“What’s going on here?” Smoke demanded gruffly.
Rosemarie put her hands over her face and sobbed miserably. That lasted only a moment before she began to beat her fists against Brice’s chest and wailed, “Why didn’t you let me go ahead and shoot myself? You got me in this condition! Why don’t you let me just end it all?”
“Brice, what’s this young lady talking about?” Smoke asked. Brice saw the same curiosity on the faces of the other people who were starting to gather around the alley mouth.
“I don’t have any earthly idea,” he said honestly.
One of the bystanders called, “Say, I know that gal! She works down at the Brown Dirt Cowboy Saloon!”
He didn’t have to elaborate on what Rosemarie’s job was. Anybody who had been around Big Rock for very long knew that the girls at the Brown Dirt Cowboy not only mingled with the customers and served drinks, they were expected to take the men upstairs and fulfill their other needs.
Rosemarie was crying again. Through her tears, she said, “Brice, honey, how can you lie like that about us? You . . . you know why I’m upset. I told you about the baby, and you said you wouldn’t have anything more to do with it or me! And then . . . and then when I tried to . . . to do away with myself . . . you stopped me and . . . and did this!” She gestured at her torn dress. “You can’t leave me alone, even now!”
Brice wasn’t able to do anything except stare at her in astonishment as the words spilled out of her mouth. At first, what she was saying made no sense to him, but as she went on, things began to get a mite clearer.
He looked at Smoke, who was still frowning, and said, “I don’t know anything about a baby, Mr. Jensen. This is the first I’ve heard of it, I swear. And if this, ah, young lady really is in the family way, I didn’t have anything to do with it!”
He moved his gaze over to Denny as he added that last sentence, and he hoped she could tell that he was speaking the truth. He put as much honesty and sincerity into his tone as he could.
“Oh, Brice!” Rosemarie wailed. “How can you say these terrible things!”
He looked at her again and, in a sudden flash of insight, said, “Somebody put you up to this. I reckon I have a pretty good idea who it was, too.”
Brice glanced at the crowd now standing on the boardwalk in front of Longmont’s. He didn’t see Malatesta among them, but he was willing to bet that the count was somewhere nearby, watching and listening to see if his sordid plan was working.
He had no doubt that Malatesta was behind this act Rosemarie was putting on. He wouldn’t be surprised if Malatesta had hired her to come see him that first time, either, laying the groundwork for this scheme if he needed to use it. The scar-faced badman and his boasts were likely complete fiction.
And actually, not very good fiction, either, Brice realized now that he thought about it. He should have seen through Rosemarie’s story from the first. A lawman couldn’t be that gullible. Normally, he wasn’t, but he supposed that as a soiled dove, the young woman was good at lying to men.
“Tell me who got you to say these things,” he continued. “It’ll go easier for you if you do.”
The sharp words made her take a step back and slowed down the crocodile tears.
“I’m telling the truth,” she insisted. “You took advantage of me, got me in the family way, turned your back on me when I pleaded with you to marry me, and just now you attacked me. Anybody can see that!”
Brice shook his head and said firmly, “If you keep lying, you’re just going to wind up deeper in trouble. The legal kind, not the, ah, being-with-child kind.”
“Oh!” She had stopped crying entirely now as she glared at him. “You’re terrible!” She turned to look at Denny, who had moved up alongside Smoke and Louis Longmont. “Miss, you really shouldn’t have anything to do with the marshal. He’s not a good man.”
“I haven’t seen or heard anything to make me think he’s not,” Denny replied coolly. “I’ve known Brice long enough now that I don’t believe a word you’re saying.”
Rosemarie looked back and forth nervously. She was on the verge of complete failure in the mission Malatesta had given her—assuming Brice’s hunch was right, and he still believed it was—and she had to know it.
“You just don’t believe me because I work in a saloon and I’m not a fancy rich girl like you,” she practically spat at Denny.
“No, I don’t believe you because you picked the wrong man to accuse of such things.”
Louis Longmont stepped down from the boardwalk and took off his coat. He said, “Miss, perhaps I’d better accompany you back down to Claude Brown’s place.” He put the coat around her shoulders and gently pulled it together in front to partially conceal the damage to her dress. “Come along now.”
“No . . . you can’t . . . I’m telling the truth . . .”
She started crying again, and Brice felt a little sorry for her now because he believed the tears were genuine.
But only a little sorry, because it had been his life she was trying to ruin.
Longmont led her away. Smoke turned to the assembled crowd and said, “Appears that poor girl was all mixed up in her head, folks. Best just move along now. No need to stand around and gawk.”
Smoke was the most respected man in the valley. People listened to what he had to say. Quite a bit of muttered gossip went on as the crowd began to break up. This would make a good story to tell friends and neighbors in the morning.
And despite the fact that Denny and her parents clearly hadn’t believed what Rosemarie was saying, once the gossip got spread around, Brice’s reputation would be tainted. Maybe not much, because most folks would follow the Jensens’ example and not believe it—but some would. There wasn’t a blasted thing Brice could do about it, either. The talk would have to die away on its own and eventually everyone would forget about it.
Brice stepped up onto the boardwalk and said to Smoke and Sally, “Mr. and Mrs. Jensen, I’m mighty sorry about all that.”
Sally smiled at him. “There’s no need for you to apologize, Brice. We know that poor girl wasn’t telling the truth. I feel sorry for her, anyway. She must be deluded.”
“Not deluded,” Denny said. “She was paid to say those things.”
Brice looked at her and lifted an eyebrow. “You think so, too?”
“It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? And there’s only one person who would benefit from having her spread a bunch of sordid lies about you.”
Smoke nodded slowly and said, “Yeah, the same thought occurred to me.” He looked around. “I don’t see our other guest. Maybe we’d better go find him.”
Once they were back inside Longmont’s, they saw right away that Malatesta was no longer at the table they had been sharing. The waiter came up to them and said, “That count fella asked me to tell you that he had to leave unexpectedly. He said for me to thank you for dinner, Mr. Jensen . . . even though he didn’t finish it.”
“He ran out,” Denny said. “He must’ve seen that his plan didn’t work, so he left. Like the coward he is.”
“Maybe it’s time for Count Malatesta to move on from Big Rock,” Smoke said. “I’ll have a talk with Monte about that.”
Brice said, “I’m not sure he’s done anything to justify being run out of town. He hasn’t actually broken any laws that I know of.”
“No?” Denny said. “What about hiring those two saddle tramps to kidnap me so he could pretend to rescue me?”
The others all looked sharply at her. Smoke asked, “How do you know he did that?”
“He has a habit of trying to make himself look better by underhanded means,” Denny said, although she didn’t offer any further explanation for that statement. Brice wondered if it had something to do with what had happened between her and Malatesta in Venice.
She went on, “When he showed up and shot that second hombre, he asked me what happened to the other one. I didn’t think about that at the time, but on the ride back to the Sugarloaf
, I started wondering. . . how did he know there were only two of them?”
“That’s a mighty good point,” Smoke said. “He’d know if he was the one who hired them.”
“Exactly.”
Brice said, “So when you got to the Sugarloaf . . . when you jumped down off that horse and hugged me . . . you already suspected that Malatesta was behind the whole thing?”
“I was convinced of it,” Denny said.
“So that’s why you carried on like you did. To get under his skin.”
Denny smiled and said, “Well, that’s one reason. After everything that had happened, I have to admit it felt pretty good to have you hold me.”
She and Brice looked at each for a long moment, before Smoke finally cleared his throat and said, “Maybe if the food hasn’t gotten too cold, we ought to go ahead and finish our dinner.”
“I think that’s an excellent idea,” Sally said.
* * *
Before Rosemarie Sutton and Louis Longmont reached the Brown Dirt Cowboy Saloon, the young woman said stiffly, “If you don’t mind, Mr. Longmont, I really don’t feel like going back to work tonight. Would you mind escorting me to my room instead?”
“You don’t stay upstairs at the saloon?” Longmont asked, then added, “Forgive me. I suppose that question is a bit . . . indelicate.”
“No, I understand,” Rosemarie said. “I keep a small place of my own on Woodrow Lane.”
Longmont nodded in understanding. Woodrow Lane was the most disreputable street in Big Rock, lined by several brothels and numerous whores’ cribs. Some of the girls didn’t work anywhere else; others, such as Rosemarie, plied their trade in saloons but also met men outside of there. Claude Brown wasn’t a bad man to work for, but he always got his cut of the money. Sometimes a girl needed to earn a little extra cash of her own.
Rosemarie still had most of what that fancy Italian fella had paid her. All she had bought with it were a few supplies and a bit of opium from one of the other girls at the Brown Dirt Cowboy. Malatesta had promised her more, but now that she had failed in her mission, she was sure he wouldn’t pay the extra amount. He might even demand some of the money back.
Well, she wasn’t going to give it to him. In fact, she might pack up the few possessions she owned and be at the train station early in the morning to catch the first train out of here, no matter where it was headed. Her friends Benjy Bridwell and Dave Nelson were dead—she had heard all about that fiasco—and there was nothing keeping her in Big Rock.
“Are you all right, Miss Sutton?” Longmont asked as they drew up in front of one of the tiny cabins on Woodrow Lane, after Rosemarie had nodded toward it to indicate that it was hers.
“I’m fine, I guess.” Rosemarie handed him his coat, then wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. It was an instinctive gesture, designed to win sympathy from a man. Louis Longmont was getting old, but he was still good-looking in a graying, distinguished way. She thought about trying to get him to come in with her. It wouldn’t hurt anything to have a little extra money to help her start a new life somewhere else.
“I’ll say good night, then,” he told her with finality, almost as if he anticipated the suggestion she was considering. He nodded gravely to her as he started to turn away.
“Thank you, Mr. Longmont,” she said. He didn’t stop, though. He just smiled at her and went on his way, quickly vanishing in the shadows that clogged Woodrow Lane. This wasn’t exactly a well-lit part of town.
Rosemarie sighed and went to the door. It wasn’t locked. There was nothing in the place worth stealing. She went inside, closed the door behind her, and fumbled around to light the lamp on a small table. She found the matches, scraped one to life on the tabletop, and held the little flame to the wick.
As it caught and a feeble yellow glow welled up, the light revealed Count Giovanni Malatesta sitting on a rickety ladder-back chair against the wall.
Rosemarie gasped and lifted a hand to her mouth. As her heart raced, she willed herself to relax and said, “Oh my goodness, sir, you startled me.”
“I wanted to make sure you were all right, Rosemarie,” he said as he got to his feet. He’d been sitting with his hat in his lap. He held it in both hands in front of him. “That was a rather unpleasant scene.”
“I did it just the way you told me to,” she said with a note of dismay in her voice. “It should have worked. Even if that Jensen witch wasn’t completely convinced, she should have been at least a little worried that it might be true.”
“I underestimated her feelings for that bumpkin lawman,” Malatesta said. “Well, one never knows until one tries . . . does one?”
Rosemarie didn’t quite follow that, but she figured it was safe to say, “I guess not.” Then she added, “We can try something else, if you want to.”
She didn’t want that. She had been humiliated, and she just wanted to put Big Rock behind her. But if Malatesta insisted—and was willing to pay more—she supposed they could work something out.
However, he shook his head and said, “No, I think we can mark this effort down as a failure, and after tonight, nothing along the same lines would have a chance of succeeding. A shame, really.” He put a hand under his coat. “I suppose you’ll want a bit more money in order to keep my name out of it and ensure your silence?”
“Well . . .” Rosemarie smiled weakly. “Now that you mention it, that would be nice . . .”
“Of course.” Malatesta stood up and moved closer to her. He had to take only a couple of steps to do that, since the cabin was so small. He brought his hand out.
It didn’t hold a wallet, though. He grasped a knife, instead, and the blade flickered in the lamplight as it shot forward in his hand and drove into her chest. It happened so quickly that it felt to Rosemarie as if he had punched her lightly, rather than stabbing her, but then she felt a bright explosion of pain deep inside her.
That was her heart, she had time to think. He had stabbed her in the heart, because he didn’t want to buy her silence. Because he was afraid of her.
Nobody had ever been afraid of her before. It had always been the other way around.
That was the last thought to go through her brain before darkness swallowed her.
CHAPTER 43
“Got another reply for you, Marshal,” Eddie at the telegraph office said the next morning as Brice checked with him. He extended the yellow piece of paper through the window in the counter as he went on, “I was about to send a boy to look for you.”
“Thanks,” Brice said. He took the flimsy and read the words printed on it. As he did, his fingers tightened on the paper in excitement.
“That’s what you’ve been waiting for, isn’t it?” Eddie asked.
“Maybe,” Brice said.
“You need to send a reply?”
“Not just yet,” Brice said. He left the telegraph office and headed down the street to see Monte Carson.
“Morning,” the sheriff greeted Brice as he came in. “Say, I heard about what happened at Longmont’s yesterday evening. That’s a shame.”
“None of it is true,” Brice said. He didn’t want to be distracted from what had brought him here, but he also felt like he ought to defend himself.
Monte waved a hand and said, “Oh, I figured right away that it wasn’t true. Never believed it was. I know who that Sutton girl is. She’s nice-looking enough, I suppose . . . but she’s not Denny Jensen.” The sheriff chuckled. “No one is.”
“Has Denny been to see you this morning? Or Smoke?”
Monte frowned a little and shook his head. “Nope. Should I have been expecting them?”
“Not really.”
While they finished their dinner at Longmont’s, they had discussed Denny’s suspicions of Count Malatesta. Her theory made sense, and Brice would have bet a brand-new hat that she was right: Malatesta had hired those two drifters. But suspicions weren’t evidence, and as far as Brice could see, Denny didn’t have a lick of proof to support her belief.
>
For that reason, he had told the Jensens that they would be putting Monte Carson in an awkward position if they insisted that he run Malatesta out of town. No doubt Monte would do it because of how close he and Smoke were, but it wouldn’t exactly be legal.
“Well, coffee’s on the stove,” Monte said when Brice didn’t go on. “Help yourself.”
“Maybe in a minute.” Brice placed the telegraph flimsy on the desk in front of Monte. “Take a look at that first.”
Monte leaned forward to read the message. A frown creased his forehead as he did so.
“Burnley, eh?” he said. “I’ve heard of the place. Don’t recollect ever being there.”
“I don’t think I have, either. It’s big enough to have a bank, and from what the town marshal says in that wire, the bunch of owlhoots that drifted down from Wyoming hit it yesterday. Everything about the robbery fits them.”
“Yeah. And they killed a bank teller and the marshal’s deputy in the process.”
Brice nodded. “That’s common procedure for them, too. They don’t seem to have any regard for human life. They’ll snuff out anybody who gets in their way, without the least bit of hesitation. But now I know where they struck last . . . and which direction they were going when they made their getaway.”
“You know which direction they started,” Monte pointed out. “There’s no guarantee they kept going the same way.”
Brice thumbed back his hat, went over to the stove, and helped himself to that cup of coffee Monte had offered. He carried it over to the wall where a large map of Colorado was pinned and studied that map while he sipped the coffee.
After a moment, he pointed to the map and said, “If they did keep going in the same direction, that would take them toward this little range of mountains.” Brice leaned closer to the map and squinted at the writing on it. “The Prophets. Do you know anything about that area, Monte?”
“Not much,” the sheriff replied with a shake of his head. “It’s well out of my bailiwick. From what I recall, though, it’s pretty rugged and isolated up there. Not really good cattle country, and you can forget about farming.”
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