Rising Fire

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

He left to check out the second floor. Denny heard his footsteps going up the stairs. She said to Malatesta, “You haven’t told me how you happened to show up in the nick of time like that. What are you even doing here?”

  “Following you, of course. Surely you understand by now that I will follow you to the ends of the earth, cara mia.”

  Denny didn’t know what to say to that, so instead she told him, “Stay right there,” and stepped into the saloon’s main room. She headed for the bar, where several partially full bottles of whiskey sat, but she hadn’t gotten there when the batwings swung open again.

  “Stay right where you are, lady,” the man who stepped into the saloon told her as he pointed a gun in her direction.

  He was a middle-aged man with a hard, weather-beaten look about him. At first glance, Denny thought she had never seen him before, but then she realized there was something familiar about him. Her mind went back . . . and recalled that day at the train station in Big Rock when Count Giovanni Malatesta had come into her life again.

  This hombre was one of those who had tried to kill Malatesta that day, and then again later on the road from Big Rock to the Sugarloaf.

  Other men crowded into the saloon behind him and kept coming until there were ten of them standing there. Seven wore range clothes and were typical hard cases. They all held guns.

  The other three didn’t look like they were from around there. They were well dressed, although one of them was so big and bulky he looked like an ape in a suit. One of that trio, a smooth-shaven, slick-looking gent, stepped forward and said in a faintly accented voice, “Where is Johnny Malatesta?”

  As if answering the question himself, Malatesta called from the other room, “Denise, I hear someone talking. Who is out there?”

  The slick man smiled slightly and said with evident satisfaction, “Ah.”

  When Denny didn’t answer, Malatesta stepped into the doorway, then stopped short at the sight of the newcomers.

  “Nick,” he said.

  “That’s right,” the man said. “You never expected to see me again, did you, Johnny? But I never let anybody get away with thinking they can defy me or steal from me. You know that, don’t you? You should.”

  Denny turned her head to glance at Malatesta and asked, “What’s going on here?”

  “Cara mia, I can explain—”

  “What’s going on, my dear,” the man called Nick interrupted, “is that Johnny here is a thief, a swindler, and a killer. But most importantly, he stole from the wrong man. My name is Nick Scaramello. Johnny used to work for me.”

  Denny’s eyes narrowed. “He’s a count—”

  Scaramello laughed. “About as much as the rats that have taken over this town are. He’s nothing. A poor little paisan from Sicily who would lie to anyone and kill anyone who got in his way. Oh, I know all about him. He’s no nobleman.”

  Malatesta’s face was flushed dark red with rage now. He said, “This man is a liar, Denise, a notorious criminal from New York. Don’t believe a word he says.”

  Scaramello shrugged. “Whether the young lady believes me or not doesn’t really matter. I’ve come all this way to watch you die, Johnny, and I don’t intend to be disappointed. Unfortunately, the reasonable thing to do is make sure that no witnesses are left behind, so the young lady will have to go, too.”

  “Wait a minute,” said the first gunman who had entered the saloon. “I’ve got a better idea, Scaramello. Leave her with me and my boys. We’ll make sure she doesn’t talk, in the long run. But just gunning her down right here and now would be a waste, don’t you think?”

  Scaramello considered the suggestion, then shrugged.

  “As you wish, Mr. Yeager,” he said. He drew a pistol from under his coat. “Now, it’s time to put an end to this.”

  “It sure is!” Brice called from the second-floor balcony.

  He was off to the side and slightly behind the men, who hadn’t noticed when he glided out onto the balcony from one of the second-floor rooms because all their attention was focused on Malatesta. But the ringing challenge got their attention fast enough. Several of them whirled and flung their guns up to open fire on him.

  Brice pulled his triggers first, blasting down again and again into the saloon’s main room with both guns. Flame spouted from their muzzles as gun-thunder seemed to shake the walls. Bullets ripped into Scaramello’s hired gunmen. The impacts made them jitter grotesquely, and the shots they got off went wild, smashing into the walls.

  At the same time, Scaramello snarled and jabbed his gun toward Malatesta, clearly intending to have his revenge no matter what else happened. He was too slow. The gun in Malatesta’s hand cracked first, and Scaramello’s head jerked as a red-rimmed hole appeared over his left eye. He crumpled to the dusty floor.

  The leader of the hired guns swung his weapon toward Malatesta. Denny came up with the derringer from her pocket and fired at the same time as the hard case. Malatesta grunted beside her as the bullet hammered into him. Denny’s .41 caliber slug pulped the gunman’s right eye and bored on into his brain, leaving him dead on his feet as he dropped the gun and swayed for a second before toppling over.

  The big man Scaramello had brought with him was still standing, but several bloodstains marred his shirtfront. Growling and cursing in rage, he tried to climb the stairs to get at Brice. He made it only a few steps before he collapsed facedown and then slowly rolled back to the bottom of the staircase.

  “Denny!” Brice called as he rushed down the stairs. He bounded over the massive corpse. “Denny, are you all right?”

  She lowered the derringer and hurried into his arms. He held her tightly. She felt his heart slamming in his chest and knew he felt hers doing the same thing.

  “I’m all right,” she murmured. “I’m all right.”

  “So am I. Those men—”

  “They all look dead to me.” Denny pulled her head back to gaze up into Brice’s face. “I never saw shooting like that. I’m not sure my father could have done any better.”

  “I had a powerful reason not to miss,” he told her.

  “How . . . touching,” Malatesta said in a halting voice. Denny and Brice looked around as they heard the click of a gun hammer being drawn back. As they turned to look, they saw Malatesta standing there, bloodier than ever now, obviously hit bad but still on his feet. He aimed the gun in his hand at Brice and went on, “Step away from her.”

  “Count, you don’t have to—” Brice began.

  “Step away from her, I said!”

  Denny said, “Giovanni, don’t. You’re hurt—”

  “Hurt too badly this time to make it, I fear,” he broke in. “Which means . . . I’ll never have you . . . cara mia . . . but neither will he.”

  Brice surprised her by letting go of her and stepping to the side. He said, “All right, I’m clear of her, Malatesta. Just don’t hurt her. Give me your word.”

  “You think . . . my word is . . . worth anything?”

  “I hope it is.”

  “Brice, no!” Denny cried.

  With a ghastly smile on his face, Malatesta said, “It seems . . . he is willing to give his life . . . for yours . . . cara mia. I believe you really are . . . his beloved. Willing to die . . . cara mia—”

  “And I’m willing to kill,” Denny said. The derringer, which still had one shot in it, came up in her hand and went off with a wicked crack. Malatesta’s head jerked back, drilled cleanly by Denny’s shot. With a long, rattling sigh, he folded up on himself and settled into a lifeless heap on the floor.

  “I told you and told you to stop calling me that,” she said. The derringer slipped from her fingers and thudded to the floor. She turned and went into Brice’s waiting arms and started to cry.

  She didn’t even hear the swift rataplan of hoofbeats sweeping into Painted Post and coming to a stop outside the old saloon.

  CHAPTER 48

  The Sugarloaf

  “Arturo got worried about the count gallivanting off by h
imself like that,” Smoke said to Denny, “so he talked to Monte about it and Monte talked to me. I was already about to ride out with some of the men and look for you, so when I heard that Malatesta had gone missing, too, it made sense that he might be following you. And it was obvious you’d headed for Painted Post, because that was where Brice was going.” He shrugged. “Simple.”

  “You think you know me that well, do you?”

  Smoke smiled. “So far, it appears that I do. I was just a mite late to get in on the action this time. That hasn’t happened to me very often.”

  He was right about both things. Smoke, Cal, Pearlie, and half a dozen of the Sugarloaf hands had ridden into Painted Post while the echoes of gunfire were still rolling away through the gulch and the smell of powder smoke hung in the air. That was an odd situation indeed for Smoke Jensen.

  But it had ended well, Denny thought as she sat on the front porch of the ranch house with her father, mother, and Brice Rogers. The bank robbers Brice had gone after were wiped out, and the threat of Giovanni Malatesta—and all the trouble he brought with him—was over. They might not know all the details about Malatesta, but Denny didn’t care. He was a closed chapter in her life. No, a whole closed book.

  She was much more interested in the future now.

  “Brice,” Sally said, “I assume you’ll be staying for supper.”

  He smiled, nodded, and said, “If you’ll have me, ma’am.”

  Sally smiled, too, as she saw the way her daughter clasped the young lawman’s hand. She said, “Oh . . . I think we will.”

  Big Rock

  The eastbound train had rolled into the station a short time earlier and would soon depart. Smoke stood on the station platform with Arturo Vincenzo and held out his hand to the man.

  “I reckon you could probably find work around here if you wanted to stay in Big Rock,” Smoke told him as they shook. “That fella you came to town with may have caused a heap of trouble, but I don’t know of a thing you ever did wrong, Arturo.”

  “Thank you, sir, but I believe I’m going to pay a visit to my old employer, Mr. Conrad Browning.” Arturo paused. “Although I believe he goes by the name Conrad Morgan now, since he’s adopted his real father’s name.”

  “Yeah, I know him,” Smoke said. “Know his pa a lot better. We’ve crossed trails a few times. Frank Morgan’s a good man, and his son is, too.”

  “Mr. Morgan . . . Mr. Conrad Morgan, that is . . . told me he would be happy to line up suitable employment for me, now that Count Malatesta has passed on.”

  Another passenger was walking past on the platform as Arturo said that. Smoke noticed the way the man cut narrowed eyes toward them, a definite reaction to Arturo’s statement. The man lingered on the platform, watching the porters load bags into the baggage car. Smoke watched him from the corner of an eye while he and Arturo finished saying their good-byes. Arturo climbed onto the platform at the rear of the passenger car and smiled down at Smoke.

  “I just love trains,” he said.

  Smoke lifted a hand in farewell, but as he turned away, he paused beside the man he had noticed earlier, a middle-aged, horse-faced gent in an eastern suit and derby hat.

  “Leaving Big Rock?” Smoke asked as if he was making casual conversation.

  “Yeah. I had some work to do here, but as it turned out, somebody else took care of it for me . . . if that’s any of your business.”

  “None at all, friend,” Smoke said with a smile. “And I always mind my own business.”

  A shrill whistle came from the engine as Smoke turned and walked away.

  Keep reading for a special excerpt

  of the next thrilling Western adventure

  from bestselling authors

  WILLIAM W. and J. A. JOHNSTONE.

  PRAY FOR DEATH

  A WILL TANNER, U.S. DEPUTY MARSHAL WESTERN

  U.S. Deputy Marshal Will Tanner is a man of the law,

  not a gun for hire. Except when a friend’s in danger

  and needs the Tanner brand of help

  that comes out the barrel of a gun.

  There’s serious trouble brewing in the Choctaw nation, and it goes by the name of Tiny McCoy.

  This small-time cattle rustler is expanding his brand by brewing batches of whiskey in the Chocktaw territory of Muddy Boggy Creek.

  Tiny and his partner have also turned the illegal brewery into a robbers’ roost for outlaws, cutthroats, and killers of every bent. Local lawman Jim Little Eagle is under attack and outgunned.

  But when he sends a wire to Fort Smith asking for backup, and U.S. Deputy Marshal Tanner shows up, Little Eagle knows they’re in for one hell of a bloodbath. If anyone can drive those murdering devils to their knees and saying their prayers, it’s Will Tanner.

  Look for PRAY FOR DEATH

  on sale now where books are sold.

  CHAPTER 1

  Jim Little Eagle reined his paint gelding to a halt on the bank of Muddy Boggy Creek about fifty yards upstream of the log building bearing the crudely lettered sign that identified it as MAMA’S KITCHEN. The Choctaw policeman had been watching the comings and goings of the typical clientele of the dining room and gambling hall just recently built three miles outside of town. And from what he had observed, there was no doubt that the owner, a man calling himself Tiny McGee, was selling whiskey and employing a prostitute as well. Jim figured it was time to remind McGee that it was illegal to sell whiskey in the Nations. There was little doubt in Jim’s mind that the recent complaints from the merchants in town were caused by patrons of Mama’s Kitchen. On more than one occasion in the past week, three white drifters had amused themselves by racing their horses through the center of town, firing their firearms, and scaring the people. He was not confident that his visit to Mama’s Kitchen would stop the harassment of the citizens of Atoka, because his authority was limited to the policing of the Indian population. He knew that McGee knew this, as all outlaws did, but he felt it his duty to give him notice, anyway.

  Inside the log building, Bob Atkins and Stump Grissom sat talking to Tiny McGee at one of the four small tables. A door that led to several rooms in the back of the building opened and Bob’s brother Raymond came out, pretending to stagger as he hitched up his trousers and buckled his belt. His antics caused a round of guffaws from the table and a loud response from Bob. “I swear, Raymond, damned if I don’t believe Mama’s Baby done wore you out!”

  Coming out behind him, Ida Simpson commented, “Don’t pay no attention to him. He’s as rutty as a bull in matin’ season.” A working girl with signs of wear, but uncertain age, Ida had adopted the name of Baby because it was so appropriate for Mama’s Kitchen. Although Mama’s was, in effect, a saloon, there was a kitchen and Tiny did sell meals. His cook was a well-traveled woman named Etta Grise, now too old to do the work Baby did. Tiny hoped the name of his establishment might disguise his actual business interests. His plan was to make Boggy Town, the name already given to it by outlaws, a separate little town where outlaws on the run could hole up. And, so far, he had not been visited by any deputy marshals out of Fort Smith.

  “I expect Baby’s up to givin’ you a ride now, Stump,” Raymond japed as he sat down at the table.

  “Not me,” Stump responded. “I ain’t thinkin’ ’bout nothin’ but supper right now.” He was about to say more but stopped when he realized everyone was looking past him toward the door. He turned then to see what had captured their attention.

  “Well, well,” Tiny said, “if it ain’t Jim Little Eagle.” He sneered openly at the Choctaw policeman standing in the doorway, his rifle cradled in his arms. “What brings you down to Boggy Town? Course, I expect you know I don’t serve no Injuns in here.”

  “I think you sell whiskey to Indians out your back door,” Jim answered him. “I come to give you notice that it is illegal to sell whiskey in the Nations, to white man or Indian. I think you already know this. I don’t want to put any more drunken Indians in my jail. I think you better stop selling w
hiskey.”

  “Damned if he ain’t mighty uppity for an Injun,” Bob said. “You gonna let him talk to you like that?”

  Tiny laughed. “He’s the local Choctaw policeman. He knows damn well he ain’t got no say-so about anything a white man does.” He sneered at Little Eagle. “Ain’t that right, Jim?”

  “I think you would be wise to take my warning and stop selling whiskey,” Jim insisted. “Maybe it would be best if you move your business someplace else. Atoka is a peaceful town.”

  “This ain’t Atoka, this is Boggy Town, and I got as much right to be here as any of them stores in town,” Tiny said. “Maybe it’d be best if you take your Injun ass outta here before somebody’s gun goes off accidentally.” His warning prompted the other three at the table to push their chairs back, preparing for a possible shooting.

  With no change in the solemn expression on his face to reveal his frustration, Jim Little Eagle replied, “That would be an unfortunate thing to happen, because my rifle fires by itself when accidents happen. And you are such a big target, white man, you would be hard to miss.” When Stump Grissom started to react, Jim whipped his rifle around, ready to fire.

  “Let him go, Stump,” Tiny warned. “You shoot one of them Injun policemen and there’ll be a whole slew of deputy marshals down here.” He looked back at Jim. “All right, you’ve said your peace, so get on outta here and let us get back to mindin’ our own business.”

  Knowing there was nothing he could legally do to close the saloon, Jim backed out the door. With a keen eye still on the door, he climbed on his horse and rode away. He had at least accomplished one thing by making the visit. He verified the suspicion he had that Tiny McGee was operating a saloon. There had been no attempt to hide the whiskey bottle in the middle of the table. He would now notify the marshal in Fort Smith.

  Behind him, the four men filed into the kitchen to eat supper. “Soon as we finish eatin’,” Bob Atkins suggested, “why don’t we take a little ride into town and make sure all them folks are awake.”