Tin Badge

by Len Levinson

  Sheriff Rawlins glowered at him. “I’ll stand.”

  Now that Sheriff Rawlins was close to the table, the town councilmen could smell whiskey and see the glassy haze in his eyes. He was teetering slightly, and his shirt was partially untucked.

  “What the hell do you want with me!” Sheriff Rawlins roared.

  Mayor Randlett looked up at him and tried to gather together his courage. “Sheriff Rawlins,” he said, “we’ve asked you here because we’re concerned about the deteriorating quality of law and order in Petie. We feel that you haven’t been attending to your duties properly lately, and we’d like to voice our concern about that to you, if you don’t mind.”

  Sheriff Rawlins closed his eyes for three long seconds, then opened them up again. “What the hell are you talkin’ about, Randlett! You don’t like the way I’m doin’ my job?”

  Mayor Randlett thought of Jennifer, and about how annoyed she’d be if he didn’t stand up to Rawlins. Mayor Randlett cleared his throat and said as clearly and steadily as he could: “That’s right—we don’t like the way you’ve been performing your duties. You’ve been drunk for most of the past ten days, leaving the townspeople at the mercy of bullies and rowdies who fight with each other and shoot their guns randomly at whatever targets they see. It’s got to stop, Sheriff Rawlins. We know you’re a competent lawman, and we know you can establish control if you want to. That’s why we’re having this little talk with you. We want you to cut down on your drinking and start performing the duties we’re paying you to perform, otherwise we’ll have to look elsewhere for our protection. We don’t want you to think we’re threatening you, but we ...”

  “Threatening me!” Rawlins shouted. “You goddamn well better not threaten me!” He took two steps closer to the table, and Mayor Randlett wanted to get up and run. “Now you listen to me, you bunch of old ladies! That’s right—I said ladies! That’s all you are to me! Not one of you’s got any balls! Let me tell you something, ladies! I made all of you what you are today—with this!” Sheriff Rawlins yanked out his pistol and waved it in the air. ‘That’s right!” Rawlins hollered drunkenly. “If it wasn’t for me and my gun, there wouldn’t be any goddamn town here! You owe everything you own to me, and what do I get out of it after twenty years of puttin’ my neck on the block for you every day? Two hundred dollars a month, which is the same as what you pay my deputy after he was in town two fuckin hours!” He pointed his finger at Mayor Randlett. “If you want to fire me, then goddamn it—fire me! But don’t you ever tell me what to do again! I do what I goddamn please around here! And if you ever want to talk to me again, see me in my office! From now on you come to me—I don’t come to you!”

  Andy Thomaston, owner of the Diamond Restaurant, was raising a glass of water to his lips. Sheriff Rawlins took quick aim with his pistol and pulled the trigger. The glass exploded in Thomaston’s hand, and he shrieked in terror.

  Sheriff Rawlins holstered his pistol, swung around, and staggered out the door, leaving the town council of Petie in stunned silence.

  The gang sat around their campfires, eating beans and bacon, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes, passing the newspaper around. Their horses were picketed nearby, grazing on prairie grass. They were about twenty miles from Centerville in open country, and they had lookouts posted just in case.

  The man with the slitted eyes was Brad Culhane, and he’d known Deke Casey well. Culhane had ridden with Bloody Bill Anderson during the war, and knew all the members of Deke Casey’s gang.

  His gang was similar to Deke Casey’s, only it operated on a larger scale. Their principle means of support was cattle rustling across the length and breadth of the frontier. There were enough of them to take over entire herds and drive them to market, and buyers usually weren’t fussy about where their stock came from, as long as it was in good condition and the price was right.

  Culhane and his men had just finished rustling a herd in Montana, and now were drifting south, looking for new opportunities, when they’d come upon that newspaper in the general store in Centerville.

  Everybody in Culhane’s bunch was incensed by the story. It said that the sheriff and deputy of a town called Petie had wiped out the entire Deke Casey gang with the assistance of some local citizens. The reporter had written eloquently of the skill and fighting courage of the sheriff and deputy, and the blundering ineptness of Deke Casey and his men, who were represented as a group of vicious clowns.

  Jubal Davidge, who wore a wide scar on his cheek, threw the newspaper to the ground at Culhane’s feet. “Those sons of bitches!” he said, and spat into the fire. “I say we should go down there and burn their goddamn town to the ground!”

  Several of the men growled their agreement, chewing their food angrily, all in rotten moods.

  Clint Fulton, who had a squashed-down face, was rolling a cigarette. “We can’t let ’em get away with it,” he said. “It ain’t right what them people done to Deke and the boys.”

  “We all fought together in the war,” said Sand Kelley, another member of the gang. “They was our friends, and them people kilt them. I think we should go down there to Petie and show them people they can’t kill our friends and git away with it!”

  The other men grumbled angrily. The destruction of Deke Casey and his gang was a personal insult to them, and they wanted revenge.

  Culhane rose to his feet and looked at them. “You sure that’s what you want to do!”

  “You’re damn right,” said Davidge, and the rest of the gang nodded their approval, standing and gathering around Culhane.

  Culhane looked at them, his thick lips set in a grim line. They were all killers, thieves, and cutthroats, but they’d fought together in the war and were bound together by pride, common feelings, and deeds written in blood.

  “I knew Deke pretty good,” Culhane told them. “We was like brothers almost, and I know what he’d do if it happened to us. He’d do what we’re gonna do. He’d wipe that town off the face of the map. Is that the way you see it, boys?”

  “Yeah!” they replied, squaring their shoulders and balling up their fists.

  “Then let’s go to Petie!” Culhane replied. “And God help the people who live there, because there ain’t gonna be nothin’ left of ’em when we git finished! They’ll be sorry they ever heard of Deke Casey!”

  “Hell,” said Davidge, “when we git finished with ’em, they’ll be sorry they was ever born!”

  John Stone walked down the hill toward the center of Petie, wearing both his Colts in his crisscrossed gunbelts, and his knife in his boot, feeling nearly the way he did before he’d been shot.

  He’d been up and around Miss Elsie’s place for five days, shooting cans in the backyard, eating like a horse, getting his strength back. He’d done a little carpentry work for Miss Elsie, and all the girls had made a big fuss over him, giving him anything he wanted, and offering him special favors in subtle and not so subtle ways, but he always managed to resist somehow.

  It was a cloudy day and looked as though it might rain. As he approached the Olympia Hotel, he had a moment of lightheadedness, but it passed and he continued on his way to the sheriff’s office.

  The townspeople spotted his tall muscular form moving toward them, and they stopped to stare. Children ran toward him and jumped up and down gleefully. Their elders followed, shyly at first, then advancing closer. A man shook his hand and patted him on the back.

  A crowd gathered around Stone, stopping him on the sidewalk. Everyone was talking at once, excited to be in his presence. Dogs barked and ran back and forth in the street. Somebody let out a cheer. They’d read about his exploits in newspapers published in big cities, and he was their hero.

  Stone was embarrassed and wished he could hide someplace, but there was nowhere to go. He had to stand and take it, and didn’t want to hurt anybody’s feelings. The people were all talking at once, telling him what a great man he was and how much they appreciated what he’d done for them.

  St
one responded to their remarks politely, in his soft-spoken way. He was ill at ease and wished they’d go away. It was as though they wanted to devour him with their eyes, and absorb some of him into themselves just by being in his presence.

  Toby Muldoon stumbled around the edge of the crowd, plunking his new guitar, but it sounded out of tune just like his old one.

  Across the street in the sheriff’s office, Sheriff Rawlins heard the commotion. He got to his feet and walked unsteadily to the window, to see what was going on. He looked outside, saw the crowd, and spotted John Stone standing in the middle of it, towering over the people, his wide-brimmed cavalry hat on his head.

  Jealousy and resentment filled Sheriff Rawlins’s heart. With a curse he turned around and stomped back to his desk, sitting down and raising the whiskey bottle to his lips. The office smelled like a saloon. Rawlins emptied the bottle of whiskey and tossed it in his wastebasket, which was full of other empty bottles.

  He turned down the corners of his mouth as he listened to the sounds of the townspeople across the street, making a fuss over John Stone. “Why that goddamn son of a bitch,” he said aloud. “If it hadn’t been for me, he’d be dead.”

  The resentment and pain bubbled in his heart. He was hurt by the way the townspeople had turned from him to John Stone. They’d admired him so much in the old days, bought him drinks and meals, and the kids tagged along after him when he walked down the street. Now they treated him like a piece of old junk.

  He opened his desk drawer, to get another bottle of whiskey, but the drawer was empty. He’d have to go out and buy some more, but didn’t want to use the front door, where the people could see him. He put on his hat and headed for the rear exit, passing the mirror, catching a glimpse of himself and trying not to be dismayed by what he saw. His eyes had become sunken and his clothes hung loosely on his gaunt body. He’d lost nearly twenty pounds.

  He stumbled down the back alley, passing sheds and outhouses. A spotted dog tied to a tree barked at him. He came to the rear of the Paradise Saloon and went inside. The customers looked at him apprehensively, and those at the bar moved away as he approached.

  “Whiskey,” he said in a hoarse voice.

  Doreen Eckles was on duty, and she set him up with a glass and a bottle. He picked up the glass and flung it across the room. It hit the far wall and shattered, the men nearby holding up their arms to shield themselves from the falling shards of glass.

  He picked up the bottle and carried it to the nearest table, where four men were playing draw poker.

  “Get the hell out of my way!” he roared.

  The card players got up from the table and retreated. Sheriff Rawlins dropped onto one of the chairs, pulled the cork out of the bottle, upended it, and drank deeply.

  The room spun around him. He burped, cursed, and drank some more. A terrible sinking sensation was in his stomach and he felt as if he were falling through the floor and into a tunnel that led to the center of the earth. “I hate you goddamn sons of bitches,” he uttered darkly. T made you what you are.”

  He kicked the nearest empty chair, and it went flying across the room. An ashtray full of cigar and cigarette butts sat in the middle of his table, and he picked up the ashtray, hurling it into the air. The ashes and butts fell on people nearby, and they scattered out of the way.

  “I gave my life to this town,” he grumbled. “I stood up for you damn shitbirds when you was too scared to stand up for yourselves. Every day I risked my neck for you, and what did you ever do for me? Not a goddamn fuckin’ thing, that’s what.”

  He raised the bottle of whiskey to his lips and thought of John Stone. ‘That dumb son of a bitch. If it hadn’t been for me he’d be pushing up daisies right now. Everybody thinks he’s so damn great. Well, he ain’t nothin’—you hear? He ain’t nothin’!”

  Rawlins looked around him and was surprised to see that the saloon had become empty, except for Doreen Eckles behind the bar. He blinked his eyes, took off his hat, and scratched his head, feeling uneasy and sick. He hadn’t even seen them go. Must’ve blacked out again.

  “I think I’m goin’ home,” he said. “Don’t feel so good.”

  He put on his hat, stood, walked three steps, and bumped into a table, knocking it over. He fell to his hands and knees, shouted incoherently, and climbed to his feet again. He made his way to the doors and found himself out on the sidewalk.

  He put his hands in his pockets and looked down the street, trying to focus, and saw the crowd still gathered around John Stone. A few riders passed by in the middle of the street. Rawlins was seized with the mad urge to walk down there and shoot John Stone, but a more rational part of his mind took over and told him that was a bad idea.

  He stood on the sidewalk, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, reeling. There was something he’d wanted to do, but forgot what it was. He decided to go back to his office and lie down, then remembered what he’d wanted to do. He had to go to the liquor store and get another bottle.

  He crossed the street, his hat crooked on his head, and he had the feeling that his pants were falling down. He pulled them up, lost his footing in the mud and muck in the middle of the street, and fell down.

  Somehow he couldn’t get up. He tried, but his hands wouldn’t work and neither would his knees. He was aware that he was rolling around in the mud, growling like a dog. Somebody laughed nearby.

  “Lookit Sheriff Rawlins!” a woman said.

  Somehow he got to his feet, but he was covered with mud from head to foot. “Gotta go home,” he said.

  He blinked his eyes. A group of people had gathered around, staring at him with dismay.

  “Get the hell away from me. I got no use for any of yez.”

  Suddenly the world went black again, and he felt himself falling. Wind whistled past his ears and he heard the sound of bells tinkling in the distance. He dropped into that deep dark tunnel again, and everything became still.

  Sometime later, Rawlins opened his eyes and realized that he was lying on his bed. Rosie sat on the chair next to him.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “How’d I get home?” he asked weakly.

  “You walked here, and I helped you.”

  “Don’t remember a thing,” he said, rubbing his forehead with the palm of his hand.

  “You’ve got to stop drinkin’, Buck. It’s killin’ you.”

  “Mind yer goddamn business, woman.”

  “The people in this town aren’t going to put up with yer shenanigans much longer. If you don’t sober up, they’re gonna fire you.”

  “Like hell they will,” Rawlins said. “Them lily-livered bastards wouldn’t dare.”

  “You’re pushin’ ’em awful hard.”

  “And I’ll push ’em harder. I made this town, don’t you forget that. If they try to fire me, there’ll be hell to pay.”

  “You gentlemen wanted to see me?” John Stone asked.

  He was standing in front of the town council in their office above the Petie Savings Bank, and the members were lined up behind their long table, sitting in their armchairs, drinking whiskey and smoking cigars.

  Mayor Randlett sat in the chair with the tallest back, in the middle of the others. His round belly was covered by a neatly buttoned vest, with a gold watch chain hanging across it.

  “We’ve decided to bite the bullet,” Mayor Randlett said to Stone. “We’re going to fire Sheriff Rawlins, and we wondered if you’d take over his job while we’re looking for somebody to replace him.”

  “I’d like to move on,” Stone said. “My month’ll be up pretty soon.”

  “We’re in a difficult position, John. Sheriff Rawlins isn’t performing his duties at all anymore, as you know, and if you leave, we won’t have any law here at all.”

  “You could form a committee and be your own lawmen, until you find somebody.”

  Mayor Randlett smiled. “We’re not gunfighters. We’re businessmen, ranchers, lawyers, merchants. We need a profess
ional to maintain law and order in Petie. I know you said you’d only stay for a month, but we were wondering if you’d give us another month, in view of the circumstances. We’d double your salary and pick up any expenses you might incur. That’d give us the time we need to search out a new sheriff.”

  John Stone thought of all the friends he’d made in Petie, the girls at Miss Elsie’s place, and old Toby Muldoon. He couldn’t leave them vulnerable to thieves, gunmen, and bullies. The double salary would provide him with a good solid stake for his continuing search for Marie, and the extra time would permit him to recover fully from his wound before facing the hardships of the trail.

  “All right,” he said, “but I want you to understand that this is my last extension, and I’m leaving when my time is up whether you’ve got another lawman or not.”

  The council members looked at one another and smiled. Mayor Randlett got to his feet. “Thank you, John,” he said. “We appreciate your help, and we won’t forget it.” He turned to the other members of the town council. “Gentlemen, now all we have to do is fire Sheriff Rawlins.” He turned and faced Stone again. “Do you think you could accompany us to Sheriff Rawlins’s home, John?”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to do that on your own, Mayor. I don’t want any part of firing Sheriff Rawlins.”

  There was a knock on the door, and Rosie opened her eyes. It was late afternoon and she was lying in bed with her clothes on, next to Rawlins who’d been passed out since morning.

  She rolled out of bed, fussed with her hair in front of a mirror for a few seconds, and opened the front door. Standing before her were Mayor Randlett and several members of the town council. In a flash she knew what they wanted. She’d been expecting this all week.

  “We’d like to speak with him, Rosie,” Mayor Randlett said gently.

  “He’s asleep right now.”

  “It’s important.”

  She signed, because she knew the inevitable couldn’t be postponed. “Come on in,” she said. “I’ll git him up.”