The Bandit Princess (2 page)

“Not long after that.”

“After they had a child?”

“No,” Clint said, “before.”

Judge Parker sat back and sipped his brandy.

“Now wait a minute,” Clint said, seeing where this was going. “You’re not implying—”

“I’m not implying anything,” the judge said.

“Then what are you saying?”

“I would like you to go after Pearl Starr and her gang,” Parker said.

“Why me?”

“Frankly,” Parker said, “the reduction of my jurisdiction has also led to a reduction in the number of deputies I have at my disposal. And I have a couple of men laid up with bullet wounds. So at the moment, I don’t have anyone else to send.”

“Bullet wounds?”

“That’s right.”

“And just how did these two men receive their bullet wounds?”

“They were wounded while tracking the Pearl Starr gang.”

“Is that what they’re called?”

“That’s what I’m calling them.”

Clint set his brandy glass down on the judge’s desk and stood up.

“Where are you going?”

“I need a beer.”

“But what about my offer?”

Clint looked down at the judge.

“I haven’t heard an offer,” he said.

“I’d like you to be sworn in as a deputy and then bring in the Pearl Starr gang.”

“That’s an offer?” Clint asked. “It almost sounds like an order.”

“It’s not an order,” the judge said. “I can’t give you any orders until you’re sworn in.”

“Which is exactly why I won’t be sworn in,” Clint said. “I’m not going to take orders from you, Judge.”

“Look here—”

“I’m going to go and have a drink and think this over,” Clint said. “If I decide to go after the gang, I won’t wear a badge, and I won’t take orders. I’ll do it my way.”

“As what? A vigilante?” the judge asked. “I don’t allow vigilantes—”

“As a concerned private citizen,” Clint said, interrupting the startled jurist, “who has obviously lost his mind.”

“See here—”

“Judge,” Clint said, “I’ll see you tomorrow, when I’ll let you know what I’ve decided.”

The judge frowned, then said, “Oh, very well. Tomorrow, then.”

“Until tomorrow.”

Clint left and went in search of a beer, to wash the taste of the brandy out of his mouth.

 

 

 

Clint went to the Cactus Saloon. He had been there years before, when it had been called something else, which he couldn’t remember.

“Help ya?” the middle-aged bartender asked.

“I need a cold beer,” Clint said. “I’ve got a bad taste in my mouth.”

“Comin’ up.”

The bartender brought a mug and set it down in front of him.

“There ya go, friend,” he said. “Guaranteed to get any bad taste out of your mouth.”

“And I’ll want another one after this,” Clint said.

“Just wave,” the mustachioed bartender said, “and I’ll come a-runnin’.”

“That’s a deal,” Clint said.

The barman went away. Clint picked up the beer and thankfully drank down half of it. It successfully washed away the taste of the judge’s brandy, but not the taste of what the judge was trying to sell him.

He was angry that the judge would stoop to trying to convince him—or at least create some reasonable suspicion—that Pearl Starr was his daughter. True, he had slept with Belle Starr, but he doubted he had fathered a child with her. It was more likely Sam Starr who was Pearl’s father.

That didn’t mean he liked the idea of a twenty-year-old girl taking to the owlhoot trail. But she wasn’t related to him, so it really wasn’t his business.

On the other hand, if Belle Starr had come to him instead of Judge Parker, what would he have said then?

Maybe the thing to do was try to find Belle Starr and see what she knew?

He finished his beer and was considering another when one of Judge Parker’s deputy marshals came through the batwings. Clint knew several of the judge’s marshals, but this one was unfamiliar to him.

“That’s somethin’, huh?” the bartender asked.

“When did—”

“Last month,” the bartender answered, anticipating the question. “The judge decided to add a woman to his staff of deputy marshals. I guess he was really havin’ a hard time findin’ men to do the job.”

The woman wearing the deputy marshal’s badge turned, looked at the bar, then seemed to look directly at Clint. She nodded to herself, as if she’d made a decision, and walked toward him.

“Clint Adams?” she asked.

“Uh, yeah, that’s right, Deputy,” Clint said. “Have I, uh, done anything?”

“No, sir,” she said. “I was just gonna ask you if I could buy you a beer.”

“I see.”

“Looks like you just finished one,” she said. “Another?”

“Sure,” he said, “why not, Deputy—”

“Eads,” she said. “My name is Deputy Alice Stewart Eads. Bartender? Two beers.”

“Comin’ up, Deputy.”

Clint and Deputy Eads looked each other up and down while waiting for their beers.

She appeared to be in her mid-thirties—definitely a woman, not a girl. She was tall, raw-boned, with brown hair tucked under a worn hat. Her leather holster was worn as well, but the Peacemaker resting in it was well cared for. She had gray eyes, which stared into his boldly, if not confidently. He wondered what her profession had been before this change came.

The bartender set down two beers, and they each picked one up.

“Thank you for the beer,” Clint said after a sip, “but why would you be buying me one? We’ve never met—that I remember.”

“No, we haven’t meant, Mr. Adams,” she said, “but I know your reputation. Oh, not the newspaper rep, but the one I’ve heard from other deputies who know you, and from the judge.”

“Other deputies?”

“Bass Reeves, Addison Beck, a few others,” she said.

He knew Reeves well, Beck only in passing.

“Okay,” he said, “so you just wanted to have a beer with me?”

“No,” she said, “I mean yes, I did, but not just to have a beer. You see, I’ve been after the judge to let me go after Pearl Starr and her gang.”

“Ah,” he said as understanding dawned.

“And I knew he was sending for you so he could send you after her.”

“Ask.”

“What?”

“He’s not sending me anywhere,” Clint said. “He’s asking me to go. I don’t work for him.”

She looked confused.

“But . . . he’s the judge. Judge Parker. You would say no to him?”

“I would,” he said, “and I will, if I decide not to go.”

“B-But—but—”

This was obviously not a concept she was able to easily grasp.

“So if I do decide not to go, maybe he’ll send you, after all,” he said.

“I—I don’t think he, uh, thinks I’m ready,” she said. “But I am.”

“So what did you expect from me for a beer?” he asked. “You want me to tell him you should go?”

“No, no,” she said. “I wouldn’t expect you to vouch for me when you don’t know me.”

“Well then . . . what?”

“I want to go with you,” she said.

“Oh.”

 

 

 

“I could watch your back,” she promised.

“Could you?”

“Yes.”

“How do I know that?” he asked. “Trusting you to watch my back is the same as vouching for you. I don’t know you well enough to do either.”

“I realize that,” she said. “I guess what I’m asking is for you to take me with you so I can prove myself.”

He stared at her, took another sip of the free beer she’d provided.

“Let me ask you something,” he said.

“What?”

“Why haven’t you gone after the Starr gang yourself?” he asked.

She looked puzzled again.

“The judge didn’t tell me I could.”

“What do you think would happen if you went anyway, caught them, and brought them back?”

“He’d probably fire me for going against his orders.”

“Even if you brought them in? Alive? To stand trial?” Clint asked.

“But if he didn’t give me permission—”

“Sometimes,” Clint said, “you can’t wait for permission before acting.”

“But if you’re wearing a badge—”

“Deputy, the best lawmen have minds of their own,” Clint said. “They do what they have to do to get the job done.”

“Are you telling me to go after the Starr gang on my own? Against the judge’s orders?”

“No,” Clint said, “that’s not what I’m telling you.”

“But you just told me to go after the gang anyway.”

“No, I told you that the best lawmen make up their own minds, and don’t always follow orders.”

“I don’t see the difference.”

“No,” Clint said, “I don’t suppose you do. Why don’t I buy you a beer?”

“Can we talk some more?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said, “but somehow, I don’t think it’s going to do any good.”

 

With another beer each, they found a table in a corner where they could talk. The saloon was getting busier, but the piano player had not come out yet. Once the music started, talking would be difficult.

“Deputy—”

“Call me Alice, please.”

“All right, Alice—”

“May I call you Clint?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Thank you, Clint.”

“Alice, what did you do before you became a deputy marshal?”

“I taught school for most of my life,” she said, “but I became bored with it.”

“So you went from teaching to being a lawma—to wearing a badge?”

She nodded and said, “It seemed a logical choice.”

“It did? How do you figure that?”

“They are both positions of authority.”

He stared at her and then said, “You know? That kind of makes sense.”

But he wondered what was going through Parker’s mind when he pinned a badge on this woman.

“What do you say, Clint?”

“I say no.”

“But—why?”

“First of all, I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

She sat back in her chair.

“Do you mean . . . you’d really say no to Judge Parker?”

“I’ve known him a long time,” Clint said. “He won’t hang me for saying no—I don’t think.”

She shook her head.

“You must be very brave.”

“I might be, but this is not a test of my courage,” Clint said.

“Then what is it a test of?”

“My intelligence,” he said.

She frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“I’d have to be an idiot to say yes to this,” he said. “And then I’d have to be a bigger idiot to take a wet-behind-the-ears deputy with me.”

“I’m thirty-six years—”

“I’m not talking about your age,” he said, “I’m referring to your experience—or lack of it.”

“I can shoot, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Can you?”

“Yes, sir. I can hit what I aim at.”

“Can you hit what you’re not aiming at?”

“What do you mean?”

“Finish your beer,” Clint said, “and then come with me.”

 

 

 

They finished their beers and left the saloon.

“You know this town,” he said. “We need a big empty space, and some empty bottles or cans.”

“Come on,” she said.

They went to the general store, where they were able to get as many empties as they wanted. Then she took him behind the store, where there was a big empty lot filled with debris.

“What used to be here?” he asked.

“A whorehouse,” she said. “It burned down a few months ago.”

“By accident?”

“Actually,” she said, “some of the wives in town were suspected of burning it down, but nothing could be proven.”

“Good for them,” he said. “Wait here.”

He set some bottles and cans up, some low, some high, then kept some so he could toss them into the air.

“Okay,” he said. “Shoot something.”

“What?”

“Anything,” he said. “Just tell me what you’re aiming at so I’ll know if you hit the right thing.”

“Okay.” She took her gun out of her holster then looked at the empties he’d set up. “That bottle.”

“Which one?”

“There, to the left.”

“Okay.”

She aimed and fired. The bottle shattered.

“There, see?” she asked. “Now can I go with you?”

“No,” he said. “Shoot the can next to it.”

“Okay.” She extended her arm and sighted down the barrel.

“No,” he said, “turn around.”

“What?”

“Turn your back,” he said, “then whirl around and shoot the can.”

“B-But, how am I supposed to see it?”

“You’ll see it when you turn around.”

“But—”

“Do it, Deputy!”

She glared at him, then turned around.

“Oh, and holster the gun.”

“Oh, now you’re just being mean!” she accused. “How am I supposed to—”

“Watch.”

He turned his back, whirled, drew his gun, and then fired six times. Three bottles shattered and three cans leaped into the air. Before the last can hit the ground, he had his gun reloaded and back in his holster.

She glared again, but this time in awe.

“I—I—I’d never be able to do that,” she complained. “How did you do that?”

“It comes natural.”

A dubious look on her face, she turned her back, whirled, and fired once. No bottle shattered, and no can jumped.

“That’s okay,” he said. “Most people wouldn’t have hit the first bottle you shattered.”

“Really?”

“Really. Oh, replace that spent shell.”

She ejected the spent shell, reloaded, and holstered her gun.

“Then I can come with you?”