gate closed. “But at least they didn’t kill anybody. That’s a miracle, the way they had those two hombres dead to rights. Instead, it looks like a couple of them were the only ones to cross the divide.”
One of the targets, the tall, slender man named Arturo, still stood on the platform near the railroad car, pale and shaken from his close brush with death. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. He swallowed hard, pulled a large handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped it over his face.
The man who had saved Arturo from being shot from behind approached the gut-shot assassin. He hooked a boot toe under the man’s shoulder and rolled him onto his back. The way the gunman’s arms flopped loosely was mute testimony that he was dead. So was the large pool of blood he had left on the platform.
For a moment, Deputy United States Marshal Brice Rogers stood gun in hand and looked down at the man he had shot. Then, evidently satisfied that the hard case was no longer a threat, he pouched his iron and turned toward Denny and Monte Carson.
“I’m not sure what was going on here, Sheriff,” Brice said, “but I’m glad I came along when I did. When I saw that fella about to gun somebody down from behind, I figured I had better try to stop him.”
“I don’t have any idea what it’s all about, either, Brice,” Monte said, “but you did the right thing. Those hombres were trying to commit cold-blooded murder.”
Denny was reloading, too. When she finished, she holstered the Lightning and studied the face of the man she had shot in the head. He had fallen on his back, and other than the neat bullet hole between his eyes, his features were unmarked and looked oddly puzzled, as if he couldn’t quite figure out why he was dead. Denny didn’t recognize his hard-planed, beard-stubbled face, but she had seen plenty like it belonging to other ruthless gunmen she had encountered.
She called over to Monte and Brice, “Do either of you know these men?”
“Never saw them before, as far as I recall,” the sheriff answered.
Brice shook his head and said, “Nope.”
“I’ll go through the reward posters in my desk,” Monte went on. “There’s at least a chance they’ll turn up on some of those. I’ve got a hunch 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.’
