Besides, the girls who worked at Longmont’s, lovely though they might be, didn’t go upstairs with the customers or even make arrangements to meet a fella somewhere else after work, while the gals at the Brown Dirt Cowboy did a steady business in the saloon’s second-floor rooms. From time to time, the respectable ladies of Big Rock got their noses out of joint and tried to convince the sheriff to shut down that part of the operation, but as long as the town council didn’t make it illegal, Monte Carson wasn’t going to step in on somebody else’s say-so.
Claude Brown, who’d been running the place all these years, always told his girls to be discreet. No drugging and robbing the customers, and if any of the cowboys got too rough, the girls were supposed to let Claude know and he would have his burly bartenders and bouncers take care of them. Just because he sold booze and soiled doves, Claude liked to say, that didn’t mean the place had to be a hellhole.
But despite Claude’s best intentions, trouble did break out from time to time, and one such incident appeared to be taking place now as Malatesta rested his hands on top of the batwings at the entrance and peered over them into the saloon.
The brawl had already overturned several tables and broken a couple of chairs. The action at the moment appeared to be concentrated at the rear of the barroom, where a knot of men surrounded and pummeled the objects of their wrath.
The two men being ganged up on fought valiantly against what appeared to be overwhelming odds. Those odds improved when one of the battlers managed to grab a chair and swing it like a club. He lambasted a couple of the attackers and knocked them to the floor, where they promptly got tangled up with the legs of other brawlers. While those men were off-balance, the second would-be victim went on the offensive and plowed into them with his arms spread wide, swooping in on his opponents like a vulture. He drove them off their feet, and that created an opening for his companion to wade through, still swinging the chair right and left around him.
As far as Malatesta could tell, so far the battle had been fought with fists instead of weapons, other than the chair currently being wielded. No guns or knives were in evidence. But that changed suddenly as one of the men who had been knocked down struggled back to his feet and clawed a revolver from the holster on his hip. He was behind the two battlers at the center of the action and undoubtedly intended to gun them down without warning.
Malatesta moved fast then, letting his instincts guide him as he often did. He slapped the batwings aside, moved into the saloon, and plucked his own pistol from the shoulder rig under his coat. He lined the gun on the man who had just pulled iron, eared back the hammer, and said in a loud, clear voice that cut through the hubbub, “Don’t.”
The sharp command caught the attention of the man trying to raise his gun so he could open fire on the two battlers. He froze before his Colt came level. As he stared into the muzzle of Malatesta’s pistol, he gulped and said, “Don’t shoot, mister!”
The confrontation, with its threat of imminent gunplay, made the other men stop what they were doing, too. The man with the chair held it poised above his head, ready to bash in somebody else’s skull. His friend, who had gotten to his feet after tackling several of their opponents, stood with his right fist cocked beside his ear while his left hand held the shirt of the man he was about to punch.
“That’s enough from all of you,” a new voice said. Paunchy, balding Claude Brown braced a sawed-off shotgun on the bar and let his finger caress the triggers. Staring into the twin muzzles of a scattergun like that was enough to restore reason to most men’s brains.
“Break it up now,” Brown went on. “Lukens, pouch that iron.”
The man who had been about to start the ball when Malatesta threw down on him swallowed and said, “But . . . but, Claude, that fancy pants is still pointin’ his gun at me!”
“He’s trying to stop trouble, not start it,” Brown replied. “Now holster it!”
Grudgingly, the man lowered his gun and slid it back into leather.
“Good,” Brown went on. “Now get out.”
“It was Bridwell and Nelson who started the fight!”
“And I’m ending it. You know the rules. I don’t kick up too much fuss about fighting as long as you boys pay for the damages, but when somebody brings a gun out, that’s all she wrote. If you start blowing holes in each other, Monte Carson’ll use that as an excuse to close me down. I don’t want that.”
Muttering to himself about how unfair life was, Lukens shuffled out of the saloon, circling wide around Malatesta and casting angry but nervous glances at him as he did so.
From behind the bar, Claude Brown said, “You can put your own gun up now, mister. Or rather, Count, isn’t it? I’ve seen you around and heard talk about you.”
Malatesta smiled as he holstered his pistol and said, “Yes, my good man, Count Giovanni Malatesta, at your service.”
Brown replaced the shotgun on a shelf under the bar and came around the end of it.
“It’s an honor to have you in my place, Count. We don’t get many Italian noblemen in here.”
One of the cowboys laughed and said, “I reckon this here fella’s the first one, Claude.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right about that.” Brown looked around and went on, “Fight’s over. Go back to what you were doing.”
The swamper and a bartender, both wearing aprons, started setting up overturned tables and chairs, putting things back to rights. The hostile atmosphere in the room evaporated surprisingly quickly.
That was typical of these westerners, Malatesta had learned. They were swift to anger and equally swift to forget about it. They didn’t hang on to grudges as stubbornly as people in the old country did.
At least that was true of the men. The women—and Denise Jensen was a prime example—weren’t like that. Clearly, Denise had nursed her hatred of him all this time. Women were unforgiving no matter where they came from, Malatesta supposed.
“Let me buy you a drink, sir,” Brown went on, smoothing down the few strands of hair on his head as he did so.
One of the men who had been at the center of the brawl sauntered up and said, “You’re gonna have to wait your turn, Claude. Me and Dave owe this fella a drink first. If it wasn’t for him, Lukens mighta ventilated one of us.”
Brown’s bushy eyebrows lowered, but he said, “All right, Bridwell, but don’t think I’ve forgotten that it was you and Nelson who actually caused that trouble.”
“Naw, it weren’t,” the man called Bridwell responded. “When that hombre started gettin’ too rough with Rosemarie, we had to step in. She’s our favorite, you know.”
“Yeah, I know,” Brown said drily. “But I expect the two of you to kick in half the damages if you want to keep drinking here. I’ll split up the rest of it amongst the other fellas in the ruckus.”
“That ain’t hardly fair—”
“This is my place,” Brown cut in. “I decide what’s fair.”
“Well, we’ll hash it out later, I reckon,” Bridwell said with a shrug. “Come on over here and sit down with us, mister. Claude, send over a bottle.”
Brown rolled his eyes but nodded in agreement.
Malatesta went with Bridwell and Nelson to one of the tables and sat down with them. Bridwell stuck his hand across the table and introduced himself.
“Benjy Bridwell. This here’s my pard Dave Nelson.”
Bridwell was a tall, rangy, lantern-jawed and carrot-topped man. His friend was shorter, with a round face and a drooping, dark mustache. Each had a suitably hard-nosed look, however, and Malatesta had seen with his own eyes that they were capable fighters.
“I’m Count Giovanni Malatesta,” he said as he shook hands with them.
“We’ve heard about you,” Bridwell said. Evidently he was the more talkative member of the duo. “I reckon ever’body in Big Rock has. It ain’t every day some fancy nobleman from Europe shows up in these parts.”
“Please, I’m just a man like any other,” Malatesta sa
id, knowing that employing a common touch would be effective with men such as these. “I enjoy a drink . . . and a good fight every now and then.”
Bridwell chuckled and waggled his eyebrows. “And a pretty gal?”
“Well, of course,” Malatesta answered with a smile.
“Well, then, here you go! The prettiest gal around here, and she’s brung a bottle o’ whiskey with her!”
Malatesta looked up to see that one of the saloon girls had approached the table. She was young, probably nineteen or twenty, and lacked the hard lines in her face that women in her profession inevitably acquired fairly quickly. Chestnut curls flowed over her shoulders, except for two strands that spiraled down in front of her ears. When she smiled, she looked almost innocent.
There was nothing innocent about the short, low-cut dress she wore, though, which revealed a goodly amount of her modestly curved figure. She carried a tray with a bottle and three glasses on it, and when she leaned over to place it on the table, the men got an even better look at her charms.
“Here you go, fellas,” she said. “There’s just, uh, one thing. Claude says you have to go ahead and pay for the bottle . . .”
“Why, sure,” Bridwell said. He dug a couple of silver dollars out of his pocket and handed them to the girl. “There you go.” He caught hold of her wrist as she started to pull her hand back. “How about you join us, Rosemarie?”
“As soon as I give Claude that money,” she promised.
Bridwell nodded and let go of her wrist. As she walked away, he leaned back in his chair and sighed.
“Pretty little thing, ain’t she? I would say she’s as pretty as a speckled pup, but I ain’t never seen no dog that looks as good as her!”
“The conflict was over the young lady, I believe you said?”
“Yep. Rosemarie’s our favorite. We always pay her a visit when we drift through these parts.”
“You don’t work on one of the ranches in the area?” Malatesta asked.
“Naw, we tried cowboyin’, but we wasn’t really cut out for it.”
“Then, what do you do?”
Nelson spoke for the first time, saying in a flat, hard voice, “This and that.” His tone warned that it wouldn’t be wise to pry further into their affairs.
Malatesta nodded. He kept his face impassive, but inside he was quite satisfied with what fate had delivered into his lap.
Bridwell poured drinks and slid glasses over to Malatesta and Nelson. Picking up his own glass, he said, “Here’s to you, Count. You done us a big favor, and if there’s ever anything we can do for you, all you gotta do is ask.”
Malatesta could have put his plan into motion right then and there, but he decided to wait a little longer, until he was absolutely sure he was proceeding correctly. He smiled, nodded, and said, “And to you two fine gentlemen of the range, as well.”
They downed the whiskey, then Bridwell chuckled and said, “Like I told you, we don’t exactly ride the range, do we, Dave? More like the trails where most folks don’t go.”
Nelson frowned, as if he wished Bridwell would stop talking, but he didn’t say anything.
Rosemarie returned to the table from the bar, where she had been talking to Claude Brown for the past couple of minutes. Malatesta got to his feet and held the empty chair for her, an act which appeared to surprise her quite a bit. He figured common courtesy wasn’t all that common in a place like the Brown Dirt Cowboy.
“Would you care for a drink?” he asked her as he resumed his seat.
“Oh my, no. I don’t drink whiskey.” She lowered her voice confidentially. “What you see the girls drinking with customers is just tea.”
“Oh,” Malatesta said, who had known perfectly well what girls who worked in places like this drank with their customers.
Keeping her voice low, Rosemarie went on, “Claude’s over there toting up the damages. He’ll expect you to pay up before you leave, boys.”
Bridwell downed another shot and then toyed with his empty glass as he said, “Well, now, you see, that’s gonna be a problem. Happens that those two silver dollars I gave you, darlin’, were the last coins in my pockets.”
“What about folding money?”
That question brought another laugh from Bridwell.
“I sorta remember what greenbacks look like,” he said, “but it’s been a long spell since I seen any of ’em!”
“So you’re broke?” Rosemarie said in a tone of dismay.
“As can be,” Bridwell confirmed.
Her features hardened a little. “How were you going to pay me, then, if you took me upstairs?”
“Well, we sorta figured—”
“Never mind,” she cut him off. “I know what you figured. You were counting on me taking pity on you. You two have pulled that stunt too often—”
“A moment,” Malatesta said. The other three at the table looked at him in surprise.
“I’m sorry, Count,” Bridwell said. “You shouldn’t ought to be burdened with listenin’ to our problems.”
“Not at all. Actually, I believe I may be in a position to help you with your problems.” Malatesta looked around at all of them, including Rosemarie in his speculative gaze. “Including you, my dear.”
“Me?” she said as her eyebrows rose.
“Indeed.” The vague plan he’d had when he came in here had not only come together unexpectedly well, it had even expanded. “I’d like to discuss this further with you, but perhaps in some place more private. I’m sure you have a room upstairs.”
“You want to go upstairs?” Rosemarie looked confused. “You mean . . . all four of us?”
Malatesta thought about it and shrugged. “Why not?”
“Well . . . if folks see us all going up together . . . they’re liable to think . . . things.”
Malatesta reached over, took her hand, and said, “My dear, I’ve long since learned to stop worrying about what people think. I only worry about what I want. And I’m reasonably sure that the three of you can help me get it.” He squeezed her hand and smiled. “As for anything else . . . there’s no reason we can’t all enjoy the extra benefits of my plan.”
CHAPTER 32
Brice walked with Denny all the way to Goldstein’s Mercantile and went inside with her while she picked up the bolt of cloth her mother had ordered. They didn’t talk anymore about Count Malatesta as they strolled back toward Longmont’s, and he was grateful for that. He would always listen to anything Denny wanted to tell him, but he figured there were some things it was just better for him not to know.
They found Smoke waiting inside, sitting at a table with Louis Longmont. The gambler and former gunman greeted Denny with a hug and shook hands with Brice.
“I have my cook preparing steaks for the three of us,” Longmont said with a gesture that took in himself, Smoke, and Denny. “Would you like to join us, Brice? I can always have him throw another steak on the fire, as they say.”
“Actually,” Smoke said before the lawman could reply, “I’ve got a message for you, Brice. Eddie over at the telegraph office is looking for you. Seems he’s got an important wire for you. He was going to send one of his boys to look for you.”
“Nobody’s said anything about that to me until now,” Brice said. “You reckon I ought to go on over to the office and see what it’s about?”
“That’s up to you,” Smoke told him with a shrug. “I just told Eddie that if I saw you, I’d pass the word along. I didn’t know you and Denny were together.”
“We ran into each other earlier and walked down to Goldstein’s,” Denny explained. She didn’t offer any more details than that.
“You get that cloth for your mother?”
“Tied to my saddle outside.”
Brice said, “I’d better go see what that telegram’s about. So long, Denny.” He nodded to the other two men. “Mr. Jensen. Mr. Longmont.”
“Good day to you, Marshal,” Longmont said.
“See you around, Brice,” Smoke add
ed.
Brice didn’t doubt that. Maybe it was time he spoke up more with Denny and let her know how he felt about her, if she wasn’t aware of it already. He had a feeling she was. Considering the fact that he had kissed her several times in the past, she had to have a pretty good idea that he liked her. And he was fairly confident that she was fond of him.
It seemed like there was always some sort of ruckus looming, though, that prevented them from ever taking things further. It was hard to talk about romance or even think about it when bad hombres were shooting at you. His badge was a magnet for trouble, and evidently, so was the name Jensen.
Those thoughts rolled around in his head as he walked down the street to the telegraph office. When he came in, the manager and chief telegrapher looked up from behind the window in the counter and said, “There you are, Marshal. I have youngsters out scouring the town for you.”
“They’re not doing a very good job of it,” Brice said. “I just walked down the street in plain sight.”
“Be that as it may, I have a telegram for you.” The man stood up and slid a yellow telegraph flimsy across the counter. “It came in about forty-five minutes ago.”
Brice picked up the message and turned away to read it. As he scanned the blocky, pencil-printed letters, he wasn’t surprised to see that the wire was from Chief Marshal Long in Denver. It was a warning that a gang of bank robbers seemed to be headed in Brice’s direction. The outlaws had held up banks in Flat Rock, Colby, Moss City, Harkerville, and several other settlements in Wyoming. They had wantonly gunned down more than a dozen people, including the town marshal of Harkerville, and seemed to have no compunctions at all about killing.
Their most recent job had been a change of pace, of sorts: they had boarded and stopped a westbound train just outside a hamlet known as Stinking Gulch, just across the Wyoming border. They had killed two of the train crew and murdered two passengers, as well. Given the history of their crimes, it very much appeared that they were working their way south toward Colorado and might have crossed the state line already. It was even possible the gang had struck again, and word of it hadn’t yet reached the chief marshal’s office.
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