Rising Fire

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  And on one of those nail heads was a tiny bit of blue cloth, right where a man’s arm might have brushed against it and torn off the scrap.

  Nobody in the gang had a shirt that particular shade of blue. Juliana knew that instinctively, without thinking about it. The same instinct made her close her hand around the butt of her gun and lift it part of the way out of the holster.

  She stopped in the middle of the draw and let the gun slide back down into leather. Until she knew exactly what was going on here, she wanted to play this carefully.

  She took off her hat, pulled her poncho over her head, and shook out her hair. She undid the top two buttons on her shirt. Whoever was in there, she wanted to make sure they realized right away she was a woman.

  Then she took a deep breath, burst through the open doorway, and exclaimed, “Help me! Oh, please, help me!”

  * * *

  The frightened cry took Brice by surprise. He had worked his way down into the gulch, bloodying his hands and face from the scratches the thick, clawing brush inflicted on him, until he wasn’t far from the back of the barn. He had taken a chance by dashing the rest of the way in the open.

  Once inside, he had found exactly what he expected to find: fourteen horses in the stalls. Judging by the number of saddles also in the barn, he figured there were eight men in the gang. The other horses would serve as extra mounts and/or pack animals.

  The discovery convinced him he had found the gang of bank robbers. Eight-to-one were mighty heavy odds. He would need help in capturing or killing the outlaws—unless he could manage somehow to whittle down their numbers . . .

  That was what he was thinking when the young, dark-haired woman burst into the barn pleading for help. His first thought was that she must have been staying here in Painted Post for some reason when the gang rode in and took over. His second was to notice that she was quite attractive, although in a hard-edged way, as if she had lived through a lot in her relatively young years.

  And the third thing that flashed through his mind was the memory that some of the witnesses to the bank robberies had claimed a young woman was a member of the gang.

  By the time he realized that, she had lunged closer to him, arms outstretched as if begging for his help. His hand dropped to the gun on his hip, but before he could draw it, she barreled into him with enough force to knock him back off his feet. He hadn’t been braced for such an impact.

  She landed on top of him and rammed her knee into his groin. Blinding agony exploded through Brice. He tried to fight it off. He managed to raise a hand and grab her by the neck, but he couldn’t seem to summon up much strength.

  She lifted her arm above her head. Brice’s pain-blurred vision focused enough for him to see she held the revolver that had been holstered on her hip when she ran into the barn. It swept down with savage speed and force, and once again an explosion detonated inside Brice, this time in his head rather than his groin. His hand fell away from the girl’s throat. Red waves tinged with black washed in from both sides.

  “Who are you?” she asked in an angry rasp that seemed to come from far, far away. “Are you a no-good lawman?”

  The tiny part of Brice’s consciousness that was still functioning wanted to laugh at that. He wasn’t any good as a lawman. No good at all. Otherwise he wouldn’t have let this owlhoot take him by surprise, and he wouldn’t have hesitated for that vital second when he saw she was a woman. That had allowed her to get close enough to him for her attack to succeed. If not for that little hitch in his reaction, he might have drawn fast enough to stop her . . .

  But it was too late to worry about that now. Too late for anything except those red tides washing him away to nothingness.

  CHAPTER 45

  The Sugarloaf, two days earlier

  From the barn, Denny saw Monte Carson ride up to the main house. Her eyes were keen enough that she could make out the grim expression on the lawman’s face. Something was wrong, and she immediately thought about Brice. That was enough to make it feel like her heart leaped up into her throat.

  Inez came to the door in response to the sheriff’s knock and ushered Monte into the house. Denny frowned. Her father had just returned from Big Rock not long before, and she knew he had been in his office only a few minutes earlier. Probably still was, so that was where Inez would take the visitor.

  Denny left the barn and hurried toward the house, circling it to move along the wall where the window of Smoke’s office was located. She could have just barged in and demanded to know what was going on, but she had a feeling that her father and Monte Carson would speak more frankly if they didn’t know she was anywhere around.

  Sure, it was eavesdropping, but Denny wasn’t going to let a little thing like that stop her.

  She took off her hat as she crouched under the window and listened intently. She heard Monte’s voice right away and knew she had guessed right about where this conversation would take place.

  “—don’t really believe he had anything to do with it, of course, but he did have that run-in with her at Longmont’s,” Monte was saying.

  “Nobody believed her story, though,” Smoke said. “Nobody whose opinion ought to matter to Brice.”

  So the sheriff had come out here to talk about Brice. Denny’s hunch had been right.

  “Maybe not, but it’s understandable why he’d be mad at her anyway.”

  “Not mad enough to commit murder,” Smoke said. “Brice would never do that.”

  Denny’s heart lurched in her chest, then began to slug heavily. Murder? And from the sound of it, they were talking about that saloon girl from the Brown Dirt Cowboy, Rosemarie Sutton. The one who had accused Brice of getting her pregnant.

  Denny still didn’t believe that for even a split second, but she would have before she could ever accept the idea that Brice would kill the young woman. He wasn’t capable of such a heinous crime. Or any crime, for that matter. Brice Rogers was about as straight-arrow as they came.

  “I’ve asked plenty of questions,” Monte went on, “but you know how folks are in that part of town. They don’t like to cooperate with the law that much. Nobody admits to seeing anything, and it’s even possible they’re telling the truth.”

  “Louis was going to walk the girl back to her place,” Smoke said. “You’ve talked to him?”

  “Sure, first thing. He told me she was alive when he left her there, and he didn’t see anything unusual. Nobody suspicious hanging around or anything like that.”

  “You believe him?”

  “Of course I do!” Monte sounded like it was ridiculous to think otherwise, and truly, it was. “Louis and I have known each other as long as you and I have, and I’d trust him with my life. Matter of fact, I have, on more than one occasion.”

  “Me, too,” Smoke said.

  “But from the looks of the girl’s body, she’d been dead for quite a while when I found her, so she must have been killed pretty soon after Louis left her there last night. How long was Brice at Longmont’s after that little disturbance broke up?”

  “I reckon we were all there for another half hour or so,” Smoke said.

  “And you don’t know where he went after that?”

  “No, I don’t. Sally and Denny and I came back out here to the ranch. I suppose Brice went back to the boardinghouse where he lives.”

  “He could have made a quick trip to Woodrow Lane along the way.”

  “No,” Smoke said flatly. “He may not have a solid alibi, but I still firmly believe he’s innocent.”

  “So do I,” Monte said, “but the way things look, I’m going to have to question him, anyway.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s fair enough. Are you going after him, up to that ghost town in the Prophets?”

  “No, I don’t reckon that’s necessary. The girl’s already dead; nothing’s going to change that. There’ll be time enough to talk to Brice once he gets back from this marshaling job he’s on.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way, Monte
. He’s a devoted lawman. He wouldn’t want anything interfering with an assignment from Marshal Long.” “I just wanted to see what you thought about the situation, Smoke. I’m glad we’ve got it figured the same way.”

  “The question is,” Smoke said, “if Brice didn’t kill the Sutton girl . . . and neither of us believe he did . . . then who did?”

  Outside the window, with her heart still hammering in her chest, Denny came up with an answer to that question. The same man who had put Rosemarie up to trying to smear Brice’s name might have decided to get rid of her when the attempt failed, just so she could never implicate him in the scheme.

  Count Giovanni Malatesta.

  Denny moved away from the window and straightened up. Brice might not be in trouble with the law, but he needed to know what was going on. Besides, if Malatesta really had resorted to murder, he might go after Brice next. She wanted to warn him what to expect—and what to look out for.

  And, if she was being really honest with herself, she didn’t mind having an excuse to trail him up into the Prophet Mountains. If he found the gang of bank robbers he was looking for, he might need some help rounding them up. A job like that held the promise of adventure, and to Denny, that was an almost irresistible lure. He would be annoyed with her, of course—or at least he would pretend to be—but having her around might come in handy. That had happened in the past.

  She was sure her mother and father would try to stop her if she told them what she was going to do, though. That was a problem with a simple solution. She just wouldn’t say anything to them about it.

  Half an hour later, while Smoke and Monte Carson were still talking, after surreptitiously packing some supplies, extra guns, and plenty of ammunition, Denny rode away from the Sugarloaf, heading north. She had always found maps fascinating and had studied the map of Colorado pinned up on the wall of Smoke’s office, so she knew where the Prophet Mountains and the settlement of Painted Post were.

  She didn’t know what she would find at the end of that trail, but there was only one way to find out.

  * * *

  Giovanni Malatesta was not a man to be plagued by self-doubts, but he found himself wondering if killing the prostitute had been the right thing to do.

  Logically, it made sense to shut her up permanently, rather than relying on her somewhat shaky discretion. He had always found it best not to leave any loose ends dangling, if possible.

  But the worst she could have accused him of was paying her to lie about Rogers. That was a lot less serious than murder.

  And the most frustrating part was that it had all been for nothing. Denise and her parents had disregarded Rosemarie’s story completely and put all their trust in Rogers. What was it about that blasted man that made everyone adore and believe him?

  It was clear to Giovanni now, as clear as anything had ever been.

  He would never win Denise over as long as Brice Rogers was still alive.

  Therefore, Rogers had to die.

  Earlier, he had sent Arturo out to gather the gossip going around in town. Arturo was very good at that and came back to report that while some people suspected Rogers had something to do with the girl’s death, overall not many did. The sheriff had questioned a number of Rosemarie’s coworkers and acquaintances, as well as Louis Longmont, who had walked her back to her cabin the previous night.

  Then Monte Carson had ridden out of town, heading west, and as soon as Arturo said that, Malatesta knew the lawman was going to the Sugarloaf to talk to Smoke Jensen. Carson might be the sheriff, but Malatesta had sensed right away that Jensen was the real power in this valley. Carson would want to get Jensen’s opinion on how to proceed with his investigation.

  Arturo had one other bit of news: even earlier this morning, before the dead girl’s body was discovered, Rogers had ridden out of town, his saddlebags bulging with enough supplies for a trip of several days’ duration. None of the gossipers knew where he was going, but it was clear he wasn’t going to be in Big Rock for a while.

  As soon as he had heard that, Malatesta knew this might be a perfect opportunity to get rid of his rival. Unfortunately, he was no tracker. Without knowing where Rogers was headed, Malatesta stood no chance of finding him.

  But the sheriff might know. Carson might intend to find him and bring him back to face questions about Rosemarie’s death. Therefore, following the lawman might be worthwhile.

  Really, it was the only shot he had right now, Malatesta told himself.

  So he had ordered Arturo to put together a pack of supplies for him, and he had rented the same horse he had used before, telling the liveryman that he might be gone for several days, and then he had ridden toward the Sugarloaf, leaving Arturo behind in Big Rock. If the sheriff hadn’t gone to the Jensen ranch, then he would be out of luck, but if he had, Malatesta intended to pick up his trail there.

  The last thing he’d expected, as he sat watching the ranch headquarters from a hilltop, was to see Denise riding away hurriedly and rather stealthily, obviously bent on some important errand. Was she looking for Brice Rogers, too? It certainly seemed possible.

  Torn between waiting for the sheriff as he had planned or following Denise, Malatesta hesitated for only a moment.

  Then he turned his horse and picked out a northbound route through the trees and over the rolling hills, keeping Denise in sight in the distance ahead of him. If she had looked back at just the right moment, she might have spotted him. But all her attention was directed at what lay ahead of her.

  If he could manage it at all, he vowed, what she would find was Brice Rogers’s body.

  Yeager’s camp

  Yeager had sent Ben Steeger to Big Rock to scout out the situation. Scaramello had insisted on sending Big Pete along, too, to further represent his interests, as he put it. Yeager didn’t like it—but he hadn’t liked anything about this job, to be honest. If Scaramello hadn’t paid him extra, he might have walked away from it.

  Steeger and Pete were both strangers in Big Rock, so it was unlikely that anybody would notice them nosing around. While they were doing that, Yeager had ridden back to the same road ranch where he had recruited Steeger, Billings, and Norris. He had come up with four more men, including one known only as the Norwegian, a tall, blond man with a reputation as a vicious, highly competent killer. That gave them a force of ten men, total, since Scaramello insisted that he would be going along when they made their move against Malatesta, as well as Pete and the dour Anthony Migliazzi, who looked too frail to be much good in a fight.

  That was a lot of men to kill one hombre, but they had outnumbered their quarry before and had failed. Yeager was determined that wasn’t going to happen again.

  He and the others, except for Steeger and Pete, were camped in a clearing about five miles northeast of Big Rock. Scaramello had outfitted himself and his men in Red Cliff, so they had tents, folding canvas chairs, cooking equipment, and other things to make life easier and more comfortable. Yeager was a little jealous, but he was accustomed to riding hard, lonely trails. In the end, all that mattered was getting the job done—and getting paid.

  At the moment, Scaramello was sitting in one of those canvas chairs with his legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankle. The boots he wore might have cost almost as much as what he had paid Yeager to kill Giovanni Malatesta. He was sipping a cup of coffee that Migliazzi had brewed in a separate coffeepot.

  Fred Kent was rolling dice on a blanket with two of the new men. The third new man was mending his saddle. The Norwegian was sitting by himself, as usual. He didn’t care to associate with people any more than he had to.

  Yeager heard hoofbeats and called to the others, “Riders coming in.” They all put aside whatever they were doing and stood up. Their hands hovered near their guns.

  Steeger and Pete appeared, coming through the trees on horseback. Pete grimaced with every step his mount took. He didn’t like riding, claimed it was a torture invented by the Devil, and swore that once this was ove
r, he would never get near a horse again, let alone on one.

  The newcomers reined in and swung down from their saddles, Pete with considerable awkwardness. Yeager said, “I hope you boys have good news.”

  “How’s this?” Steeger asked. “Malatesta rode out of Big Rock a while ago, and I swear, it sure looked like he was followin’ the sheriff. They both wound up at that big ranch called the Sugarloaf.”

  “They were together?” Yeager asked sharply.

  Steeger shook his head. “Nope, like I said, the count was followin’ Carson. He hung back and watched the place while we watched him.”

  “Did he know you were there?” Scaramello asked.

  “No, sir, I don’t think so. He never gave any sign of it if he did.” Steeger scratched at his jaw. “To tell you the truth, I think I could’ve plugged him in the back with my rifle, and he never would’ve knowed what hit him.”

  “I wouldn’t let that happen, Mr. Scaramello,” Pete said. “I know you want to see him die up close and personal-like.”

  Scaramello appeared to think about that. After a moment, he nodded slowly.

  “You did right, Pete,” he said. “Having him shot dead from ambush wouldn’t be nearly as satisfying. Where is he now?”

  “Well, that’s the odd thing,” Steeger said. “Some other fella rode off from the ranch, heading north, and Malatesta followed him this time. I thought about trailin’ both of ’em but decided it was better to head back here to camp and let you know it looks like Malatesta’s gonna be out on his own for a spell, where we can get him. His saddlebags were full, like he was packin’ enough supplies to last for several days.”

  Scaramello looked at Yeager and asked, “Do you have any idea what all this is about?”

  “The riding here and there and following people?” Yeager shook his head. “Not a clue. But like Ben said, it’s a chance to catch Malatesta out on his own, with nobody to interfere this time.”