Brice stepped back from Arturo, nodded in satisfaction at the bandaging job he had done, and said, “Why don’t we go and see if we can find out?”
CHAPTER 22
They left Arturo sitting there on the rock and walked out to where the nearest of the fallen bushwhackers lay. This was the last man who had gone down. Denny figured one of Brice’s shots had drilled him, because she had seen the man fall from his horse just a fraction of a second before she fired at him. It was unlikely Malatesta or Arturo had made a shot like that.
The dead man lay on his side with one arm flung above his head. The fingers of his other hand had dug furrows in the dirt as he clawed at the ground in his death throes. His hawkish, beard-stubbled face was twisted in lines of agony, and his wide-open eyes stared sightlessly.
“Ever see him before?” Brice asked, glancing to either side of him at Denny and Malatesta. He had been careful to stay between them during the walk out here, just in case they got any more ideas about throwing down on each other.
“Never in my life,” Malatesta declared. “But he looks like a thoroughly disreputable character.”
Brice grunted. “A hard case if I’ve ever seen one, I reckon,” he agreed. “How about you, Denny? Recognize him?”
Denny opened her mouth to say something, then closed it abruptly and shook her head.
“No.”
Actually, there was something familiar about the man, but Denny decided to keep that to herself for now. She was still suspicious of Malatesta’s reasons for being in Colorado, and nothing that had happened so far had done anything to lessen those suspicions. More was going on here than was apparent on the surface.
She didn’t have to lie when they walked over to the second fallen bushwhacker and Brice rolled the man onto his back with a boot toe hooked under the corpse’s shoulder. He had rusty hair and a broad, florid face. The front of his shirt was sodden with blood from his wounds. Bullets from Denny’s carbine had hit him at least twice.
“Never laid eyes on him before,” she said honestly.
Malatesta added, “I’m not acquainted with the gentleman, either.”
“I reckon it’s safe to say he was no gentleman,” Brice pointed out. “He wouldn’t go around bushwhacking folks if he was.”
They had to circle the rocks to reach the third man, who lay near the horse Denny had shot out from under him. Denny held the Winchester carbine ready and Brice slipped his Colt from its holster as they approached the man, since he apparently hadn’t been wounded and they didn’t know if he had survived being thrown from his horse. He might be alive but still unconscious.
Or he could be shamming, pretending to be out cold until they got close enough that he could start shooting again.
Before they ever reached him, though, the unnatural angle of his head and neck made it obvious that he wasn’t alive. The hard fall had broken his neck. He lay on his back, so they got a good look at his coarse-featured face, which still wore a surprised expression.
“A stranger to me, as well,” Malatesta said without waiting to be asked.
“And me,” Denny said, hating to agree with that insufferable man about anything. Again, though, she was telling the truth. Only the first man whose body they had checked out had been familiar to her, and she was pretty sure where she had seen him before.
“So it’s a mystery,” Brice said as he pouched his iron. “Just like at the train station that day, you don’t have any idea why these men would want to kill you.”
Malatesta pursed his lips and said, “None at all. Perhaps we should interrogate Arturo and find out if he has any old enemies who might wish him harm.”
“Arturo doesn’t strike me as the type of hombre who’d bring bushwhackers out of the woodwork,” Brice commented drily.
“And I do?” Malatesta asked as he cocked an eyebrow.
Brice shrugged and said, “You tell me, Count.”
“I believe I have told you everything that I know,” Malatesta replied. His voice held a hint of coolness now. “And speaking of Arturo, I should get back to him and make sure he is all right.”
He walked toward the rocks and the buggy. Brice watched him go and said quietly, “I didn’t figure the count was the sort who’d worry all that much about the health of somebody who worked for him.”
“He isn’t,” Denny said. “All he cares about is himself.”
Brice looked at her but didn’t press her for details about why she felt that way. She was glad he didn’t. She didn’t want to dredge up all those old memories again. She had been brooding about them too much recently. And she sure didn’t want to share them with Brice. What had happened in Venice between her and Malatesta was none of his business.
Instead, Brice changed the subject by saying, “That was a pretty good shot I made, all the way from those rocks with a handgun.”
“Wait a minute. You believe you shot this fella’s horse out from under him?”
“That’s right. I was aiming at him when I fired, and the horse went down.”
Denny shook her head. “I’m the one who shot that poor horse, from that little rise in the trail just west of here. I was aiming at the son of a gun riding him.”
“Although you didn’t know who he was,” Brice reminded her. “For all you knew when you opened fire, those six hombres could have been a posse of lawmen.”
“They weren’t acting like lawmen,” Denny snapped. “Chasing you and shooting that way.”
“We could have been owlhoots they were after. Thieves and killers.”
“Well, that’s not the way it worked out, is it?”
“I’m just saying, Denny, it might be a good idea not to jump in with both feet before you know what’s going on.”
She glared resentfully at him, but it was hard to argue with what he was saying. He was right and she knew it. Just because she had guessed correctly this time didn’t mean she always would.
“Fine,” she said through clenched teeth. “I’ll try to remember that.”
She stalked back toward the boulders where Malatesta and Arturo waited with the buggy. Brice waited a few seconds before shaking his head ruefully and following her.
“I know we were on our way out to the Sugarloaf when those fellas jumped us,” Brice said when they had rejoined the two Italians, “but I really think we ought to take Arturo back to Big Rock so Dr. Steward can take a look at his arm.”
“It’s really not that bad,” Arturo said. “I don’t want to inconvenience anyone—”
“Nonsense,” Malatesta interrupted him. He put a hand on the shoulder of Arturo’s uninjured arm. “Your health is of paramount importance. I would suggest that Marshal Rogers here can drive the buggy back to Big Rock.”
“I suppose I can do that,” Brice said. “I can tie my horse on behind—”
Once again Malatesta broke in to what somebody else was saying. “I had more in mind that you would be so kind as to loan me your horse, Marshal, so that I might continue on to the Sugarloaf with Signorina Jensen.”
Denny stiffened.
“Nobody invited you,” she said.
“But what about your world-famous western hospitality, eh?”
“That doesn’t extend to low-down sons of—”
Brice said, “I’m afraid that animal of mine is a one-man horse, Count. He seems well behaved, but if anybody besides me tries to ride him, he turns into a bucking fool. My conscience won’t let me loan him to you and take a chance on you getting hurt.”
Malatesta’s lips thinned. He didn’t like having his suggestion vetoed like that, Denny knew.
“I would hold you blameless in the event of any such unfortunate occurrence, signore.”
“Maybe, but I’d still blame myself.” Brice shook his head. “Nope. Just can’t do it. But I will be happy to take both of you back to town and see to it that Arturo gets to the doctor’s office.”
“Very well.” Malatesta didn’t sound happy about it. He climbed into the buggy’s rear seat without
offering to share it with Arturo or helping the servant climb into the vehicle.
“Arturo might be more comfortable back there,” Brice said. Denny got the feeling that he was deliberately trying to put a burr under Malatesta’s saddle now.
“No, that’s all right, I’d rather sit up front,” Arturo said before his employer could respond.
“Whatever you want,” Brice replied with a shrug. “Let me go get my horse and tie him on the back.”
His horse had wandered off about fifty yards and was cropping contentedly at some grass. Denny knew the animal was well trained enough that it would have come back if Brice whistled for it, but he walked toward the mount to retrieve it.
She also knew that it wasn’t a one-man horse at all. Brice had shaded the truth there.
She walked with him, leading the chestnut, and when they were out of easy earshot of the buggy, she said quietly, “I appreciate what you did back there.”
“You mean not letting the count borrow my horse?”
“That’s right. I don’t want that man on my parents’ ranch. I especially don’t want him in their house. It would be fine with me if he’d just go back where he came from.”
“He seems determined not to do that just yet.” Brice paused. “I know there’s bad blood between the two of you, even if I don’t know why. That’s none of my business.”
“You’re blasted right it’s not.”
“But for what it’s worth, he seems like he really wants to make amends. I get the feeling that he’s planning on staying in these parts until you’ve forgiven him for whatever it is, Denny.”
She felt her expression hardening as she said, “That’s never going to happen. Anyway, you’re wrong about that being what he wants.”
“Then why is he so determined to stay around here and win you over?”
She looked back over her shoulder at the buggy and thought about the man she had recognized earlier as one of the gun-wolves who tried to kill Malatesta at the train station. Whatever had brought Malatesta to Colorado, trouble had trailed him here, she was certain of that.
“I don’t know what he’s after,” Denny said, “but you can be sure that whatever Giovanni Malatesta is trying to do, he’s up to no good.”
CHAPTER 23
Big Rock
Dr. Enoch Steward stepped back from the examining table where Arturo sat and said, “There, that ought to do it.”
Arturo looked down at the neat bandage encircling his arm and said, “Thank you, Doctor. Your stitches were very precise . . . and painful.”
The sandy-haired physician chuckled. “I offered to give you something for the pain, you’ll recall. You claimed that you preferred to remain clearheaded.”
“That is the case.” Arturo picked up the bloodstained shirt he had taken off earlier and started to slip it on. “A servant never knows when he will be called upon to perform his duties for his employer.”
“That’s an admirable attitude, I suppose.”
“One that I endeavor to live by,” Arturo said as he buttoned up the bloody shirt.
“I’ll come by the hotel this evening and check that dressing,” Steward went on briskly. “You’ll need to make sure the wound stays clean. As long as it doesn’t become infected, I believe you’ll heal up just fine. And since this is hardly the first bullet wound I’ve patched up, I think you can put some stock in my opinion.”
“Indeed I do. But I’m curious . . . In this modern day and age, you still have to treat numerous gunshot wounds?”
“Smoke Jensen lives less than a dozen miles from here,” Steward said with a smile. “Also, he has brothers and nephews who come to visit him from time to time, and they seem to be just as much of a magnet for trouble as he is. Just because it’s a new century doesn’t mean that things have changed that much. As long as there are Jensens around . . .”
The doctor left that comment unfinished except for an eloquent shrug.
“Very well.” Arturo tucked in his shirt, and then Steward draped a black silk sling around his neck and over his shoulder. Arturo arranged his wounded arm in the sling and carried his coat and tie over his other arm as he left the doctor’s examination room.
Brice Rogers and Giovanni Malatesta waited in the office, where they had been joined by Sheriff Monte Carson, who had been summoned by one of the townspeople Brice spoke to as he drove the buggy into town. The sheriff was talking to them about the ambush on the road to the Sugarloaf.
“I’ll let the undertaker know what happened, and he can go out there with his wagon to collect the bodies,” Monte said. He frowned at Malatesta. “You’re sure you don’t have any idea why they jumped you?”
Malatesta blew out an exasperated breath. “Must everyone constantly ask me that question?”
“We’re just looking for answers,” Monte said. “You’ve got to admit, circumstances sure make it look like somebody’s out to get you.”
“I cannot help how it looks. And I cannot give you answers that I don’t have, Sheriff.”
Monte nodded and said, “Fair enough.” He didn’t sound convinced, though, and Brice looked skeptical, too.
Malatesta ignored them, stood up, and said to Steward, “You took good care of my friend, eh, Doctor?”
“That’s right,” Steward said. “The wound bled quite a bit but looked worse than it really was. I cleaned it, took a few stitches to close it up, and bandaged it. Mr. Vincenzo will need to take it easy for a few days and keep his arm in that sling most of the time.”
“But rest assured, Count Malatesta, I’ll still be able to take care of my duties,” Arturo said.
“Nonsense!” Malatesta gave him a hearty slap on the back. “For the time being, our roles are reversed, eh? I will take care of you.”
Arturo looked quite uncomfortable at that idea, but he didn’t say anything about it. Instead he turned to Steward and said, “I suppose we should settle our account, Doctor.”
Malatesta said, “You were injured while in the course of performing your duties for me, so I will be held accountable for your medical expenses.”
“Seems fair to me,” Brice put in.
Steward said, “It doesn’t really matter to me, as long as I get my three dollars.”
Malatesta took three silver dollars from his pocket and gave them to the doctor.
“If you require additional payment later, sir, please let me know.”
“If there aren’t any complications—and I don’t expect any—everything should be fine.”
“We should get back to the hotel, then,” Malatesta said, “so Arturo can rest.” He looked at Brice and Monte. “Unless you gentlemen have any more questions . . . ?”
Monte shook his head. “No, I don’t reckon I do. I’ll go notify the undertaker.”
“I’ll come with you,” Brice said.
The two lawmen left the doctor’s office. Steward promised again to check on Arturo later, and then Malatesta ushered him out of the office and they walked along the street toward the Big Rock Hotel.
“I really do hate to be a burden,” Arturo said.
“You are no burden, my friend,” Malatesta assured him.
“I just don’t understand why people keep trying to shoot us!” Some of the frustration he felt came out in Arturo’s voice.
Beside him, with a hand on Arturo’s arm, Malatesta sighed and shook his head. Solemnly, he said, “It is a great mystery, indeed.”
New York City, four months earlier
The area known as Little Italy lay between Houston Street on the north, Worth Street on the south, Lafayette Street on the west, and the Bowery on the east. The neighborhood in lower Manhattan had been known originally as Mulberry Bend because Mulberry Street ran through the center of it. At first it had been a mixture of nationalities and cultures, but during the past decade and a half, more and more Italians had moved in, until now at least 90 percent of the population had either immigrated from Italy or been born to Italian immigrants. To anyone walking along Mulbe
rry Street, the sights and sounds and smells might have led them to believe they had been transported around the world to an Italian village.
Johnny Malatesta tugged his cap down tighter, lowered his head, and hunched his shoulders against the chilly wind blowing through the canyons formed by the brownstone buildings. The frigid fingers clawed right through the thin, threadbare jacket he wore, almost as if the garment wasn’t there. Johnny clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. It might be spring according to the calendar, but the weather here was still miserable.
He opened a gate in a wrought iron railing and went down some steps to a small area below street level with a plain door opening into the basement of one of the buildings. When he pushed the door back, welcome warm air gushed out around him, wrapping him in the smells of garlic, fresh-baked bread, and the acidic tang of wine. Johnny closed the door behind him.
He had taken only a single step through the restaurant’s foyer before a mountainous figure emerged from a curtained doorway and blocked his path.
“Stop right there,” the man rumbled. “Where do you think you’re goin’?”
Even though years had passed since all the trouble back in Sicily, for a second Johnny’s mind flashed back to the massive, brutal youngster called Luca. Dead and gone for a long time, Luca was, along with the Capizzi brothers, but every now and then Johnny still had nightmares about them and about what had happened to Serafina. And about the fiery end he had put to his enemies, as well.
Those weren’t nightmares, however. What he had done to the Capizzi brothers and Luca still gave him intense satisfaction.
But this man standing in front of him now was not Luca. He was much older and even bigger. Everybody in the neighborhood called him Pete and walked carefully around him, not wanting to get on his bad side because he was the strong-arm and right-hand man for Nick Scaramello.
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