“Yeah, that was the Santa Rosa Kid, all right,” Pearlie agreed. “Sorriest son of a gun I ever knew. And the most vicious.” He turned over another of the wanted posters and drew in a sharp breath, then froze as he stared down at it. “Speak o’ the devil.”

  “That didn’t take long,” said Monte. “Is he the one you were looking for?”

  “Yeah. And I found him.” Pearlie tapped the poster. “Take a gander.”

  Monte did so and immediately exclaimed, “I’ll be danged.”

  Knowing that the normally soft-spoken sheriff had to be really shocked to react like that, Brice set aside the new wanted posters he had been looking through and stood up. He stepped over to the desk and stood beside Pearlie to look down at the reward dodger for the Santa Rosa Kid with its hand-drawn portrait of the murderous outlaw.

  Brice felt as if a hard fist had just been sunk deep in his guts. Staring back up at him from the wanted poster was the spitting image of Steve Markham.

  CHAPTER 40

  The three men stared at the poster in stunned silence as a long moment dragged past.

  Then Monte Carson burst out, “That’s loco! The Santa Rosa Kid’s been dead for fifteen years, at least. I don’t remember exactly when the law caught up to him and stretched his neck, but I know that’s what happened. I talked to people who were there at Yuma when he walked up the steps to the gallows!”

  “Maybe so,” Pearlie said, “but I know as soon as I laid eyes on that Markham jasper for the first time, I thought I recognized him. I was in the same crew as the Kid a time or two myself, and you don’t forget an hombre like him.”

  Thoughts clamored through Brice’s head. He tried to calm them and force his brain to function logically. That wasn’t easy to do when an icy dagger of fear for Denny’s safety was shoved in his belly. But after a few seconds, he was able to say, “Hold on a minute, both of you. Even if this Santa Rosa Kid was still alive somehow, he’d have to be in his forties, maybe even close to fifty years old. There’s no way Steve Markham is that old.”

  “You sure about that?” asked Pearlie. “Some fellas don’t look their age.”

  “Pretty damned sure. I’ve gotten several good close looks at him, remember, while we were whaling the tar out of each other.”

  “Brice is right,” Monte said as he tapped a finger against the poster. “Yeah, Markham bears a mighty strong resemblance to the fella on this dodger, but they can’t be the same person. It’s just not possible.”

  Pearlie didn’t look convinced, but he said, “Well, how do you explain it, then?”

  Brice thought about it some more and then said, “Maybe Markham is the son of this Santa Rosa Kid. Do you know what the Kid’s real name was?”

  Monte and Pearlie looked at each other.

  Monte shook his head. “I don’t reckon I ever heard it.”

  “Me, neither,” said Pearlie. “We just called him the Kid. He wasn’t even really all that young, come to think of it. He must’ve been twenty-four, twenty-five, somewhere in there.”

  “All the more reason to think that he and Markham aren’t the same person, even though they look so much alike,” Brice said. “They could almost be twins, but the age difference rules that out, too. The only thing that makes sense is if they’re father and son.”

  Monte said, “I ought to be able to find out what the Kid’s real name was. I can send a wire to the warden at Yuma Prison, down in Arizona Territory. That’s where he was locked up and finally hanged.” The sheriff rubbed his chin and frowned in thought. “Although that might not actually prove anything. The Kid could have been using some alias when he was locked up.”

  “And we don’t have any proof that Steve Markham is the other fella’s real name, either,” Brice pointed out. “All we have to go on is what Markham told us. One or both of them could have lied.”

  Pearlie said, “Well, then, the only real evidence we have is that right there” his finger jabbed the picture on the wanted poster—“and it ain’t lyin’. No two fellas ever looked that much alike without bein’ related.”

  “And Denny’s gone to Montana with him,” Monte muttered.

  The same thought loomed enormously in Brice’s mind. He wasn’t the sort of man given to panic. If he had been, he never would have been able to become a deputy U.S. marshal. But the idea that Denny was off somewhere far away, possibly alone with the son of a brutal killer, made his insides clench in tight knots.

  “Cal’s along on that trip, too,” said Pearlie, “as well as Gene Cunningham and some of the other hands, and they’re all good fellas. They’ll look out for Denny, whether she wants ’em to or not.”

  “She won’t,” Brice said. “And she’s mighty stubborn about getting her way.”

  “Something else we need to consider,” Monte said. “Even if Markham is the Santa Rosa Kid’s son—”

  “He is,” Pearlie broke in. “Ain’t no doubt in my mind of that. That’s why I felt like I knew him all along.”

  “Even if he is,” Monte went on, “that doesn’t mean he’s the same sort of man his father was. A man can have an owlhoot for a pa and not be on the wrong side of the law himself.”

  Brice said, “That’s true, but what are the chances?”

  Monte shrugged. “That’s just it. We don’t know.”

  “We don’t know a damned thing.” Brice picked up the wanted poster and stared at it, seeing the features of Steve Markham in the lines printed on the page. He wanted to crumple the paper and throw it against the wall. “That’s the problem. We don’t know what Markham’s up to, if anything. But it’s too dangerous to let a man like that run free until we find out what he’s planning.”

  “How do you figure on doing that?” Pearlie asked.

  Brice shoved the fear aside in his mind. He needed to think quickly and clearly. A lot might be depending on it. “Those livestock cars with the horses in them have probably been changed over to a Northern Pacific train in Chicago by now and are heading west toward Montana,” he said, thinking aloud. “What’s the name of the town where they’re going?”

  “Stirrup,” Pearlie supplied. “It’s the closest stop to the Circle C Ranch, about eighty miles south of there.”

  “I don’t think Markham would try anything while they’re on the train,” Brice mused. “Too many people around. If he’s up to no good, he won’t strike until they’re driving that horse herd north.”

  “What could he do?” asked Monte. “Try to steal the horses?”

  “More likely he’d try to kidnap Denny. Get her off alone somewhere, grab her and tie her on her horse, and take off.”

  Pearlie snorted. “He’d have his hands full doin’ that, I’ll damn well betcha.”

  “Yes, but if he’s ruthless enough . . . and he takes her by surprise . . .” Brice’s mouth twisted bitterly. “She probably trusts him and would never expect anything like that.”

  “All right. Let’s just take it easy,” Monte said. “I’ll send a wire to the local lawman in Stirrup and ask him to take Markham into custody when the train gets there. He can hold him until we get this straightened out.”

  Brice started to nod, then stopped and shook his head. “If it turns out that Markham actually is innocent, and Denny finds out we had him arrested, she’ll be mad as she can be.”

  “Send the wire to Cal instead,” Pearlie suggested. “That boy’s plenty tough and levelheaded. If Markham’s up to no good, Cal will put a stop to whatever it is. And if there ain’t really anything to worry about, Cal will keep his mouth shut and Denny won’t have no reason to be aggravated at any of us.”

  “We’re all forgetting something very important,” Monte said. “Smoke. We need to tell him what’s going on. If he ever finds out we knew his little girl might be in trouble and we didn’t tell him about it . . . Well, let’s just say I don’t ever want to have Smoke Jensen that mad at me.”

  Pearlie shook his head. “I know what you’re sayin’, Monte, and I ain’t claimin’ you’re wrong, but the problem is that Miss Sally’s just now startin’ to get over whatever was ailin’ her. If she finds out Miss Denny’s in danger, it’s liable to make her get sick all over again. I don’t think we can risk that when we don’t know for sure that Markham’s up to no good.”

  Brice knew it in his gut, regardless of what either of the other men said, but how much were his instincts being influenced by jealousy and his dislike of Markham? Honestly, he couldn’t answer that question.

  “You don’t reckon Smoke could keep it from Sally until we find out something for sure?” Monte asked.

  “Smoke’s never been able to keep secrets from Miss Sally,” Pearlie replied. “She’d be able to tell that somethin’ was wrong, and she’d get it out of him, mark my words on that.” He sighed. “I don’t like it, not one little bit, but I think we got to handle this one on our own, boys. Send that wire so it’ll be waitin’ at Stirrup for Cal, Monte. That’s all we can do.”

  Brice was still holding the wanted poster with the Santa Rosa Kid’s likeness on it. He dropped it on the desk and said, “That’s not all. I’m going to Montana.”

  “Damn it, boy, they got too big a lead on you! You can’t catch up to ’em.”

  “I’ll be traveling faster on the train than they will once they start driving those horses north,” Brice argued. “And then when I get to Stirrup, I can pick up some extra saddle mounts and switch off between them, so I can move twice as fast as they will with the herd. If I push hard, I’ll have an outside chance of catching up to them before they reach the Circle C.”

  Monte’s face and voice were grim as he said, “Maybe that’s true, Brice, but if Markham’s planning some sort of deviltry, odds are he will have made his move before then.”

  “You’re right, Sheriff,” Brice admitted, his own voice showing the strain he was under. “But I have to try. If I didn’t, and if anything happened to Denny, I . . . I’d never be able to live with myself.”

  Monte looked at him for a long moment and then nodded. “I reckon I understand, son. But what if the chief marshal tries to get in touch with you and give you a new assignment, and you’re off in Montana chasing after Denny and Markham?”

  “Then it’ll probably mean I lose my badge, but I’ll just have to take that chance.”

  CHAPTER 41

  Montana

  Denny stood on the platform at the rear of the car, watching the rolling, grassy hills as they swept past. Folks called it Big Sky Country, and she could see why. The arching blue vault of the heavens seemed enormous.

  The slight rocking of the train as it traveled along the rails didn’t bother her. Not only had she ridden on many trains before, she had also made a number of voyages by ship, crossing between Europe and America, and had never had any trouble getting her sea legs. Compared to Louis, who spent most of his time on board hanging over the railing, the trips had been downright pleasant for her.

  She had her own car for that part of the journey, and that bothered her. When the train had reached Chicago, she’d found that her father had wired ahead and made arrangements for the private car. Smoke never flaunted his wealth, but he had a number of lucrative investments, including a considerable amount of stock in the railroad. The men who ran it were glad to do him a favor, and Denny hadn’t seen a gracious way of refusing, even though it didn’t seem fair.

  Cal and the other hands from the Sugarloaf weren’t traveling in luxury like that, but they were comfortable in a converted freight car with a dozen bunks and several tables in it. It was the next car back from Denny’s car, and most of them were in there, playing poker, mending harness, darning socks, and swapping lies. In other words, the same sort of things they would be doing if they were in the bunkhouse back on the ranch.

  Steve Markham emerged from that car onto its front platform, which was only a few steps from the rear platform of the private car where Denny stood. He rested his hands on the railing, grinned out at the passing landscape, and called across the gap to her, “Mighty pretty country, ain’t it?”

  “It is,” Denny agreed, “but no prettier than Colorado.”

  “Oh, I reckon it’s prettier right now.”

  “How do you figure that?” she asked.

  “You’re here.”

  Denny smiled and shook her head. She should have known he would say something like that, she told herself. He seemed to be a born flatterer. She told herself she didn’t like it, but she wasn’t so sure about that.

  Markham had kept his distance for the most part, and she was glad of that. It made things simpler, less complicated. They had worked together taking care of the horses at times, but someone else had always been around. Cal hadn’t had to go out of his way to chaperone them, which he’d said he wasn’t going to do anyway.

  They had also toiled side by side while they were moving the horses from one set of stock cars to another in Chicago. Markham had been all business, not even speaking to her unless it had to do with the job at hand.

  She wouldn’t have minded seeing some of the sights in Chicago if they hadn’t had to leave almost right away on the other train. She and Louis had been to the Windy City a number of times, but they were always just changing trains and passing through. She hoped her brother had enjoyed visiting the city with Melanie before they went on farther east.

  Without being invited, Markham stepped from one platform to the other, his long legs making it easy for him to cross the gap. Once he was on the rear platform of Denny’s car, he stood at the railing beside her. “We’ll be pullin’ into Stirrup soon, I reckon. That’s the name of the settlement where we get off the train, ain’t it?”

  “That’s right. Then it’ll take us three or four days to drive the horses the rest of the way to the Circle C.”

  “Three or four days of bein’ out in the open air, in pretty country like this, with a beautiful gal like you for company . . . I’m sure lookin’ forward to that.”

  Denny frowned slightly as she said, “Steve, you’ve been behaving so far—”

  “I’m still behavin’,” he protested. “I didn’t grab you and plant a big ol’ smooch on you, did I? And that’s what I wanted to do when I seen you standin’ there lookin’ like that, with your hair blowin’ in in the wind—”

  “Getting cinders in it, you mean?” she interrupted, laughing.

  “Well, that’s part of travelin’ by train, I reckon. I don’t mind sayin’, I’m happier on horseback.”

  “To tell the truth, so am I.”

  A companionable quiet settled over the platform, broken only by the clatter of the rails and the chuffing and rumbling of the locomotive up at the front of the train. Denny enjoyed just standing there with Markham at her side.

  “I can imagine what this country was like when herds of buffalo covered these hills and the only folks around were the Injuns,” he murmured after a while. “Lonely but beautiful.”

  “More than likely,”

  Denny agreed. The train swept into a long, gentle curve, and from where they stood, they could see a wide, shallow valley opening up before them. She spotted some roofs in the distance, as well as a church steeple, and pointed them out to Markham. “That’ll be Stirrup. We’ll be there in just a little while.”

  “Are you excited to go on a drive like this?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Honestly, I am. It’s like the buffalo you mentioned. Times are changing and the old ways are vanishing, and it’s nice to be able to experience them and bid them a proper farewell.”

  “Sounds like poetry. Did you learn how to talk like that in Europe?”

  “Not hardly.” She waved a hand at the landscape. “It’s this country that brings it out. This big, big country . . .”

  * * *

  A short time later, the train rolled into Stirrup and pulled onto a siding. The locomotive slowed to a stop when the stock cars were in position to be cut loose and unloaded.

  Denny had already gathered her gear. She didn’t have much. She slung her war bag over her shoulder and swung down from the platform to join the other hands heading back along the rails to the waiting cars.

  They unloaded their saddle mounts first and got them ready to ride. Then some of the men led the horses Bob Coburn was buying down the ramps and turned them over to mounted hands, Denny among them, who hazed them into what was normally a large cattle pen. It was too late in the day to start the drive to the Circle C, so the stock would remain there overnight and head north in the morning.

  A rawboned cowboy with a drooping salt-and-pepper mustache rode up to the pen while that was going on and announced, “I’m lookin’ for Calvin Woods.”

  Cal heard him, motioned Denny over, then reined his horse around. “I’m Woods. What can I do for you?”

  “Haskell Sherman,” the puncher introduced himself. He leaned over in the saddle to shake hands with Cal. “Call me Hack. I ride for the Circle C. The boss sent me in to wait for you fellas and ride along to the ranch with you. He figured you wouldn’t have no trouble findin’ the way, but he said I could be sort of a Justin Case.”

  “Glad to have you along, Hack.” Cal introduced her as well. “This is Miss Denise Jensen.”

  Sherman pinched the brim of his dusty old black hat. “Pleasure to meet you, miss. Hope you know I don’t mean no offense when I say it was a plumb disappointment to find out your pa couldn’t make the trip. I was lookin’ forward to shakin’ hands with the famous Smoke Jensen.”

  She pulled the leather glove off her right hand and stuck it out. “I hope you’re not too bothered by it, Hack. Call me Denny.”

  He grinned and shook with her. “No, I wouldn’t say I’m a bit bothered,” he drawled. “If you don’t think I’m bein’ too bold, you’re a whole heap easier on the eyes than this bunch of hairy-legged cowboys. And speakin’ of cowboys”—he turned back to Cal—“you know Mr. Coburn would’ve been happy to send a crew down here to pick up those hosses. You fellas didn’t have to make the trip all the way out to the ranch. The boss said it was Mr. Jensen’s idea, though, so he was willin’ to play along with it.”