Читать книгу Rising Fire - William W. Johnstone - Страница 9

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!”

Malatesta rubbed his hands together and turned to Arturo. “Now that this grisly business is concluded, we can return to our original plans. I’m sure these gentlemen can tell you where to find the best hotel in Big Rock . . .”

Monte Carson said, “Hold on a minute, Count.”

“Johnny, please,” Malatesta said.

Monte’s voice remained more formal, however, as he went on, “I’m asking as the sheriff now. Why did those hombres try to kill you?”

Malatesta spread his hands innocently. “I assure you, I have no idea. I assumed they were mere brigands, bent on robbery.”

“And they just happened to pick you and Mr. Vincenzo out of the crowd?”

“My garments are expensive, and Arturo dresses in a suitable fashion for a gentleman’s gentleman. Those . . . desperadoes is the accepted western term, is it not? Those desperadoes probably looked at us and assumed that we were suitable targets for their larcenous intentions.”

Monte rubbed his chin and said, “Yeah, maybe.”

“I believe that if you find any of those wanted posters you mentioned with those men listed on them, you’ll find that they have long histories of being thieves.”

“More than likely,” Monte agreed with a shrug.

“Now, if you can recommend a hostelry . . .”

“The Big Rock Hotel is the best place in town to stay.”

“And an establishment that offers fine dining and drinking?”

“Longmont’s,” Monte said without hesitation. He provided directions to both businesses.

Malatesta made a shooing motion at Arturo and said, “Scurry on about your business, my friend.” He tipped a finger against the brim of his slouch hat and told Carson and Brice, “Good day to you, gentlemen. It was a pleasure meeting you, even under these somewhat trying circumstances, and I hope to see a great deal of you in the future.”

With that, the count strolled away, whistling under his breath.

The two lawmen watched him go, and as Monte Carson’s eyes narrowed, he asked, “You believe what he said about why those hombres tried to kill him?”

“Not for one minute,” Brice replied.

* * *

Wes “Pearlie” Fontaine was standing on the high porch and loading dock in front of Goldstein’s Mercantile, talking to Leo Goldstein, the store’s proprietor. A couple of Goldstein’s clerks had just finished loading the supplies into the back of the wagon Pearlie had driven into town that morning with Denny coming along to keep him company.

The lanky former hired gunman and longtime foreman of the Sugarloaf—now retired—had his hat tipped far back on his head, and his hands were tucked in the back pockets of his jeans. Like most of the other men on the streets of Big Rock in these early days of the twentieth century, he wasn’t wearing a gun, although that still felt funny to him at times. It was said of some men in the West, “He packed iron for so long he walked slanchwise.” Pearlie was such a man.

As he looked along the street and saw Denny walking toward the mercantile, he stopped the small talk he was making with Leo Goldstein. The young storekeeper noticed her, too, and commented, “Miss Jensen looks just about mad enough to chew nails.”

“Yep, and then spit ’em out to fasten somebody’s hide to the barn.”

Denny took the steps at the end of the porch two at a time. As she came up to Pearlie, she asked sharply, “Are you ready to go?”

“I reckon. Leo’s clerks just finished loadin’ us up. I sort of figured we’d get some lunch in town before headin’ back out to the ranch, though.”

Denny shook her head. “No, I want to go now.”

Pearlie considered that and slowly nodded. “All right,” he said. “That’ll be fine. So long, Leo.”

He shook hands with the young merchant and then started to reach out to help Denny onto the wagon seat. She ignored his hand and made the long step from the porch onto the driver’s box without any assistance.

Pearlie climbed up beside her, unwound the reins from the brake lever, and flicked them against the horses’ backs to get the team moving. He guided the wagon through a wide turn across Big Rock’s main street and then headed west toward the Sugarloaf.

When they were on the road and the town was falling behind them, Pearlie said without looking over at Denny, “I heard all the shootin’ a while ago. Sounded like it was comin’ from the direction of the depot, and since I knew you’d gone down there, I started to go see what it was all about. But I ran into Phil Clinton along the way, and he told me what had happened. He said you were all right, but that you’d been mixed up in the ruckus.”

Denny maintained her stony silence for a moment, then relaxed a little and said, “I didn’t notice Mr. Clinton there, but I’m not surprised. I’m sure he’ll put a story about the trouble in his newspaper.” She paused. “That means he’ll probably talk to . . .”

“Talk to who?” Pearlie asked when Denny didn’t go on.

“Count Giovanni Malatesta.” Denny said the name like it tasted bad in her mouth.

“Who?”

“Nobody,” Denny snapped. “Nobody worth writing about in the newspaper. Nobody even worth knowing.”

“You sound like you know him, right enough,” Pearlie pointed out.

“I wish I didn’t,” Denny said. Her voice grew softer as she turned her head and stared off into the distance. “I wish I had never met or even heard of Giovanni Malatesta . . .”