CHAPTER 13

      Big Rock

      According to Arturo, who had asked the desk clerk in the hotel about it, the best place to eat in Big Rock was Longmont’s, a combination dining, drinking, and gambling establishment that had food to rival any of the fancy restaurants back East. The owner, Louis Longmont, who had once been a deadly gunman with a reputation that almost rivaled Smoke Jensen’s, brought in the best chefs he could find and paid them more than they could have made in New York, Chicago, or San Francisco.

      As a result, when Count Giovanni Malatesta dined there that evening, he enjoyed a delicious, perfectly cooked steak with all the trimmings, along with an excellent bottle of red wine. It was a French vintage, not Italian, but Malatesta was willing to forgive that.

      Unlike in most frontier saloons, a number of women came to Longmont’s with their husbands. That was because they felt safe in these refined, comfortable surroundings. Yes, there was gambling on one side of the room, but the games didn’t get loud and raucous like they sometimes did in other saloons because nobody wanted to get on Louis Longmont’s bad side. He was middle-aged and distinguished, with considerable gray in his dark hair, but most folks in Big Rock knew how dangerous he had been in his earlier days. He had sided Smoke Jensen in more than one epic battle against a variety of badmen. Nobody wanted to test whether he might have lost any of his edge.

      That was what Arturo had gathered from asking around, anyway, and then passed on to Malatesta. Arturo was very good at coming up with information, and he was patient about waiting for his salary. If things didn’t work out the way Malatesta planned and he had to leave Big Rock in a hurry, he would owe Arturo a considerable amount that would never be paid. He almost felt a little bad about that. Almost.

      One of Longmont’s hostesses paused beside the table and asked, “Would you like more wine, Count Malatesta?”

      The women who worked here dressed in a more subdued fashion than run-of-the-mill saloon girls and soiled doves. No short, low-cut, spangled dresses that showed off their sometimes dubious charms.

      But they were undeniably lovely. Longmont clearly had a good eye for feminine beauty. Malatesta smiled up at this young woman, a brown-eyed blonde, and said, “I believe I’ve had enough, especially since you’re so intoxicating, my dear. If you’d like to sit down with me, I could easily spend another hour just drinking in the exquisiteness of your eyes.”

      She smiled and said, “You are a flatterer, aren’t you? Mr. Longmont said he wanted to speak with you when you finished your meal. I’ll send him on over.”

      “I’ll be happy to meet him,” Malatesta said, “but he will be a poor substitute for you.”

      She laughed, shook her head, and went toward the bar.

      A few minutes later, a tall, well-dressed man sauntered up to the table and said in a voice that retained just the faintest of French accents to mark his Cajun heritage, “Count Malatesta, I’m Louis Longmont. I own this place.”

      Malatesta stood up and extended his hand. “A pleasure and an honor to meet you, signore.” After shaking hands, he waved toward the empty chair on the other side of the table. “Please, join me.”

      “Thank you. Don’t mind if I do.” The two men took their seats, then Longmont went on, “I hear there was some excitement when your train arrived this morning.”

      “Indeed. One of your notorious western gunfights. I was fortunate to escape with my life, thanks to the intervention of Sheriff Carson, Marshal Rogers, and Miss Jensen.”

      Longmont cocked an eyebrow. “Who then slapped you, from what I hear. Miss Jensen, I mean.”

      “Indeed she did,” Malatesta said with a chuckle. “I make the assumption, Signor Longmont, that you, too, have been slapped by a beautiful woman in your lifetime?”

      “Once or twice,” Louis agreed drily. He took a couple of cheroots from his vest pocket. “Cigar?”