Crabtree’s jaw tightened. His face flushed with anger. He said, “I don’t care for being talked to that way.”
“And I don’t care what you care for,” Felicia said. “Not as long as I’m paying your fee.”
“Maybe we’ll just say the job’s over.” Crabtree clapped the derby back on his head. “Good day, missus, and good luck finding that scoundrel you’re after—”
“One more moment, sir.” Felicia opened the folder of bank drafts and took out one she had already written. She pushed it across the desk toward him and said, “Take a look at this, please.”
She could tell that Crabtree, despite his anger, was too curious—and too mercenary—not to look. He scowled as he stepped closer to the desk and peered down at the piece of paper. The scowl went away, replaced by a look of surprise.
“That’s a lot of money,” he said.
“Five thousand dollars,” Felicia agreed. “A small fortune for some people . . . including, I suspect, private detectives.”
“It’s worth that to you for me to find that fellow Malatesta?”
“No, Mr. Crabtree. It’s worth that much to me for you to find Count Giovanni Malatesta . . . and kill him.”
Big Rock
Brice Rogers stepped into the sheriff’s office and said, “You wanted to see me, Monte?”
Even though Monte Carson was much older than Brice, an informality existed between the two of them because they were fellow lawmen, although Brice was always careful to be respectful to the older man when other folks were around.
Right now Monte was alone in the office, sitting behind the big, scarred desk he had been using for two decades. He pushed several pieces of paper across the desk toward Brice and said, “I finally got around to checking through all the reward dodgers for those bushwhackers from the other day. Those are the three whose carcasses got brought in.”
Brice spread out the three wanted posters and studied them.
“Gene Rice, Seth Billings, and Edgar Norris,” he read the names. “All three of them with pretty bad reputations. Murder, attempted murder, robbery, rape . . .”
“Yeah, but here’s something interesting.” Monte tapped the notice with Gene Rice’s name and picture on it and went on, “Rice is known to be part of a bunch that’s headed up by a man named Ned Yeager. Remember that shoot-out at the train station?”
“It’d be hard to forget it,” Brice said.
“Well, the two men you and Denny killed that day were also part of Yeager’s gang.”
Brice’s eyebrows rose.
“So Yeager was responsible for both ambushes?”
Monte nodded and said, “It sure looks like it.”
Brice frowned in thought and scraped a fingernail along his jawline. After a moment, he said, “That sort of explains something else I’ve been thinking about. When we checked out the bodies after the shooting was over, Denny claimed never to have seen any of these three before, but with one of them I got the feeling that maybe she wasn’t being a hundred percent truthful.” He rested a finger on Gene Rice’s wanted poster. “This one.”
Monte leaned back in his chair and nodded.
“She recognized the varmint from that day at the train station,” he said.
“That’s my guess, too,” Brice agreed. “Which is just one more indication that this Ned Yeager is the one who’s trying to kill the count. Maybe you’d better ask Signor Malatesta about that.”
Monte sighed. “I already did, when I realized Yeager might’ve been involved with that first attack. He claimed he has no idea who Yeager is or why some western owlhoot would want him dead.”
“He’s lying,” Brice snapped.
“The count? Maybe. Ambushes like that don’t come out of nowhere, especially when the fellas doing the ambushing are determined enough to try a second time.”
“And maybe a third?”
“Can happen,” Monte allowed. “It’s probably going to get on the count’s nerves, but I think I need to have another talk with him.”
“What about those other two?” Brice asked. “Billings and Norris. I don’t see anything on these posters to indicate that they rode with Yeager.”
“Maybe they didn’t, until now. After Murtagh and Morrell got killed at the train station, Yeager could have gone off to recruit some more gunmen before he made another try for Malatesta. You said there were six bushwhackers on the road to the Sugarloaf. Yeager might’ve found three men to throw in with him to replace the two who were killed earlier.”
Brice nodded and said, “Makes sense. Are you going to see Malatesta now?”
Monte scraped his chair back and stood up.
“I thought I would. You want to come along?”
“It’s not a case that falls under federal jurisdiction, but if you don’t have any objection . . .”
Monte grinned. “I don’t. I wouldn’t have invited you if I did.”
“Then I’d be curious to hear what the count has to say.”
* * *
Denny and Smoke swung down from their saddles in front of Longmont’s. As they wrapped their reins around the hitch rail, Smoke said, “I’ll walk down to the telegraph office and send that wire while you go to Goldstein’s, then I’ll meet you back here. We’ll get a bite to eat and say hello to Louis.”
“Sure,” Denny nodded. Normally, she would have taken more of an interest in the telegram her father was sending to a cattle buyer in Kansas City. She knew that in all likelihood, she would be running the Sugarloaf someday, so she usually tried to learn as much as she could about every little detail of operating a large, lucrative cattle business.
These days, however, she was having trouble concentrating on such things. She didn’t like feeling that way, but she supposed it would just have to work itself out.
Besides, her mother had asked her to stop in at Goldstein’s and pick up a bolt of cloth she had ordered, and Denny had agreed to do so.
Smoke strode off toward the telegraph office. Denny glanced toward the entrance of Longmont’s. As far back as she could remember, she had known that her brother was named after her father’s old friend Louis Longmont. But when Smoke said “Louis,” sometimes she had to stop and think about which one he meant. She hadn’t grown up here, so to her, “Louis” was always first and foremost her brother.
She was pondering that, knowing that it was really irrelevant, and it cost her a few seconds. When the door of Longmont’s swung open and Count Giovanni Malatesta stepped out onto the boardwalk, followed by Arturo Vincenzo, Denny inwardly cursed the delay that had brought her face-to-face with the man.
Malatesta’s face lit up with a smile.
“Denise!” he said. “How wonderful to see you again.” Then he pretended to duck and look around nervously. “Should I be searching for gunmen who seek to ambush us?” He straightened and let out a booming laugh.
Denny reined in the surge of anger she felt and said, “Having somebody shooting at you is no laughing matter.”
Malatesta sobered and nodded.
“Indeed it is not,” he agreed. “Especially when such incidents place you in danger as well. Never would I wish that a single hair on your head should be harmed, cara mia.”
Denny was about to tell him again to stop using that endearment when someone called Malatesta’s name from the street.
“Count Malatesta! Could we talk to you for a minute?”
Denny turned her head to look over her shoulder. Sheriff Monte Carson was the one who had spoken, but he wasn’t alone. Brice Rogers was with him, the two lawmen walking side by side across the street toward the boardwalk in front of Longmont’s.
Denny saw the frown that creased Brice’s forehead. He was unhappy about something. Was it the sight of her standing there talking to Malatesta?
Brice wasn’t stupid. Surely he had figured out by now that she detested the man. How she felt about Brice . . . how she would feel about him in the future . . . she couldn’t decide those things right now, but he couldn’t
possibly be jealous of Malatesta. Could he?
A glance back toward the boardwalk caught the angry glare that flashed quickly across Malatesta’s face. He wasn’t any happier to see Brice than Brice was to see him. Was that because he regarded Brice as a rival? Could he seriously hope to rekindle a romance with the woman he had betrayed so callously in Venice?
Brice and Monte Carson came to a stop, and that left Denny standing directly between Brice and Malatesta. It was an uncomfortable position, and she wasn’t the only one who noticed that.
“My word,” Arturo said, “this is a bit awkward, isn’t it?”
CHAPTER 30
“Arturo, return to the hotel,” Malatesta snapped.
“Of course, sir,” the servant murmured. He looked suitably chastened as he bowed slightly and scurried off, Denny thought. At heart, Malatesta was a feudal lord, or at least that was what he aspired to be.
“Sorry to interrupt your conversation, Count,” Brice said. He didn’t sound sorry at all. “The sheriff and I have a few questions we’d like to ask you.”
“If this is about those men who attacked us the other day—” Malatesta began.
“It is,” Monte interrupted him. “I’ve identified them.”
“Highwaymen, no doubt, who would have attacked any travelers they happened upon, with the intent of robbing and probably killing them.”
“Not exactly,” Monte said. “I think some of them were the same bunch who came after you at the train station, and the others were new guns who had thrown in with them. I suspect the man behind both attempts was an outlaw named Ned Yeager.”
“Yes, you spoke to me before of this man called Yeager. I never heard of him until you mentioned him to me. I have no idea why he would want to harm me. Really, I don’t know what else I can tell you, Sheriff, and frankly, I’m getting a little impatient with this persistent but futile questioning.”
Monte said, “I’m just trying to get to the bottom of this. I don’t like it when folks start getting shot at in my bailiwick.”
“I’m sure the ones being shot at like it even less.”
Monte looked like he was about to lose his temper, but he controlled it and said, “I’m going to send some telegrams to other lawmen about Yeager, see if I can find out anything about what else he’s been up to recently. Maybe the answer is in that.”
“Perhaps. I hope so.” Malatesta tilted his hand to the side in an eloquent gesture. “My apologies, Sheriff. This is as trying and frustrating to me as it is to you.”
“Well, that’s probably true. I’ll let you know if I find out anything.” Monte paused. “And if you think of anything you haven’t told me so far, you’ll let me know, I hope.”
“Of course.”
“I’ll let you get back to your conversation with Miss Jensen. Sorry for the interruption.”
“No apology necessary, Sheriff,” Denny said. She looked narrow-eyed at Malatesta. “The count and I were finished talking. In fact, I think we said everything we have to say to each other a long time ago.”
Malatesta frowned and pursed his lips but didn’t make any other response.
“I’m headed over to the mercantile,” Denny added as she turned in that direction.
“I’ll walk with you,” Brice said.
She started to tell him that she didn’t need any company, but then she reconsidered. With her brother gone back East, Brice was the best friend she had in Big Rock. And as she remembered a few moments they had shared in the past, usually right before all hell broke loose, she had to admit they were more than just friends. They had the potential to be more than that, anyway.
So she made no objection as she started toward Goldstein’s, and Brice fell in alongside her.
After a moment, he ventured, “I get the feeling you wouldn’t mind if Count Malatesta were to just rattle his hocks out of Big Rock.”
“Don’t you feel the same way?”
Brice shrugged and admitted, “It would be all right with me if he was gone. I don’t have anything against the man, personally, I suppose, but for whatever reason, I just don’t like him.”
Denny drew in a deep breath, blew it out, and said, “I do have something against the man. The preachers say that we shouldn’t hate anybody, but sometimes, with some people, hate’s mighty hard to let go of.”
“You don’t owe me any explanations, Denny.”
“No. I don’t reckon I do.” She stopped and leaned both hands on an empty hitch rail they had been passing. She looked intently at Brice, who also stopped, and went on, “But you know what? You and I have been through enough trouble together that I know I can trust you. It might feel good to get some of this weight off my shoulders.”
“I’m happy to listen,” Brice said. He rested a hand on the hitch rail, too, not touching either of her hands but not far from one of them.
“You know I was acquainted with the count while my brother and I were in Europe. We met him while we were in Venice. And you’re smart enough to figure out that he, well, pursued me. Romantically speaking.”
Brice suddenly looked like maybe he wished he hadn’t been so willing to listen after all. Almost like he wished he was somewhere else.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to start spouting a lot of things that are none of your business. You may be a deputy marshal, but this isn’t a confession. Let’s just say that Count Malatesta and I were friends for a while, over there. And then he did something that hurt me.”
“It must have been pretty bad, the way you’ve been treating him ever since he showed up here in Big Rock.”
“Bad enough,” Denny said. “But after Louis and I left Venice, I didn’t figure I’d ever see him again. I just put the whole thing behind me.” She paused, then added with some venom, “I sure as blazes haven’t been pining away over the son of a—”
“No, I understand that,” Brice broke in.
“Anyway, that’s why I wish he would just clear out. Given what I know about him, I can’t help but think that he’s up to no good.”
“But what could he want here in Big Rock?”
Denny just tilted her head a little to the side and gave him a look.
“I mean, besides trying to start things up with you again,” Brice went on hastily.
“That’s probably enough. He’s a swindler, Brice. He probably figures he can make up with me, get me to fall in love with him again, and wind up marrying me. He may believe that would land him the Sugarloaf.”
“Fall in love with him again?” Brice repeated.
Denny felt her face growing warm. “I told you, I’m not confessing anything. But for a man like Malatesta, who preys on women, the Sugarloaf would be a mighty tempting target.” She frowned. “And if he needs money, that usually means he’s in trouble. In Venice, there was a man trying to kill him over some gambling debts.”
“That would explain the attempts on his life here,” Brice said with a note of excitement in his voice. “Somebody’s after him, and they’ve hired Ned Yeager to kill him. Malatesta’s hoping that if he can land you . . . and the Sugarloaf . . . that will be enough to get him out from under.”
“That all makes sense,” Denny said, nodding.
“You think it’s the same hombre he had trouble with in Venice?”
“Maybe. But to tell the truth, Giovanni’s the sort of conniving scoundrel who’s going to make enemies everywhere he goes. So there’s really no telling who’s got a grudge against him right now.”
Brice gave her a funny look for a long moment, until Denny finally lost her patience and said, “What?”
“There’s no chance he’s going to win you over, is there?”
“Not a chance in the world.”
Denny glanced along the street and saw that Malatesta had lingered on the boardwalk in front of
Longmont’s. He was still standing there smoking a cigar, and although he wasn’t trying to be obvious about it, she could tell that he was watching them. She reached over with her right hand, ligh
tly touched Brice’s forearm with an air of familiarity and intimacy, and smiled.
Brice smiled, too, but he said quietly, “You’re just doing that for his benefit, aren’t you, because he’s still keeping an eye on us?”
“Am I?” Denny asked with a slight toss of her head.
“You tell me.”
Denny would have—but honestly, at this moment, she didn’t know the true answer to Brice’s question.
* * *
Malatesta puffed hard enough on the cigar that a cloud of smoke wreathed his head. Anger roiled his guts as he watched Denny talking to Brice Rogers. He didn’t stare directly at them, but he saw them plainly enough from the corner of his eye.
His teeth clamped down on the cigar as Denny rested her hand on Rogers’s forearm. Malatesta knew from experience the warmth of that touch, knew how it could start a man’s heart beating faster. He thought for a second that she might actually lean over and kiss the marshal. The minx was perfectly capable of doing that just to get under his skin.
Instead, she turned and started on toward the mercantile that she had announced as her destination. Rogers walked with her. A moment later, they both disappeared into the store.
Malatesta dropped the cigar butt onto the boardwalk, ground it out with the heel of his shoe, and kicked the shredded remains into the street. He needed a drink, but he didn’t turn and go back into Longmont’s even though it was the best such establishment in Big Rock. He was in the mood for something a little . . . less civilized.
And as his eyes narrowed in thought, an idea began to stir in the back of his head.
CHAPTER 31
The Brown Dirt Cowboy Saloon had been a fixture in Big Rock for more than two decades. Plenty of other saloons had come and gone in that time, but the Brown Dirt Cowboy was still there, catering to customers who wouldn’t be comfortable drinking in a fancy place like Longmont’s.
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