The exact number of outlaws was uncertain. Estimates ranged from six to twelve. Some witnesses seemed to believe that one member of the gang was a woman, but that hadn’t been confirmed, either. The looting of the mailbag in the train they had stopped brought them under federal jurisdiction, so Brice was advised to be on the lookout for them and to pursue any leads he might get to their whereabouts.
That was a lot of information to pack into a telegram, but Marshal Long was good at being succinct, and Brice had learned how to read between the lines. His boss wanted him to track down these varmints. He didn’t like the idea of leaving Big Rock while Count Giovanni Malatesta was still around, the source of potential trouble in more ways than one, but his job might require it.
“Any reply, Marshal?” the telegrapher asked.
Brice hastily printed out a message letting Long know he had gotten the wire and understood, then composed wires for all the county sheriffs and town marshals he could think of between Big Rock and the Wyoming border, asking them if they knew anything about the gang of robbers and killers. He paid for sending the messages, making a note of the cost for his expense account, and left the telegraph office.
He cast a glance in the direction of Longmont’s, thought about walking down there and telling Denny what was going on, then discarded the idea. There would be time enough to talk to her about it once he got some replies to the telegrams he had sent out and had a better idea what he was going to do.
* * *
The town was called Burnley, Colorado. It was big enough to have two banks, not just one, Billy Ray reported after scouting the place. After listening to him as the gang sat around their campfire in an isolated canyon, Curly spoke up, saying, “I got an idea.”
Juliana rolled her eyes and said, “That’s not necessarily a good thing.”
“Now, now, let’s just hear him out,” Alden said. “What’s your idea, Curly?”
“There’s eight of us. That’s enough.”
“Enough to what?”
“To rob both banks at once!”
Alden winced and shook his head.
“I was afraid you were going to say that. Did you ever hear of a place called Coffeyville?”
“No,” Curly said, frowning. “I don’t reckon I . . . Wait a minute. There’s a town by that name over in Kansas, ain’t there?”
“That’s right. How about Northfield?”
That brought an emphatic shake of the head from Curly. He said, “Nope. Never heard tell of it.”
“Well, I have,” Juliana said. “It’s way up north in Minnesota or Wisconsin or some such frozen place. They’re both settlements where outlaw gangs got too full of themselves and tried to do too much at once. And both times the fools got shot to pieces by the townspeople.”
“Maybe, but that ain’t gonna happen to us.”
“How do you know that?”
“I . . . uh . . . Well, it just ain’t, that’s all!”
Alden turned to their scout and asked, “Billy Ray, could you tell which of the banks is bigger?”
“From what I heard around town, the Cattleman’s is,” the young man said. “There should be a decent amount of money in it, Alden.”
“Then that’s the one we’ll hit,” Alden said with a decisive nod.
Curly said, “What if Billy Ray’s wrong and there’s more money in the other bank?”
“Even if that’s true, we’ll never know because we’ll be long gone. It’s foolish to speculate on what you might have had. It’s better to concentrate on what you can actually get.”
Juliana, who was sitting on the ground, lay back and propped herself on an elbow. As she smirked at Curly, she said to him, “Sort of like women, where you’re concerned.”
He sneered back at her and said, “You best shut your mouth. I managed to get you plenty of times. But that don’t mean I never thought about how I could’ve done better.”
She stopped smiling as her hand moved toward the gun on her hip. Curly uncoiled from the rock where he was sitting and came up in a crouch with his hand poised near his own revolver.
“Quit it, you two,” Alden said. “I swear, you’re like two little kids picking at each other. You’re as bad as a brother and sister.”
Curly snickered. “Not like any brother and sister I ever knowed. Ain’t that right, Juliana?”
“Shut up,” she told him. “Go on with what you were trying to say, Alden.”
He looked around the campfire at the entire group and said, “Here’s how it’ll be. We’ll hit the bank in Burnley, and then we’ll head southwest.”
“What’s southwest of there?” Childers asked.
“A little offshoot of the Rockies called the Prophet Mountains. Mostly empty these days, because it’s rugged country and not much good for anything. Every rancher who tried to make a go of it in there went bust. There was some mining for a while, but all the veins played out. The only settlement was called Painted Post, and it’s abandoned now, although from what I hear, most of the buildings are still standing. That’ll make a good place for us to hole up for a while.”
“How do you know all this, boss?” the outlaw called Hamilton asked.
“A fella told me about it at one of the robbers’ roosts we stopped at, up in Montana. Said he’d gone to ground there once when a posse was after him and they never found him. He said if I ever found myself down in these parts and needed a place to hide out, Painted Post was a good one.”
“I don’t know about ghost towns,” Juliana said. “Sometimes they give me the shivers. But I guess we don’t have to worry about it just yet.”
“That’s right,” Alden said. “First we’ve got to empty that bank in Burnley.”
CHAPTER 33
The Sugarloaf
Denny reined in atop the ridge. She looked behind her to the northwest, at the black clouds gathering ominously over the mountains. They billowed so high that they blocked off the sun, and even though it had been bright midafternoon only a short time earlier, now a dusklike gloom hung over the landscape.
Skeletal fingers of lightning clawed through the clouds. Denny heard the rataplan of thunder, like the sound of distant drums. That made her horse skittish. So did the crackling feeling in the air. She tightened her grip on the reins.
Old-timers claimed they could predict the weather according to how their bones felt, but Denny didn’t have that skill. When she had set out from Sugarloaf headquarters earlier today, she’d had no idea it was going to storm before the afternoon was over. She had delivered some supplies to a high-country line camp where a couple members of the Sugarloaf crew were staying.
She had volunteered for that errand just to have something to do. The encounter with Malatesta in Big Rock a couple of days earlier, followed by the surprisingly intimate conversation with Brice Rogers, still had her mind in a whirl.
She was all discombobulated, as Pearlie put it, and she couldn’t argue with that assessment. If Malatesta would just move on, she believed she could forget about him again, as well as what had happened in Venice. She had been able to put it behind her before—until she had the reminder of his smug face in front of her again.
There was also the matter of whoever wanted Malatesta dead badly enough to pay some owlhoots to take care of it. Denny didn’t want that trouble touching her family through her connection with the son of a—
That thought was going through her head when thunder boomed again, louder and closer this time. She was on her way home from the line camp, but it looked like she might get wet before she got there.
Luckily, she had a slicker rolled up and tied to her saddle. That was part of everyday equipment out on the range. Since she had already brought the horse to a stop, she swung down and started to untie the lashings so she could shake out the slicker and put it on.
She hadn’t gotten it loose yet when some instinct made her turn her head and look around. The back of her neck had prickled under the blond curls that were hanging loose today, and it wasn�
�t from the electricity in the air.
She felt eyes on her.
That instinct was telling her the truth. Two men rode out of the trees about twenty yards away. She didn’t recognize the men or their horses.
There were plenty of good reasons why strangers might be riding across Sugarloaf range. Smoke didn’t mind travelers taking a shortcut through his ranch as long as they didn’t cause any trouble.
These two had trouble written all over them, though, Denny thought as they came closer. One was taller, a rawboned hombre who rode slouched in the saddle, while the other, who was smaller and sported a dark mustache, had a stiffer posture. Both wore rough range clothes and had the look of drifting hard cases about them.
Men such as that might be harmless, or they might decide that running across a young, attractive female by herself was a sign that they ought to have themselves a little sport.
But if they believed she was defenseless because she was alone, they were going to find out mighty quick-like that they were wrong.
Instead of untying the slicker, she reached for the carbine and slid it out of the saddle boot. The clack of the repeater’s lever as she worked it coincided with another rumble of thunder, but the men saw what she was doing and both reined in sharply.
“Hold on there, ma’am,” the bigger of the pair said. He held up his right hand, palm out. “You don’t need that Winchester. We ain’t lookin’ for trouble.”
In Denny’s experience, nearly everybody who claimed not to be looking for trouble actually was. So she didn’t let down her guard as she said, “Who are you? What are you doing here? This is Sugarloaf range.”
“It is?” the man said. His bright red eyebrows lifted. “We sure didn’t know that. I reckon Sugarloaf’s a ranch?”
“My father’s ranch,” Denny said curtly.
“I see. Well, my partner and me, we was just on our way to Red Cliff—”
“You’re going the wrong direction, then,” Denny interrupted him. “You need to turn around and go back the way you came from.”
“Yes’m. We appreciate the help.” The man turned to his companion and went on, “I done told you we got turned around, didn’t I? Now that this pretty lady has set us straight, maybe we can get where we’re goin’.” He looked at Denny again. “We’re plumb obliged to you—”
“No need for thanks. Just turn around and ride.”
“Sure, sure. Just bein’ polite. No call to get touchy.”
The men lifted their reins and started to turn their horses. But as they did, Denny noticed that they wheeled their mounts in different directions. That had the effect of splitting them up, so she couldn’t really cover both of them at the same time . . .
That thought set off warning bells in her mind, but not in time. The men kicked their horses and made the animals lunge toward her. She raised the carbine to her shoulder, twisted to her left, and fired at the bigger of the two men as he charged in on her.
She saw him jerk and thought she had hit him, but he didn’t fall off his horse. Even worse, targeting him gave the smaller man time to get closer to her—close enough to leave his saddle in a diving tackle that rammed his shoulder into her and drove her off her feet.
Denny hit the ground hard with the man’s weight on top of her. The impact forced all the air out of her lungs. Hooves pounded the dirt around her as her own mount danced around skittishly and the attacker’s horse raced on by. Both Denny and the man she struggled with managed to avoid being trampled, though.
Somehow she had hung on to the carbine. Pinned to the ground as she was, she couldn’t work the lever, but she swung the stock toward the man’s head and tried to ram the butt against his jaw. He threw his shoulder up in time to block the thrust but grunted in pain anyway. He worked a knee between her thighs as if trying to force her legs apart, but she didn’t think that rape was his intention, at least not right away. He was just trying to subdue her.
Instead, he had a wildcat on his hands. Even the short-barreled carbine was too awkward at close quarters like this, so she threw it aside and clawed at his face with her left hand while using her right to grab his left ear and twist it. He howled and bucked up away from her enough to give him room to hook a punch into her belly. Denny was already gasping for air, and that situation worsened as his fist sunk into her midsection.
He whipped his head to the side, away from her fingernails that had already left bleeding streaks on his cheeks. She lost her grip on his ear, but he’d left himself open for a side-hand blow to his throat. She landed that swift stroke and he rolled away, gagging and coughing.
Denny rolled the other way, putting some distance between them. She spotted the carbine lying on the ground where she had tossed it and pushed up onto her hands and knees to make a diving grab for it. She hadn’t forgotten that the other man might still be a threat. She didn’t know how badly he was hit or even if her shot had actually struck him.
She was in midair, reaching for the Winchester, when a kick thudded into her ribs, flipped her over, and knocked her away from the carbine. The first man stomped after her, spewing curses. As Denny rolled, she caught a glimpse of the bloodstain on his left sleeve and knew she had just nicked him. He was still able to use that arm as he reached down and caught hold of her shirtfront.
He hauled her to her feet, one hand bunched in the fabric of her shirt while he used the other to slap her, backhand and forehand. The blows knocked her head to one side and then the other and stunned her. Even though she tried to force her muscles to work so she could fight back, her knees buckled and she sagged in his grip.
The man drew back his fist to hit her again, but before the blow could fall, his smaller companion grabbed his arm and croaked, “Don’t! You’re liable to hurt her bad or even kill her, blast it!”
“The witch shot me!”
“Well, she dang near crushed my windpipe, too, but we don’t want her dead.”
The hoarse words finally penetrated the bigger man’s brain. Snarling in anger, he lowered his fist and used the hand holding Denny up to give her a hard shove away from him. She stumbled backward, fell painfully on her rear end, and then sprawled on her back, breathing hard but otherwise unable to move.
“You better see how bad she wounded me,” the bigger man said.
“After I get her tied up so she can’t run off,” the man with the mustache said. He rubbed his sore throat. “I never figured a girl’d put up that much of a fight.”
“Must be she ain’t a normal girl.”
Denny’s brain had started functioning well enough again for her to hear those words and understand them. She was too stunned and battered to resist as the smaller man rolled her onto her stomach, yanked her arms behind her, and lashed her wrists together. Next he tied her ankles together and then left her there while he tended to his partner’s injury.
“Shoot, this isn’t much more than a bullet burn,” he said when he’d examined the wound on the bigger man’s arm. “I’ll tie a rag around it and you’ll be fine.”
“It don’t feel fine. It hurts like blazes.”
“Take it easy. We got what we came for.”
Her, Denny thought. She sensed now that this wasn’t some random encounter. They must have followed her up here and waited for a good chance to grab her. She had no idea why, unless they planned to hold her for ransom because she was Smoke Jensen’s daughter.
It didn’t matter. What was important was that the bigger one was right. She wasn’t a normal girl.
And as soon as she got the chance, they would find out just how much of a fight she really could put up.
CHAPTER 34
Her two captors, and seemingly life itself, weren’t finished heaping indignities on Denny. As soon as Mustache, as she mentally dubbed him, had tied a makeshift bandage around Big Boy’s wounded arm, he wadded up a bandanna, forced Denny’s mouth open, and shoved the cloth in, then tied it in place with a short length of rope. The gag was very effective—and uncomfortable.
&nb
sp; Then the rain started.
It was as if the heavens opened up and dumped giant buckets of water on the Sugarloaf. The sky had turned black as night as the clouds swept in, but that darkness was shattered by the near-constant flash of lightning. Thunder assaulted Denny’s ears. The downpour was so strong that if she’d been lying on her back with the gag in her mouth, she might well have drowned.
“Grab that horse!” Mustache yelled at Big Boy as Denny’s spooked mount started to take off running.
Big Boy lunged and just managed to snag the horse’s reins. He set his feet and fought to bring the animal under control. That struggle must have pained his injured arm, because he bellowed curses at the horse.
Denny hoped lightning would strike both of the men who’d attacked her. It would serve them right to fry.
Unfortunately, that didn’t happen. When Big Boy had the horse settled down somewhat, Mustache called to him over the continual rumble of thunder, “Hang on to that horse! I’ll lift the girl onto the saddle!”
Denny didn’t see how she was going to be able to ride with her legs tied together like that. A moment later she realized to her dismay that that wasn’t what they had in mind. Mustache, who seemed to be extremely strong despite his smaller stature, picked her up in his arms and then slung her facedown over her horse’s saddle. She landed on her belly with enough force that she would have said, “Ooofff!” if she hadn’t been gagged. As it was, she couldn’t make any sound as a wave of sickness washed through her.
With her arms hanging on one side and her legs on the other, Mustache tied them together under the horse’s belly. The horse didn’t like the rope rubbing against its underside and jumped around some more before finally settling down. By then, Denny was well and truly miserable.
And she figured it was only going to get worse before they got to wherever they were going.
With her helpless, the two men took turns hanging on to her horse’s reins while they mounted up. Then they rode off through the stinging rain with Mustache leading Denny’s horse.
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