Tin Badge

by Len Levinson

  They entered the room, which was furnished with a stove and a square table with two chairs. The floor and walls were of rough unpainted wood. Stale cooking odors were in the air, along with cigarette smoke and the smell of whiskey.

  Rosie entered the bedroom and closed the door. She bent over Rawlins and shook his shoulder. “Get up,” she said firmly. “Come on, Buck—open yer eyes.”

  He looked up at her. “What the hell do you want?”

  “They’re here. Mayor Randlett and the town council.”

  Sheriff Rawlins blinked. He was half drunk and half hung-over, his mouth like cotton and his head throbbing with pain. He’d been expecting this, but had been too sick and drunk to do anything about it. He reached for his bottle. “Tell ’em I’ll be right there.”

  He took a few swallows, then got out of bed and pulled on his pants. He’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this, that a miracle would happen and somehow everything’d be all right, but knew he’d been going too far lately and it couldn’t continue forever. He felt strangely contrite as he sucked on the bottle again. Then he put on his frock coat with the badge pinned on the lapel. Standing erectly, he opened the door and stepped into the kitchen.

  They stood on the other side of the table, the wealthiest and most influential men in Petie, and Sheriff Rawlins felt embarrassed in his dingy little home with the rickety furniture and dreary odors. It was like a bad dream.

  “You wanted to see me, gentlemen?” he said, his voice cracking.

  Mayor Randlett held his hat in his hands and fidgeted with the brim. “I’m sorry, Sheriff Rawlins, but we’ve taken a vote and decided that we’ll have to ask for your badge.”

  Sheriff Rawlins felt as if his knees would give out. Glancing toward Rosie, he saw tears rolling down her cheeks. He wanted to get mad, but somehow the anger wouldn’t come.

  Mayor Randlett continued to speak. “I’m sorry it’s come to this. Sheriff Rawlins. You’ve done wonderful things for this town, but it’s no good anymore.” He held out his hand. “Could you give me your badge?”

  Sheriff Rawlins felt like a mechanical toy as he reached toward his lapel and unpinned his badge, dropping it into Mayor Randlett’s hand.

  “If you can get yourself sober and straighten yourself out, we’ll be glad to have you back,” Mayor Randlett said. “If you need any help with anything, just call on any one of us here, and we’ll be glad to give you a hand.” Mayor Randlett reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and took out an envelope. “Here’s a check for two months’ pay, to tide you over. Good luck to you, Buck. I hope you understand that we had to do this—you gave us no choice.”

  Mayor Randlett and the other members of the town council turned around and walked out the door. They headed toward the center of town, and Mayor Randlett lit a cigar. “That wasn’t hard at all,” he said. “I thought he took it real well, don’t you?”

  Rawlins sat at the kitchen table and stared out the window at the sky. Rosie stood beside the stove and sobbed into a handkerchief. Rawlins wondered where his life had gone. He’d grown up on a farm in Georgia, roamed the frontier, cleaned up Petie, fought for Bobby Lee in the war, and then became sheriff of Petie for the second time, giving Petie a total of twenty years of his life, and the time had gone so quickly. Now suddenly he was an old man with no future and no plans. He felt numb, like a statue.

  After a while he went to the bedroom and got his bottle of whiskey, bringing it back to the table.

  “Buck,” said Rosie, “don’t drink no more. It ain’t gonna do you no good.”

  He didn’t answer her, he just uncorked the bottle and gulped some down. He felt empty and sick, like the day the word came down that Bobby Lee had surrendered to Grant at Appomattox. As on that day, he didn’t know what to do with himself.

  He continued to drink throughout the afternoon, and finally Rosie had to go to work.

  “Don’t git in no trouble, Buck,” she told him, kissing his cheek. “We can work it all out together.”

  When he looked up again, she was gone. He finished off the bottle and took another out of the cupboard, uncorking it, raising it in the air, and kissing its lips.

  The burning liquid flowed into his body, stimulating his memory. He thought of drunks he’d thrown in jail, gunmen he’d faced down, thieves he’d apprehended. So many years he’d given to the people of Petie, and now they’d fired him just because he drank a little too much. Somehow it didn’t seem fair.

  He had scars all over his body from fights and bullet wounds he’d received while upholding law and order in Petie. Rich men like Randlett and the members of the town council got richer, and he just got older and more beat up. They’d never cared about him—they’d just used him the way they’d use a plow horse, but when a plow horse got old it was turned out to pasture, whereas Rawlins was getting two months’ pay and that was it.

  “Them sons of bitches,” he said, and felt his anger returning. “Look at how they treated me, after all I done for them.”

  Mayor Randlett walked into the sheriff’s office and saw Stone sitting behind the desk, trying to make sense of the correspondence that was piling up.

  “We did it,” Mayor Randlett said. He took Rawlins’s badge out of his vest pocket. ‘This is yours now. Put it on.”

  “Save it for the next man you hire.”

  “You’re the sheriff around here now.”

  “I don’t want Rawlins’s badge.”

  “What’re you doing there?”

  “Paperwork.”

  “Bring it to Jennifer in the morning. She’ll take care of it for you.”

  Mayor Randlett left the office, and Stone stared out the glass door at riders passing on the street. Poor son of a bitch, he thought. Wonder how he s going to handle it.

  It got dark, and Rawlins continued drinking and brooding. “I should’ve thrown the badge right in their damned faces,” he said. “I should’ve stood up to them, but instead I backed down like a coward.”

  He finished the bottle and lurched toward the cupboard for more, but no more whiskey was left. Cursing, he punched his fist into the wall, bloodying his knuckles. His hand hurt, but something deep inside him hurt more. He looked around and felt trapped. That horrible sinking feeling came to him again, as if he was going to pass out. “I’ve got to get out of here,” he said.

  He strapped on his gun, put on his hat, and left his house. It was pitch-black outside, clouds covered the moon and stars. In the distance he could see the lights of the downtown saloon district. He headed in that direction, muttering and cursing. The cool breeze against his face enlivened him somewhat, and the sinking feeling was gone. He was confused, angry, and starting to feel wild. “Them goddamn bastards,” he said. “Them sons of whores.”

  He found himself in front of the Paradise Saloon, and piano music came from inside. He walked through the swinging doors and saw the usual scene that he’d known so well for twenty years.

  The bartender saw him coming and placed a bottle and a glass on the bar. Rawlins threw the glass over his shoulder, and it landed in the middle of a table where five men were playing draw poker. They jumped, saw Rawlins, and decided not to make an issue of it. Everybody was afraid of him when he was drunk.

  He drank from the mouth of the bottle and leaned over the bar. Taking out a stogie, he lit it up and blew smoke in the air. Then he swallowed more whiskey, trying to make the pain go away, but it wouldn’t go away.

  He turned around and faced the men sitting at the tables. “You bastards finally got rid of old Sheriff Rawlins!” he hollered. “Hope you feel better now!”

  He carried the bottle to a table against the far wall where three men were drinking and carrying on a conversation.

  “Get the hell away from me,” he growled.

  They got up and moved to another table. Rawlins sat down heavily and continued drinking and smoking. When his stogie was down to the stub he threw it in the cuspidor a few feet away. His face was blotched, his hat was crooked on his
head, and spittle leaked out of the corner of his mouth.

  He continued drinking, and the hours passed. Rawlins thought about the war, cannons firing, attacks and counterattacks, blood and guts everywhere, and battlefields where you couldn’t put your foot down without stepping on a dead body. He recalled when he’d first come to Petie, and the townspeople had begged him to be their sheriff. He hadn’t even wanted the job, but figured what the hell, maybe it was time he stopped drifting. The people seemed to need him so badly, the women and kids were so scared, and regular pay every month seemed like a good idea for a change.

  He was vaguely aware of men moving around him, coming and going, throwing cards onto tables, laughing, having a good time. “It’s as if I ain’t even here,” he mumbled. “Nobody gives a shit about me anymore.”

  Suddenly a hush fell over the Paradise Saloon. Rawlins looked up and saw John Stone walking toward the bar, the tin badge pinned to the front of his shirt.

  All Rawlins’s resentment became focused on Stone, who now had his job. Everything had been okay for Rawlins before John Stone came to town.

  “Well, look who’s here!” Rawlins hollered. ‘The fastest gun alive, only he wouldn’t be alive right now if it wasn’t for— for …” Rawlins lost his train of thought and wrinkled his brow, trying to get it back again, but it wouldn’t come.

  Stone turned and looked at Rawlins, sitting disheveled and drunk at his table. He didn’t want to ignore Rawlins, but didn’t want to talk with him either.

  “You’re a fuckin’ weasel!” Rawlins called out to Stone. “Everybody thinks you’re so great, but I could whip you now, I could whip you tomorrow, I could whip you anytime I wanted, name yer weapons, rough and tumble, whatever!”

  Rawlins blinked when he realized that Stone was walking toward him. He rose to his feet and pulled back the right side of his frock coat, so he could draw his pistol. He thought Stone was going to challenge him to a gunfight!

  Stone stopped a few feet from Rawlins’s table. “You saved my life,” he said. “I haven’t had a chance to thank you yet, so I’m thanking you now.”

  “Shove yer thanks up yer ass. I wouldn’t trust you as far as I could throw you. Everybody around here thinks you’re so goddamned fast. Well show ’em how fast you are. Go for yer gun, if you got the guts.”

  “I’m not going to draw on you, Sheriff.”

  “Well, I’m gonna draw on you.”

  In a sudden movement, Rawlins yanked out his pistol and pointed it at Stone’s chest. Behind Stone, men rose from their chairs and got out of the way.

  “You stole my job,” Rawlins said drunkenly.

  Stone looked at the barrel of Rawlins’s gun. “I didn’t steal your job. I’m only the deputy, and I’m leaving this town as soon as I can. You didn’t lose your job because of me. You lost your job because you’re a drunk.”

  Rawlins thought Stone must be crazy to talk to him that way when he was aiming a loaded gun at his chest. Rawlins was unnerved by what John Stone said. He held his aim steady on Stone’s chest and felt Stone’s eyes burning into his brain.

  “Aw, to hell with you,” Rawlins said, lowering his pistol. “You ain’t worth a bullet.”

  Rawlins collapsed into his chair. A dizzy spell came over him, and when he opened his eyes again, Stone was gone. Men were playing cards and drinking all around him, and he realized he’d blacked out again. He wondered if he’d really seen Stone, or if he’d dreamed him. Sometimes it was hard for him to know what was real and what wasn’t.

  He continued to drink, and the night rolled on. When his bottle was empty he careened toward the bar and got another, returning to the table and pulling out the cork. He gulped down more and felt sleepy. Closing his eyes, he leaned back in his chair, holding the bottle in his right hand.

  “Come on home, Buck.”

  Rawlins opened his eyes. His face lay in a puddle of whiskey and drool on the table. He straightened up and wiped his cheek with his sleeve, then turned and saw Rosie beside him, tugging his sleeve.

  “It’s time to go to bed, Buck. Let’s go.”

  “Get yer goddamn hands off’n me, woman!”

  Rawlins drew himself away from her and reached for the bottle.

  She pulled it off the table before he could touch it. “You had enough,” she told him. “You keep drinkin’ like this, you’ll kill yerself. Let’s go home. I’ll make you some coffee.”

  “Gimme that bottle!”

  With a vicious snarl he lunged forward and pulled the bottle out of her hand.

  “Goddamn woman, always try in’ to tell a man what to do.”

  “Please, Buck—don’t drink no more tonight.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “I’m afraid somethin’ bad’s gonna happen.”

  “Get the hell away from me! I’m tired of lookin at yer goddamn ugly face!”

  He reached over and pushed her, and her chair tipped over. She fell to the floor.

  He saw her out of the corner of his eye, picking herself up off the floor, and he knew he’d just done something terrible, but he was hurting deep inside and somehow it made him feel better to know that she was hurting too.

  She got to her feet and stood a few feet in front of him, her lips trembling. “I’m gonna tell you somethin’, Buck, and I’m just gonna tell it to you once. This’s been goin’ on for long enough now, and I can’t live with it anymore. If you don’t come home with me now, you’d better not never come home again, because I ain’t lettin’ you in.”

  “Get the hell away from me,” he said. “Who needs you anyways?”

  His words were slurred and the corners of his mouth were turned down in derision. She wiped her eyes with her hands and turned away, heading for the door. It was quiet in the saloon, and everyone had heard each word. Rawlins watched her go and realized he’d humiliated her. He wished he hadn’t done it, and thought maybe he should run after her, but a man should never run after a woman, and when he looked again, she was gone.

  He reached for the bottle and drank until he wasn’t thinking about Rosie anymore. He stared into space and remembered his childhood in Georgia. His father had been a sharecropper, and they’d had a hard life. They hadn’t owned any slaves, they worked the land themselves, from early in the morning till late at night. He’d had five brothers and sisters, and there was always something to do. They raised cotton, and most of it went to the landlord. Rawlins and the other members of his family barely had enough to eat, they wore rags and lived in a shack.

  John Stone reminded him of the sons of his landlord. While Rawlins worked in the fields every day, the landlord’s sons didn’t do anything except hunt, fish, and have fun. Rawlins had hated his landlord’s sons, and maybe that was one of the reasons he hated Stone.

  It was two o’clock in the morning, and most of the customers in the saloon had gone home. Only a few serious drinkers remained, seated here and there at tables, and one held a noisy argument with the bartender about the quality of whiskey.

  The hours passed, and Rawlins continued to sip whiskey. A few times he fell asleep for short stretches, and when he awoke the first thing he did was reach for the bottle again. He sank more deeply into wrath and indignation against the townspeople and John Stone, as if they were conspiring against him, trying to destroy him. “I hate ’em all,” he muttered. “They can all go to hell, for all I care.”

  He especially despised John Stone, whom he considered a liar and a sneak. “He stole my job.” John Stone had turned the town against him. “I should’ve let Deke Casey and his boys shoot him down.”

  Rawlins fell asleep again, his head lying on the table, and when he opened his eyes he saw the first glimmer of the new day. A man in a dirty white apron swept out the saloon and emptied the cuspidors. Rawlins finished his bottle of whiskey, then stumbled toward the bar and got a cup of coffee. He carried the cup to his table, spilling nearly half the coffee in the saucer, and sat facing the door. He slurped the coffee out of the saucer, then sipped from the cup. Something told him he ough
t to eat something, but he didn’t feel hungry.

  He had a stomachache, a headache, and his throat hurt. The coffee made his heart beat faster. He saw the first customers of the new day enter the saloon, and Doreen Eckles replaced the night bartender. Everything started spinning around Rawlins’s head. He felt as though he was going to vomit, and closed his eyes.

  When he opened his eyes again he was sprawled back in his chair, his head lolling back and his mouth open. The saloon was noisy and crowded, and he realized a considerable amount of time had passed. He straightened up in his chair and saw a fly in his empty cup of coffee.

  Something fluttered in his stomach, and his ears were ringing. I need a drink, he said to himself. He got up and staggered to the bar.

  “Whiskey,” he said.

  Doreen Eckles placed the bottle and glass in front of him. He reached into his pocket for the money, and his pocket was empty.

  “Run out of money,” he said. “Pay you later on in the day.”

  She pointed to the sign behind her: NO CREDIT.

  He smiled unsteadily. “That don’t mean me. I’m the sheriff. I been in this town for twenny years.”

  “I don’t care how long you been here,” Doreen Eckles said, “no credit.”

  “I got money in that bank over there. All I gotta do is go git it.”

  “Go ahead and git it. I’ll hold yer bottle for you.”

  “You don’t trust me,” Rawlins snarled, placing his hand on the butt of his pistol.

  “No credit,” she replied. “It’s the rules of the house.”

  Rawlins felt like shooting her, but he couldn’t shoot a woman. He felt as if the whole world was against him. Spitting into a cuspidor, he pulled up his pants and headed for the door. The other customers in the Paradise stared at him, because they’d never seen him like this before. His clothes were rumpled, he needed a shave, and his complexion had a deathly pallor. He stepped onto the sidewalk and it was another cloudy day. Everything went black for several seconds, and when he came to he was crossing the street, heading toward the Petie Savings Bank.