the genuine article, a really bad man. If you want somebody dead, he’s the man you hire.” The sheriff looked intently at Malatesta. “What I’m curious about, Count, is who wants you dead bad enough to hire somebody like Yeager?”
Malatesta took the cigar out of his mouth and blew a perfect smoke ring that hung in the air for a couple of seconds before starting to dissipate.
“Unfortunately, Sheriff, I have no idea,” he said in reply to Carson’s question. “I wish I did, because if someone has such a grudge against me, it would be a good thing for me to know.”
“Yeah, I imagine so.”
“But on the other hand,” Malatesta said, “isn’t it still possible that those men just intended to gun me down and then steal whatever they could find on my body? They’re thieves. Those wanted posters said so.”
Carson shook his head slowly and said, “That fracas didn’t strike me as a simple robbery. They were waiting to ambush you.”
“I can’t help you, Sheriff,” Malatesta said flatly. “I have no enemies that I know of in America.”
“How about in Italy, or somewhere else over there?”
“Do you really believe trouble would follow me all the way across the ocean?”
“You tell me.”
Malatesta put the cigar back in his mouth. His teeth clamped on it harder than before.
“I can’t tell you, Sheriff, because I don’t know,” he said. His smile had disappeared, and there was an edge to his voice. “But I’m confident that with you on the job, I’ll be safe as long as I’m in Big Rock.”
“You can rest easy on that score,” Carson said with a little edge in his own voice now. “And I’ll assume that if you think of anything I ought to know, you’ll tell me.”
Malatesta made a gesture of agreement with the cigar.
“Don’t reckon there’s anything else to say.” Carson started to turn toward the door.
“One moment, Sheriff, if you would.”
“Sure. What is it?”
“Those two men, Murtagh and Morrell . . . The only reason you have those posters with their pictures on them is because there are rewards posted for them. Correct?”
“That’s right,” Carson said.
“Dead or alive?”
“That’s usually the way it works.”
“Then since Miss Jensen killed one of them and Marshal Rogers took care of the other, I suppose they are entitled to those rewards?”
“Well, as a federal lawman, Brice Rogers can’t claim a reward like that,” Carson explained. “And the bounty on Murtagh . . . he’s the one Denny ventilated. . . is only three hundred dollars, so I doubt if she’d bother to collect it.”
“Because she is rich, or at least her father is,” Malatesta said.
“Because Denny’s not really the sort of person to be interested in blood money.”
“Yes, I would say you are correct about that. She looked very different today than she did the last time I saw her, two years ago in Italy. I’m sure she is still the same sort of person she was then.”
“She’s a fine gal,” Carson said. “One of the finest I’ve ever known.”
“Then we are in total agreement on that, Sheriff,” Malatesta said with a smile. “I have never met another woman quite like Denise Nicole Jensen.”
CHAPTER 12
Harkerville, Wyoming
Eight people on horseback sat their saddles and looked down at the settlement in the valley below them. Evergreens grew thickly atop the ridge where the riders had paused, and on this cloudy afternoon, the shadows were thick enough that anybody in Harkerville, half a mile away, who glanced up here wouldn’t be likely to spot them.
“Place don’t hardly look big enough to have a bank,” one of the men said with a sneer of contempt. He added to the impression by leaning over in his saddle and spitting on the ground. “That’s a one-horse town if I ever seen one.”
“The place is small and that’s the way the folks who live here like it,” a thickset man dressed all in black replied. “But all the ranchers who own big spreads on up the valley have to have someplace to put their money, and Harkerville’s the closest town. Yeah, they’ve got a bank, Curly.” He chuckled. “You can bank on that.”
Curly Bannister, whose tangled mass of brown hair that fell to his shoulders had given him his nickname, said, “I’m not doubtin’ your word, Alden, just sayin’ that looks can be deceivin’, I reckon. If you say there’s a bank down there and it’s worth takin’, I believe you, one hunnerd percent.”
Alden Simms nodded. Curly was his second-in-command, and a good one, so he was in the habit of cutting Curly some slack whenever he got mouthy, which was too often, to tell the truth. One of these days, Curly would catch Alden in a bad mood when he made one of his snide comments, and Alden would put a bullet through the snaggletoothed varmint’s brain. He’d be sorry to kill Curly, he supposed, but he’d get over it.
Another rider edged forward to join Alden and Curly, who were slightly ahead of the rest of the gang. “How much do you believe is in there?”
The rider’s husky but undoubtedly female voice, along with the long, straight dark hair that hung down her back from under the flat-crowned black hat, marked her as a woman. So did the lack of beard stubble on her lean face, which otherwise was as hard-featured as those of the male outlaws.
“Could be ten, twelve thousand, I’d say,” Alden replied.
“That’s only a little more than a thousand apiece.”
“How else you gonna earn that much money, Juliana?” Curly asked. “You sure never did when you was workin’ in the Duchess’s place in Rapid City.”
Juliana Montero fastened a cold gaze on Curly and said, “That’s because the Duchess’s customers were cheap owlhoots who never had any money because they were stupid. That description remind you of anybody, Curly?”
Curly’s cocky grin disappeared and he tightened his grip on his reins, as if he was about to turn his mount toward Juliana’s. Alden said sharply, “Hush up that squabbling, you two. I swear, the way you pick at each other, I’m surprised neither of you has shot the other one yet.”
“Could happen any day now,” Juliana said.
“No, it won’t. We’ve got a job to do, and we’re all going to get along.” Alden turned to look at the rest of the men. “Isn’t that right, boys?”
A couple of the outlaws muttered their agreement, and the others nodded.
Alden looked hard at Curly and Juliana
