Tin Badge Read online

  “My name’s John Stone.”

  “I’m Clyde Akerson, and you just saved my bank over thirty thousand dollars. I’d like to buy you a drink.”

  “I’ve got to take my horse to the stable.”

  Akerson turned to the man behind him. “Take Mr. Stone’s horse to the stable.”

  The man walked toward Mortimer, who was standing at the side of the street, not far from where Stone had left him. Akerson looked up at Stone. “Can we have that drink now?”

  “Don’t see any reason why not.”

  “Mr. Stone, I’ve never seen shooting like that in my life.”

  Akerson and Stone walked toward the Paradise Saloon, followed by a horde of townspeople. Children stood on benches and applauded as Stone walked past. Women gazed at him with wonderment in their eyes. Men he didn’t know slapped him on the back and cheered. Stone still was slightly dazed by what had happened. It had all gone down so quickly.

  They entered the saloon and walked toward the bar. Doreen still was behind the stick, and Muldoon was working on the bottle Stone had bought him.

  “Drinks for the house!” Akerson shouted.

  Doreen placed a bottle and two glasses in front of Stone and Akerson, then proceeded to set up the rest of the bar. Akerson poured whiskey into both the glasses, and Stone leaned his rifle against the bar.

  Akerson was in his fifties, clean-shaven, with graying hair and a bald spot on top. Crow’s-feet were around his eyes, and he had a gold tooth. A gold watch chain was extended across his paunch.

  He raised his glass in the air. ‘To John Stone!” he shouted.

  “To John Stone!” the crowd echoed.

  Akerson touched his glass to Stone’s and then other men pressed forward and clicked their glasses against his. Now that Stone was able to think clearly, he wondered why he’d bothered to get into a shootout with a bunch of robbers who’d outnumbered him. He supposed it was because one of them had made the mistake of taking a shot at him, and that had sent him into action almost before he knew what he was doing, because he was an old war dog at heart. If they hadn’t shot at him, he would’ve left them alone.

  The crowd cheered as he raised his glass and took a gulp of whiskey. The saloon was chock full of people, crowding around Stone, talking excitedly. It was a big party.

  “What brings you to Petie, Mr. Stone?” Akerson asked him.

  “I’m looking for somebody.” He reached into his shirt pocket and took out the picture of Marie. “Ever see her?”

  Akerson looked at the photograph. “Afraid not. Who is she?”

  “Friend of mine.”

  “A lot of people in this town would’ve lost their life savings if it hadn’t been for you, and my bank probably would’ve been busted. We’re very grateful to you. Name it and it’s yours.”

  “All I want is a hotel room, a bath, and a good hot meal.”

  “It’s all on me, and anything else you want too. Where you coming from?”

  “Long ways.”

  “I see you’re wearing an old Confederate Army hat. What outfit were you with?”

  “Third South Carolina Cavalry.”

  “Were you an officer?”

  “Only a captain.”

  There was a commotion, and Stone turned around. Two men pushed their way through the boisterous crowd. One was fiftyish and stout, with a short wide beard and wearing a black hat with the narrow brim favored by businessmen in the East. The other was a clergyman wearing a black suit and a white collar, thin and severe-looking, with large ears.

  “What’s going on here?” said the stout man, approaching Akerson.

  “May I present Captain John Stone,” replied Akerson. “He just stopped a bank robbery single-handed. Captain Stone, may I present Martin Randlett, our mayor. And that’s the Reverend Vernon Scobie, pastor of the Petie Church of God.”

  Stone shook hands with the two men, and Akerson explained in graphic detail how Stone had subdued the bank robbers. “It was an incredible display of marksmanship,” Akerson said. ‘The man’s got nerves of steel.”

  Mayor Randlett, the stout man in his fifties, looked up at Stone. “Sounds like you’ve saved us from some big trouble. Nothing’s too good for you around here, Captain Stone.”

  “That’s what I already told him,” Akerson said.

  “What’re you doing in our town?” Mayor Randlett asked.

  “Just passing through.”

  “You’re not leaving us, if we can help it. We can use a man like you around here, can’t we, gents?”

  A roar went up from the crowd, and Akerson poured Stone another drink. The mayor slapped Stone on the back. “What’s your line of work, Captain Stone?”

  “I don’t have a line of work.”

  “What do you do for a living?”

  “Odd jobs.”

  “I’m sure we can find something suitable for you in our town. How’d you like to be deputy sheriff?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why don’t we have a seat and talk this over?”

  Mayor Randlett pushed men with glasses in their hands aside as he made his way toward the table under the painting of naked women cavorting in the meadow. Akerson urged Stone to follow Mayor Randlett, and the Reverend Scobie brought up the rear. Akerson carried the bottle and placed it in the middle of the table as they all sat down. Only the Reverend Scobie was without a glass.

  Stone rolled himself a cigarette. The other citizens crowded around, staring at him, guzzling whiskey and beer. Mayor Randlett was seated next to Stone, who scraped a match on the underside of the table, lighting his cigarette.

  “Why don’t you want to be our new deputy sheriff?” Mayor Randlett asked.

  “There’s something that I’ve got to do,” Stone replied.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s personal.”

  Akerson nudged Stone in the ribs gently. “Does it have something to do with the picture of that girl you showed me?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What picture of what girl?” asked the mayor.

  Stone took the picture of Marie out of his shirt pocket. “Ever see her?”

  Mayor Randlett looked at Marie. “Don’t believe so. Who is she?”

  “We were supposed to get married, but when I got home after the war, she was gone. I’m looking for her.”

  “A lot of years have passed since the war ended. You’re awfully persistent.”

  “I’ll find her someday.”

  “A man’s business is his own business,” said the mayor, “but there comes a time in a man’s life when he’s got to face reality and think about settling down. This is a mighty fine town, Captain Stone. A man could make a good life for himself here, especially a man like you. We’ll give you top pay, and you’ll probably become sheriff here yourself after a while.”

  “Where’s the sheriff you’ve got now?”

  Mayor Randlett looked at Akerson. “Anybody seen Rawlins?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Mayor Randlett leaned toward Stone. “Between you and me and the fly on the wall, we wouldn’t mind getting rid of our present sheriff, and you could replace him if you wanted the job. Maybe you ought to think twice before you turn the job down.”

  “Not interested,” said Stone.

  “Maybe you’ll never find that girl.”

  “I’ll find her.”

  “How’re you fixed for money?”

  “Not so well.”

  “Here’s your chance to make an honest dollar. Why not try out the job? You might like it.”

  Stone thought about what Mayor Randlett said. He was low on money and would have to get a job sooner or later. Why not now?

  “How much?” Stone asked.

  “Two hundred a month, and we wouldn’t even ask you to post bond.”

  That was good pay, substantially higher than what cowboys earned, and Stone had intended to get a job as a cowboy to replenish his sagging finances. Maybe he could work as deputy
sheriff for a while until he got ahead of the game, and then he’d leave Petie, continuing his search for Marie.

  “Could I try the job for a couple of weeks?”

  “Try it for as long as you like.”

  “Let me think it over. I’ll give you my answer in the morning.”

  Chapter Two

  Deke Casey sat on the ground in the shade of Hawksridge Mountains, waiting for his men to return from the bank robbery in Petie.

  He was the leader of an outlaw gang, and he’d planned the robbery in detail, after having visited Petie numerous times, mapping out locations, planning strategy, and even holding rehearsals out on the prairie.

  Fifteen men were in his gang, including himself, and he’d chosen nine to stage the robbery. He hadn’t wanted to use all his men, because he thought it’d be too many and they’d get in one another’s way.

  Casey was slim, with a long face and a thin mouth. He wore a dirty gray hat with a wide brim and a high crown with a crease down the middle. A cigarette dangled out of the corner of his mouth.

  Nearby, a group of his men played poker, raising and calling one another, using pebbles for chips. Embers of their breakfast campfire sent a thin trail of smoke into the sky. A few members of the gang slept in the caves nearby.

  They’d all been members of Bloody Bill Anderson’s guerrilla cavalry during the war, fighting for the Confederacy, but mostly against civilians with Union sympathies. They’d left a trail of terror behind them, plundering, raping, committing massacres, burning entire towns to the ground, and they hadn’t surrendered after the war. They’d just continued with what they’d been doing during the war, with Deke Casey as their leader.

  Deke Casey wore a red and black checked shirt and a black leather vest. He took his watch out of a pocket in his vest and looked at the time. His men should’ve returned by now. He wondered if anything had gone wrong.

  Anything could go wrong with a bank robbery, but he’d thought the bank in Petie would be easy. It was a peaceful town and the citizens weren’t very vigilant because nothing bad ever happened there. Deke had got the sheriff out of the way by forging a note from one of the local ranchers, asking the sheriff to investigate the rustling of some cattle.

  The sheriff was Buck Rawlins, an old gunfighter, but he was drinking heavily and didn’t appear to be much of a threat anymore. Still, Casey had seen no point in tangling with Rawlins, so he’d devised the ruse to make sure he wouldn’t be in town while the robbery was taking place.

  Casey and his gang roamed the frontier, playing hit and run. They robbed banks, rustled cattle, held up stagecoaches, did anything that promised easy money. Sometimes they lived in fancy hotels and ate in the best restaurants, and mostly they camped in the open, as in the days when they rode with Bloody Bill Anderson. They were hard men who never hesitated to kill. Bitterness and hatred were in their hearts, and they felt they had the right to do whatever was necessary to maintain themselves as a free-roving fighting unit.

  “Somebody’s comin’,” said Mike Chopak, a grizzled bearlike man, sitting at the card game with a pair of queens and a pair of fives in his hand.

  Everybody dropped their cards and drew their guns. They moved behind boulders or dropped flat on the ground. Deke Casey took cover behind the trunk of the tree. His men probably were returning, but it could be Indians.

  The cigarette dangled out of the corner of Deke Casey’s mouth as he thumbed back the hammer of his Remington. The faint clatter of hoofbeats came to him, but it sounded like only one horse. He peered around the side of the tree, but couldn’t see anything yet. Puffing the cigarette, he narrowed his snake eyes to slits and waited.

  “It’s Hurley,” said Fritz Schuler, a blond man with long sideburns.

  Schuler was closer to the canyon than the others, and had the best view. Casey eased the hammer of his Remington forward and dropped it into his holster. He stood next to the tree and hooked his thumbs in his belt as he watched Tom Hurley ride into view.

  Hurley was a short man with a rat-like face, wearing leather chaps. He rode toward the campfire, pulled back on his reins, and climbed down from his saddle, a solemn expression on his face.

  “It went bad,” he said.

  Casey and the others gathered around him. Hurley took off his hat, whacked it on his knee to get the dust out, and then put the hat back on his head.

  “I was down the street from the bank when the boys went in,” he said. “Everything looked good, the sheriff was out of town, there was no problems. Then all of a sudden this big guy on a horse comes ridin’ down the middle of the street. The boys come out of the bank, carry in’ the loot and shootin’ at everythin’ in sight, and Charlie Phelan decides to take a shot at the big guy. Well, the big guy quick-draws and shoots Charlie down. Then the big guy takes out his rifle, hides behind a water trough on the far side of the street, and picks off the boys one by one. They’re all dead now, and the big guy is a hero. When I left town, they was throwin’ a party for him in the Paradise Saloon.”

  Deke Casey couldn’t believe his ears. “Are you tellin’ me that one man killed everybody?”

  “That’s what I’m tellin’ you.”

  A scowl came over Deke Casey’s face as he chewed on the end of his cigarette. “Why didn’t you do somethin’?”

  “What the hell could I do?”

  “Shoot the big guy.”

  “He would’ve got me just like he got the others. He was a dead shot. You wouldn’t’ve done no better.”

  Casey sucked smoke from his wet cigarette. “Who the hell is this big guy?”

  “Well, after it was all over, the mayor set up the bar at the Paradise, and I went over to see what was goin’ on. I had me a drink, mindin’ my own business, askin’ a few questions. All I could find out was the big guy had just rode into town that mornin’, and nobody knows where he come from. His name is John Stone.”

  Stone stood barefooted in front of the mirror, scraping a straight razor across his cheek. A towel was wrapped around his waist, and on the bed lay new jeans and a new shirt, courtesy of Caldwell’s General Store. A bottle of premium bourbon sat on the dresser, courtesy of Petie Spirits and Liquors, and next to the bourbon were boxes of cartridges for his pistols and rifles, courtesy of Main Street Shooters Supplies.

  Stone had taken his first bath in nearly two weeks, and the tub near his bed was still filled with dirty water. His room was on the top floor of the Olympia Hotel, with a view of Main Street below him. Last time he’d looked out the window, he’d seen a bunch of kids on the far side of the street, looking up at him.

  He’d become the local hero, and still hadn’t got used to it yet. Usually he rode into towns and nobody paid any attention to him. He had to work for every bite of food and every drink of whiskey he got, but now everybody was buying things for him.

  It was a welcome change, and he’d always liked luxury. He’d grown up as the son of a rich man, and had spent his days hunting and fishing, and his nights at parties. Life had become more austere when he attended West Point, and during the war he’d been an officer and a gentleman.

  Since the war he’d been just another saddle tramp, sleeping under the stars more often than not, usually low on cash, frequently hungry, often lonely. The frontier had been a shock at first, because there was no law in most places. A man had to learn to take care of himself, and Stone soon learned that his best friends were his loaded guns. He had a slight advantage because he’d hunted since he was a small boy, and was a good shot. His marksmanship had improved during the war, and he still practiced regularly, every chance he got.

  Stone finished shaving and washed the surplus lather from his face. Looking in the mirror, he examined his weather-beaten face. He had an aquiline nose, strong jaw, and prominent cheekbones, all visible now that his growth of beard was gone. His body was heavily muscled and his stomach was flat, with a few scars.

  He put on his new clothes, and they smelled clean and fresh. His jeans were dark blue, his shirt wa
s red, and they’d given him another black bandanna. He pulled on his boots, dropped his knife into the sheath sewn into his right boot, and buckled on his gunbelts. Then he picked his hat off the peg and reshaped the crown with his fingers.

  He knew he should get a new hat, but couldn’t give up his old one. He’d worn it through the war, and it was like an old friend. Smudged and discolored, it had character, in his opinion. You could see where he’d torn off the Confederate Army insignia, but it still held its shape pretty well and kept the rain and sun off him.

  He put the hat on and looked at himself again in the mirror. It was nice to be clean again, living in pleasant surroundings for a change. He’d decided to take the job as deputy sheriff for a while, to build up his cash reserves. Then he’d resume his search for Marie.

  He lifted her picture from the dresser and looked at it. She’d lived on the next plantation, and they’d grown up almost as brother and sister, until they grew older and things became serious. She was the only woman he’d ever loved, and he could never love anybody else. She was all he wanted in the world.

  He dropped the picture into his shirt pocket and left the hotel room, descending the stairs to the lobby. People called his name and waved to him as he crossed the lobby, heading toward the front door. He stepped onto the sidewalk, and the kids across the street ran toward him, gathering around, gazing at him with admiration.

  He smiled at them, tipped his hat to a lady, and walked in long strides down the street toward the Diamond Restaurant.

  Sheriff Buck Rawlins approached the other end of town, riding his Appaloosa. He was six feet tall, had a black mustache, and wore a black hat with a wide flat brim and a flat crown. He was in a bad mood, because he’d just gone on a wild goose chase.

  He’d received a note from the Double M Ranch, asking him to go out there to investigate some cattle rustling, but when he got there, the owner of the Double M, Phineas Mathers, had told him he’d sent no such note and wasn’t having any problems with rustlers. Rawlins showed him the note, and Mathers said it wasn’t even his handwriting.

  Sheriff Rawlins’s lips were set in a grim line as he rode down the main street of town, heading for his office. Somebody had played a trick on him, but he wasn’t surprised. He knew he wasn’t the most popular man in town, and in fact he had many enemies. He’d cleaned up the town in the old days, risking his life frequently in shootouts with drunken cowboys on a spree, bandits, and assorted hard cases, but now the townspeople didn’t have much use for him anymore. He knew what they were saying behind his back, that he was getting old and he drank too much. Well, forty-six wasn’t old, and everybody else in town took a drink now and then, so why shouldn’t he? They also complained about his manners, but he was a lawman, not a dandy from the East with a perfumed handkerchief and poems for the ladies. He could still outshoot anybody in town, and that was all that mattered.