Rising Fire. William W. Johnstone
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this wasn’t the first bushwhack they ever tried to pull off.”
Brice Rogers, a medium-sized, athletic young man with brown hair and a quick, friendly grin—most of the time, when he wasn’t dealing with lawbreakers—approached Arturo and asked, “Are you all right there, pardner? None of that lead flying around nicked you?”
Arturo swallowed hard and shook his head. “No, I . . . I’m not hurt.”
“You came mighty close,” Denny said as she walked up to them. Now that the shooting was over, the crowd was drifting back out of the building and onto the platform, morbidly curious now. Monte Carson motioned them away from the bodies and told one of the townies to fetch the undertaker.
Denny nodded toward the man Brice had downed and told Arturo, “That hombre was about to ventilate you from behind when Marshal Rogers winged him and then dropped him.”
Arturo looked at Brice and said, “Thank you, sir, for saving my life.” Then he frowned, turned toward Denny to stare at her, and exclaimed, “My word! You’re a young woman!”
Brice chuckled and said, “I’ve had some suspicions along those lines myself.”
Denny ignored his attempt at banter and asked Arturo, “What did you think I was?”
“A boy,” Arturo said. “I mean, a young man, I suppose, based on your clothing. But clearly I was wrong. Still, you . . . you shot that man over there.”
“He needed shooting,” Denny said. “And a gun doesn’t know if the finger pulling the trigger is male or female.”
“Yes, I suppose—” Arturo stopped short, as if something had just occurred to him, and looked around frantically again. “The count! I must see if the count is all right!”
“I’m fine, Arturo,” a voice said from the railroad car. The black-haired man came down the steps to the platform. His hat was cocked at a jaunty angle on his head now, and when he reached the platform, he brushed off any dirt that might have gotten on his suit when he dived to the planks with Arturo as the killers opened fire.
“Thank heavens for that,” Arturo said, “and thank you for saving my life, too. I never would have reacted swiftly enough on my own when those villains opened fire.”
“I think we both owe some thanks to this young fellow here for disrupting their attack—” the man began as he turned to Denny. He stopped short and let out a surprised oath in Italian, then said, “Can it be? Truly? It’s really you, Denise?”
“It is,” Denny said.
Then she hauled off and slapped him across the face as hard as she could.
CHAPTER 3
The blow took the man by surprise, striking him hard enough to make him stumble a couple of steps to his right. He caught his balance, smiled, and lifted a hand to his face. Taking hold of his chin, he worked his jaw back and forth, then announced, “Nothing broken, it seems. I suppose I had that coming.”
“You most certainly did,” Denny said coldly. “That, and worse.”
His smile didn’t waver as he spread his hands and said, “Cara mia, are you not glad to see me?”
Denny just let out a contemptuous snort, turned on her heel, stalked across the platform to the door into the train station lobby, and disappeared through it. The man she had just slapped watched her go with a wryly amused expression on his face.
“What in blazes did she do that for?” Brice asked.
“Denise and I have a . . . complicated history, I suppose you could say,” the man replied. He held out his hand. “I believe she mentioned that you’re a lawman of some sort?”
“Deputy United States Marshal,” Brice said as he clasped the stranger’s hand. “Name’s Brice Rogers.”
“I am Count Giovanni Malatesta,” the man introduced himself with a more formal note in his voice. He inclined his head toward his companion. “My butler, valet, and all-around manservant, Arturo Vincenzo.”
“Hello,” Brice said. Arturo didn’t offer to shake hands, but he did that little almost-bow again.
A commotion elsewhere on the platform made the three of them turn and look. The undertaker’s wagon had drawn up next to the steps at the end of the platform, and the black-suited man and his helpers were coming to retrieve the bodies of the slain gunmen. The crowd that had gathered drew back to give them room.
With that grim chore being taken care of, Sheriff Monte Carson came over to join Brice and the two newcomers to Big Rock. Brice said, “Monte, this is Count . . . Giovanni Malatesta.” He stumbled slightly over the name. “Count Malatesta, meet Sheriff Monte Carson.”
Malatesta shook hands with Monte and said, “Please, gentlemen, you must call me Johnny. We are in America, and there is no place for titles of nobility. And Giovanni is Italian for ‘John.’ Since I wish for all of us to be friends, there is no need for formality between us.”
“Do you plan on staying in Big Rock for a while?” Monte asked.
Malatesta laughed. “Perhaps, if it proves an amiable place in which to spend time.”
“We like it here.” Monte frowned a little. “Did I see Denny slap you a minute ago? You didn’t say something to offend her, I hope.”
Brice said, “As far as I could tell, the count—I mean, Johnny—didn’t do a thing other than ask if it was really her when he recognized her.”
“Then you two know each other?” Monte asked.
Malatesta said, “We became well acquainted when Denise—Denny, as you so quaintly call her—was in Europe a few years ago with her brother. Is Louis here, too?”
“You missed him, but not by much,” Monte said. “He headed back East to go to law school a few weeks ago.”
Malatesta shook his head and said, “A shame. I would have liked to see him again. I had no idea he and Denise would be here. I recall her telling me that their father owns some sort of large farm out here on your frontier, but I never expected to run into them again when I set out on my tour of the American West.”
“I wouldn’t call Sugarloaf a farm,” Monte said. “It’s more of a ranch. A big ranch.”
“Really?” Malatesta cocked an eyebrow. “I knew that Denise’s family was well-to-do, otherwise she would not have been living in England and taking jaunts to the Continent, but you sound as if her father is quite successful.”
“You could say that. Smoke Jensen is one of the most respected men in the state. In all of the West, in fact.”
“Smoke?” Malatesta repeated. “His name is Smoke?”
“Well, his given name’s actually Kirby, but everybody calls him Smoke and has for a long, long time. Are you saying you never heard of Smoke Jensen?”
The count shook his head. “Perhaps I just never traveled in the right circles to do so. And Denise never spoke that much about her family.”
With a noticeable intentness in his voice, Brice asked, “Were the two of you particularly close, over there in Italy?”
“Very close,” Malatesta said as that arrogant grin reappeared on his face. Brice frowned and stiffened. The count chuckled and slapped him on the arm. “But do not worry, my dear marshal. Anything that was between Signorina Denise Nicole Jensen and myself has long since passed into the realm of friendship and friendship alone.”
Brice nodded slowly. “All right.”
The bodies had been toted off by now, the crowd on the platform had thinned, and the train was getting ready to pull out. The leather-lunged conductor leaned out from one of the cars and bellowed, “Boooaaarrrddd! All aboooaarrrddd!”