old enough ta drink let alone wear a badge. And yer lookin' at us like yer better than us.”

“I'm not looking at you at all,” Starkweather said. “In fact, you started the conversation, not me.”

“I say we take 'im,” the third man said.

“Me, too,” the man with the chaw said.

“That would be a bad idea,” Starkweather said.

“Why?” the first man asked.

“Because if you try to take me, I'll have to kill you.”

“All three of us?” the man with the chaw laughed.

“That's right,” Starkweather said. “All three of you. It would only be fair.”

As the three men stepped away from the bar, everyone in the saloon knew there was going to be trouble, so they started moving out of the way. Some of them overturned tables to hide behind.

“Now wait a minute!”

Rick Hartman moved quickly, positioning himself between the three men and the sheriff with the iron badge.

“This is my place and I'm not about to have it busted up,” he said.

“You don't get outta the way,” the first man said, “a lot more than your place is gonna be busted up.”

“Look,” Hartman said, “this man is an officer of the law.”

“That badge ain't real,” the man with the chaw said. “I ain't never seen no iron badge.”

“It's real,” Hartman said. “If you kill him, you're killing a lawman. They'll never stop hunting you.”

The three men looked confused.

“You better step aside, Mr. Hartman,” Starkweather said. “Only one thing will stop these men.”

“You think you can stop us?” the first man asked.

“It's my job.”

“Not in this town it ain't,” Hartman said. “You may be a lawman, but you don't have jurisdiction in this town.”

“Okay, saloon owner,” the first man said. “Time for you to make a move.”

“Go ahead, Rick,” another voice said. “Move out of the way.”

Eyes turned to the batwing doors. Clint Adams had entered quietly and was standing right in front of the doors.

“Your name's Brody, isn't it?” he asked the spokesman of the three.

“That's right.”

“You know who I am?”

“Yeah, sure,” Brody said, “you're Clint Adams.”

“I came over here to talk with this young fellow,” Clint said, indicating Starkweather. “And when I get here I find you trying to kill him.”

“Well, we—”

“If you kill him,” Clint went on, “I wasted my time coming here, and I hate to waste my time.”

Brody exchanged glances with his two compadres.

“So go ahead,” Clint said. “Make your play, but if you kill him, I'm going to be upset, because I still have to talk to him. And then you'll have to deal with me before you can leave this saloon.”

The three men stared at him.

“Time to make a decision,” Clint said.

They looked at Starkweather. Rick Hartman had stepped out of the way.

“Like he said, gents,” Starkweather said. “Time to make your decision.”

There was a long moment of pregnant silence, and then Brody started toward the door. His two compadres followed him.

As they passed Clint, he said in a low voice, “Don't come back here . . . ever.”

Brody nodded and left, his two friends right behind him.

Clint approached the bar, waved at the bartender, and said, “Cold beer.”

“Comin' up.”

Hartman came up next to Clint and said, “Thanks. You cost me two customers.”

“How did I do that?”

“You didn't have to tell them not to ever come back here.”

“Sorry,” Clint said. “I thought I did.” He turned to look at the young lawman. “Beer?”

Starkweather looked at the one in his hand. It had gone warm and flat.

“Sure.”

Clint turned to Hartman.

“Rick? Join us?”

“No,” Hartman said. “I'll leave the two of you to get acquainted. I need to get my business back to normal.”

“Suit yourself.”

As the bartender gave Starkweather a fresh beer, Clint walked down to join him at the end of the bar.

“I'm Clint Adams,” he said. “I understand you want to talk to me.”

“Sheriff Dan Starkweather,” the young man said. “Danner, Kansas.”

“Danner? I don't know it.”

“It's about five miles east of Ellsworth,” Starkweather said. “It's not much.”

“But you're the sheriff?”

“That's right.”

“Danner got a telegraph office?”

“It does.”

“And if I sent a telegram, I'd find out you're telling the truth?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay then,” Clint said. “Drink up and tell me what's on your mind.”

“My name's Dan Starkweather,” the sheriff said. “That mean anything to you?”

“Well,” Clint said, “I've heard the name Starkweather before, but not Dan.”

“You've heard of Nathan Starkweather.”

“Yes.”

“The gunman.”

“For want of a better word.”

“I have another word to describe him,” Starkweather said, “but I don't know if it's better.”

“What word is that?”

“Father.”

“Ah.”

“Yes,” Starkweather said, “ah.”

“Well, judging from your badge, you haven't taken up the family business.”

“No, sir,” Starkweather said. “I prefer to walk on the right side of the law.”

“Tell me something, son.”

“Yes, sir?”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty.”

“How did you get to be sheriff?”

“Nobody else wanted the job.”

“And what about that badge?”

“What about it?”

“It's a little unusual, don't you think?”

“It's a lot unusual,” Starkweather said, “but it won't bend so easy.”

“No, I guess it won't.”

“So, now I guess I should tell you why I've come looking for you.”

“You sound fairly well educated to me, Dan,” Clint said.

“I went to a university in the East,” Starkweather said. “I came back west when I graduated.”

“And what did you study?”

“The law.”

“So you're a lawyer?”

“Not yet,” he said. “I haven't taken the bar exam yet.”

“When do you intend to do that?”

“When I've finished with this.”

“And what's this?”

“I was about to tell you,” he said.

“Right, right, I interrupted you. But wait, are you hungry?”

“Well, seeing as how I've been standing around here all day drinking beer and waiting for you, yes, I am very hungry.”

“Well, at the risk of making a young lady very mad at me,” Clint said, “why don't you let me buy you a steak, and we can talk?”