The Man with the Iron Badge (5 page)

“Can I help you?” a middle-aged man with ink-spotted fingertips asked.

“That's okay,” Clint said. “I found out what I came to find out. Do you mind?” He held the newspaper up questioningly.

“Go ahead, take it.”

“Thanks.”

 

“It's in the newspaper,” the telegraph key operator told Starkweather, “but yeah, we got a telegram from the mayor of Lost Mesa. Wanted to know if our sheriff would form a posse and go after them.”

“And did he?”

“Our sheriff?” The man made a face. “We're lucky that gang didn't pick our bank. He wouldn't've gone after them even then.”

“Okay,” Starkweather said, “much obliged.”

“You after that gang yerself, are ya?” the man asked, staring at Starkweather's iron badge.

“I wasn't when I got to town,” Starkweather said, “but I think I am now.”

“Lemme give ya some advice.”

“Okay.”

The thin, middle-aged man leaned forward and lowered his voice, as if there were other people in the room, which there were not.

“Don't count on our sheriff for any help.”

“I'll remember,” Starkweather said, lowering his voice to match. “Much obliged.”

“Sure thing.”

Starkweather started for the door, then stopped.

“Do you know if Lost Mesa has replaced their sheriff yet?”

“Not that I heard,” the man said. “And the operator in Lost Mesa woulda told me.”

“Obliged,” Starkweather said again, and left.

Clint and Starkweather met in front of the hotel, went inside, and got rooms. Starkweather had his own money, although he'd never told Clint where it came from. He had offered to cover Clint's expenses, since he had asked Clint to go along, but Clint waved the offer away.

They collected their keys, put their gear in their rooms, and then walked to the nearest saloon. Once they each had a beer, they exchanged notes.

“Looks like we both got the same information,” Clint said.

“I didn't hear about the holes in the badges,” Starkweather said. “That clinches it for me. So I guess we're going to Lost Mesa.”

“I guess we are. I thought I'd talk to the sheriff here, though, before we do that.”

“The word I got from the telegraph operator was not to depend on the sheriff for anything.”

“Well, there's no harm in talking to him.”

“Also, it doesn't seem that Lost Mesa has replaced their sheriff.”

“They probably figure that would be like closing the barn door after the horse is already gone.”

“Still, they're going to need some kind of law.”

“Do they have a mayor?”

“Yes,” Starkweather said, “the operator said that the mayor sent a telegram here asking for help.”

“Didn't get it?”

“Didn't get it.”

“Okay,” Clint said. “I'll go and talk to the sheriff.”

“Should I come with you?”

“Do you want to spend any time explaining about your badge?” Clint asked.

“No.”

“Then why don't you stay here, stay out of trouble, and I'll be right back.”

Clint entered the sheriff's office, and found a deputy sitting behind the desk with his feet up.

“I'm looking for your boss.”

“What's it about, sir?” the younger man asked.

“It's a courtesy call,” Clint said. “My name is Clint Adams.”

The deputy's feet dropped to the floor and he stared at Clint.

“If I was to guess, I'd say he was at Leo's.”

“What's Leo's?”

“A small hotel at the far end of town,” the deputy said.

“Is your sheriff a drunk?”

“No,” the deputy said, “Leo and the sheriff, they're friends. Mostly the sheriff drinks coffee.”

“Okay,” Clint said. “What's the man's name?”

“Oh, uh, Sheriff Phipps, Billy Phipps.”

I'll go and see if the sheriff is at Leo's. You want me to tell him you had your feet up on his desk?”

“Oh, no sir . . .”

“Don't worry, son,” Clint said, “your secret is safe with me.”

 

Clint walked all the way down to the far end of town and found the little place called Leo's. There was half a sign over the door, as if it had once said LEO'S SALOON, but the word SALOON had fallen off.

He entered, found only two men there, one behind a makeshift bar that looked like it was made from several wooden doors, and one customer, who was wearing a badge. They both looked to be in their forties, and they both had the same look on their faces and the same slump to their shoulders. Tired.

“Sheriff Phipps?” Clint asked.

“That's me,” the man said. “Help ya?”

“Give the man a minute, Billy,” the bartender said. “I don't get that many customers ya know. Beer, friend?”

“Sure.”

The man who must have been Leo happily drew Clint a beer and set it on the bar. Clint was surprised to find it cold. There must have been something else about Leo's—or about Leo—that kept customers away.

“That's good beer,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“What's your name, friend?” Phipps asked.

“Clint Adams.”

“The Gunsmith?” Leo asked.

“That's right.”

“Jesus, man, that beer is on the house. Whataya think of that, Billy? The Gunsmith in my place.”

“Shut up a minute, Leo,” Phipps said. “What brings you to my town, Adams?”

“Passing through, Sheriff,” Clint said, “but I thought I'd just make a courtesy call and introduce myself.”

“That's it? Just a courtesy call?”

“Well, I am curious about something I've been hearing since I came to town a little while ago.”

“What's that?”

“Some excitement in a town called Lost Mesa?”

“Oh, yeah,” Leo said, “that was somethin'—” He stopped when the sheriff gave him a look.

“Go wait on your other customers, Leo,” Phipps said to him.

Leo gave his friend a look and said, “That was just mean.”

He moved down to the other end of the bar to sulk.

“Why are you interested in what happened in Lost Mesa?” the sheriff asked.

“I heard they lost a couple of lawmen,” Clint said. “Since Lost Mesa's not far from here, I thought I'd volunteer my services if you were putting together a posse.”

“And what makes you think I'd be putting a posse together?”

“Well, they got some dead lawmen in Lost Mesa, so you're the closest law.”

“That ain't my town.”

“I know that,” Clint said. “I just thought you'd be volun—”

“With a gang like that on the loose, I ain't about to leave my town unprotected, Mr. Adams. Sorry, but I ain't lookin' for a posse.”

“Uh-huh, I see. Well, then I guess I'm wasting my time.” He drank half the beer down and slapped the mug down on the makeshift bar. “Thanks for the beer.”

“Anytime!” Leo yelled.

“Adams,” Phipps said as Clint reached the door.

“Yes?”

“If you're thinkin' of trackin' them bank robbers, don't. Leave it to the law.”

Clint spread his arms and said, “That's all I was trying to do, Sheriff.”

“So?” Starkweather asked Clint when he walked into the saloon.

“Who told you the sheriff would be useless?” Clint asked. He caught the bartender's eye and pointed to Starkweather's beer.

“The telegraph operator.”

“Well, he was right,” Clint said. “He's going to be no help at all.”

“So what's our next step?”

“Tomorrow we'll ride to Lost Mesa, talk to the people there. Then we'll see if we can pick up your father's gang's trail.”

“Can you track?”

“I'm no expert,” Clint said, “but six men leave a big trail.”

“Because I don't know anything about tracking,” Starkweather said.

“I'll teach you whatever I know,” Clint said, “but I'm warning you, that won't take long.”

“Do you know anyone who can track?”

“I know a lot of great trackers,” Clint said. “Unfortunately, none of them are in New Mexico right now. At least, not that I know of.”

There was a disturbance in the saloon at that moment. A couple of men in a poker game started a fight, and ended up turning the table over and rolling on the floor, but it didn't look like there was any gunplay involved.

“You're wearing the badge, kid,” Clint said. “You want to do anything about that?”

“This town's got a sheriff,” Starkweather said. “I'm going to get something to eat and then go to my room.”

“You got any hell-raiser in you, Dan?” Clint asked

“Not that kind,” Starkweather said, indicating the men rolling around on the floor.

“You strike me as a very serious young man.”

“Once I've brought my father in,” Starkweather said, “maybe I'll try to relax a little, but not before.”

“Okay,” Clint said. “Let's finish these up and, like you said, get something to eat.”

“We going to get an early start tomorrow?” Starkweather asked.

“Bright and early, kid,” Clint said. “Bright and early.”

 

“What the hell?” Leo said after Clint left his place. “What is Clint Adams doin' around here?”

“Sounds like he's gonna butt his nose in where it don't belong,” Sheriff Phipps said.

“You gonna warn Nate Starkweather?”

“That's how I keep him outta my town, ain't it?” Phipps demanded.

Leo Kearns smiled.

“Don't pull that with me, Billy,” Leo said. “I know about the money he gives you, remember?”

“That's because I spend most of it in here, you old bandit,” Phipps said.

Neither of them wanted to admit the truth, that Billy Phipps was scared to death of Nate Starkweather, and that was why he supplied information.

“I guess you'll have to send a telegram,” Leo said.

“Yeah, but I'll wait until Adams leaves town,” Phipps said.

“How do you think Starkweather will take the news that the Gunsmith is on his trail?”

Phipps blew some air out of his mouth and said, “Let's just say I'll be glad I'm not standing in front of him when I tell him.”

Lost Mesa was about twenty miles north of Artisia. Clint would have liked to set a brisk pace with Eclipse, but there was no way Starkweather could have kept up. Still, they made good time and covered the twenty miles in less than half a day.

As they rode into town, the townspeople—obviously still smarting from having their bank robbed and their lawmen killed—stayed off the street, and from behind closed curtains stole peeks at the two strangers.

Clint and Starkweather reined in their horses in front of the sheriff's office. When they tried the door, they found it unlocked. As they entered, it became clear that no one had been in there since the sheriff had been killed. In the weeks since the brutal murders of the sheriff and his deputy—and one bank teller, who had apparently been shot for no reason—spiders had been the only inhabitants, and had left behind their webs.

Clint waved some of the webs away with his hands, which he then wiped on his trousers.

“Well it's obvious they haven't filled the job,” he said.

“So what do we do?” Starkweather asked.

“As the only lawman in town, you're entitled to use this office.”

“Really? Won't somebody object?”

“Let them,” Clint said. “We're going to go and see the mayor, anyway. But first we'll take care of the horses. You stay here and I'll put them up at the livery.”

“What about rooms?”

“Check out the cells here. If we can clean them, we'll sleep in there.”

“Somebody's got to object to that.”

“We'll check in with the mayor when I get back.”

“But—”

“Hey,” Clint said, “you're the man with the badge. If anyone asks, show it to them.”

He left before Starkweather could offer any more argument.

 

By the time Clint returned, Starkweather had found a broom and swept out the office and the two cells in the back.

“I also found some blankets folded up. Haven't been used in a while, but we can use them.”