The Man with the Iron Badge

Table of Contents

 

 

“Drink your beer, kid,” Clint 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 recruits.

“There!” Brody shouted, pointing at Clint or Starkweather or maybe both of them. The six went for their guns. Customers dove for cover. Clint and Starkweather also drew their guns.

The air was soon filled with 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 there were no men standing. All six were on the floor, on their stomachs or on their backs.

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.

“You did pretty good,” Clint said to the kid.

“So did you.”

“You didn't set that up, did you?” Clint asked. “To prove something?”

Starkweather smiled . . .

Clint Adams was a legend among lawmen, outlaws, and ladies. They called him . . . the Gunsmith.

 

The popular long-running series about Deputy U.S. Marshal Custis Long—his life, his loves, his fight for justice.

 

Today's longest-running action Western. John Slocum rides a deadly trail of hot blood and cold steel.

 

An action-packed series by the creators of Longarm! The rousing adventures of the most brutal gang of cutthroats ever assembled—Quantrill's Raiders.

 

Dex Yancey is Diamondback, a Southern gentleman turned con man when his brother cheats him out of the family fortune. Ladies love him. Gamblers hate him. But nobody pulls one over on Dex . . .

 

The blazing adventures of mountain man Will Barlow—from the creators of Longarm!

 

J.T. Law: the most relentless—and dangerous—manhunter in all Texas. Where sheriffs and posses fail, he's the best man to bring in the most vicious outlaws—for a price.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

THE MAN WITH THE IRON BADGE

 

A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

PRINTING HISTORY
Jove edition / July 2009

Copyright © 2009 by Robert J. Randisi.

 

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

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eISBN : 978-1-101-06023-0

 

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The sun did not glint off the star the boy was wearing on his shirt. It wasn't shiny or polished. It wouldn't do any good to polish this star, and nobody would ever call it tin.

So as he rode down the main street of Labyrinth, Texas, nobody really noticed the badge on his chest. Nobody could see it, because it swallowed the sun, didn't reflect it.

He reined in his horse in front of the saloon called Rick's Place. He'd been told he'd find the man he was looking for there.

He tied his horse and went into the saloon. At midday there wasn't much activity. He approached the bar and the bartender looked at him, then looked at his badge.

“What happened to your badge, Deputy?”

“Sheriff,” the young man corrected, “and there's nothing wrong with my badge.”

“Sorry,” the barman said, “no offense. Just thought it looked dirty.”

“Can I get a beer?”

“Sure enough, Sheriff,” the bartender said. “Comin' up.”

The bartender filled a mug and set it down in front of the young lawman.

“I'm looking for a man,” he said, after a sip.

“Any man in particular?”

“Clint Adams.”

The bartender didn't react.

“The Gunsmith?”

“I know who he is,” the barman said.

“Is he around?”

“Can't say.”

“Can't, or won't?”

“Look, Sonny—” the barman started.

“Look,” the sheriff said, “my age has nothing to do with anything, but this badge does.”

“You're out of your jurisdiction,” the bartender said, squinting at the badge, “wherever that is.”

“Why don't you get me somebody I can talk to,” the sheriff said. “Like your boss.”

“You're in luck,” the bartender said. “The boss is here.”

“Good, then get him!”

“Yeah, sure . . .”

 

Rick Hartman looked up when the knock came on his door. Since he hated any kind of paperwork, he welcomed the opportunity to turn his attention elsewhere.

“Come!”

The door opened and Lew Kelly, his new bartender, stuck his head in.

“Somebody out here lookin' for you, Boss.”

“Who?”

Kelly shrugged. “Some kinda weird lawman.”

“What makes him weird?” Hartman asked.

“Well, for one thing he looked like he's twelve years old.”

That was something Rick had noticed since hiring Kelly. The man didn't like being fifty, and usually took it out on those younger than him. Unless he got that under control he wasn't going to last very long in his job.

“And second?”

“He's wearin' some kinda weird badge.”

“What do you mean weird?” Hartman asked.

“Well, it don't got no shine to it,” the man said. “Looks kinda . . . dirty. You know? Covered with . . . crud.”

“You've got my curiosity up,” Hartman said.

“Well, then this'll clinch it,” Kelly said. “He's lookin' for your buddy, Clint Adams.”

“He asked for him by name?”

“Both of 'em,” Kelly said. “Adams and the Gunsmith. What's it like havin' a friend so famous?”

“Well,” Hartman said, standing up, “sometimes it gets me out of paperwork. Let's go see what this young lawman wants.”

Kelly led the way out of the office.

 

The young lawman saw the two men approaching and turned to face them, holding his beer in his left hand. He wore his gun on his right hip.

“You looking for Clint Adams?” the second man asked, while the bartender went back behind the bar.

“That's right.”

“Rick Hartman. I own this place.”

“Must be why it's called ‘Rick's.' ”

“And what might your name be?”

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

“Sheriff of where?”

“A town called Danner, in Kansas.”

“Your badge is kind of hard to read,” Hartman said.

The lawman smiled.

“That's okay,” he replied. “I know what it says.”

“What brings you here looking for Clint Adams?” Hartman asked.

“I have a proposition for him.”

“You're not looking for a face-off against him, are you?” Hartman asked. “Because if you are, I can advise you not—”

“No, no,” Starkweather said, “nothin' like that. I just want to talk to him. Is he around?”

“Well,” Hartman said, “he's in town.”

“I heard he comes in here a lot.”

“Some, I guess.”

“Good,” Starkweather said, facing the bar again, “then I guess I'll just wait for him.”

“You want another beer while you do that?” Hartman asked. “On the house?”

The young man smiled and said, “I never turn down free beer.”

Clint rolled the woman over, buried his face between her big sweet-smelling breasts, and buried his rigid cock between her thighs. Not inside her, though, not yet. Just between her big thighs. It still felt really good, though, rubbing his cock between her thighs while he nursed on her chewable nipples.