“Thirty dollars? Do you expect me to believe that all you have is thirty dollars?”
“That
“You’re lyin’!” Santelli pointed his pistol at Mrs. Rafferty. “You better come up with more money fast, or I’ll shoot the woman.”
“Please, I don’t have any more money!” Rafferty shouted desperately.
“I warned you.” Santelli grabbed Mrs. Rafferty, pulled the hammer back on his pistol, and held it to her head.
With a shout of anger, Rafferty climbed over the counter toward him.
Santelli shot him, then turned his pistol back toward Mrs. Rafferty and shot her. Quickly, he went behind the counter and looked through the cash box, but found no more money. With a shout of rage, he picked up the cash box and threw it into a glass display case, smashing the case into pieces.
That done, and with no more money than the thirty dollars Rafferty had given him in the first place, Santelli left the store, mounted his horse, and rode away.
Sixty-seven-year-old Burt Rowe witnessed the entire thing from the back of the store. Santelli hadn’t seen him when he looked around. But Rowe recognized the gunman, Santelli, having seen him before.
As soon as he was certain Santelli was gone, Rowe stepped out in front of the store and began shouting at the top of his lungs. “Help! Help! Murder! The Raffertys have been robbed and murdered!”
Within moments the store was filled with townspeople, including the sheriff and deputy sheriff.
“You are sure it was Santelli?” the sheriff asked Rowe.
“I’m absolutely positive,” Rowe said. “I’ve seen him before.”
“When he left here, which way did he go?”
“I seen him heading south, but that don’t mean he kept going that way. By the way, he only got thirty dollars.”
“Thirty dollars?” the sheriff asked incredulously. “You mean he murdered Mr. and Mrs. Rafferty for no more than thirty dollars?”
“Yes, sir,” Rowe said. “I know that’s all he got, ’cause I heard ’em talkin’ about it.”
“What are you going to do about it, Sheriff?” one of the townspeople asked. “Mr. and Mrs. Rafferty were two of the finest people in the world. We can’t let that animal get away with this.”
“He won’t get away,” the sheriff promised. “I’ll get the word out to other sheriffs and city marshals. We’ll get him, and when we do, we’ll bring him right back here to hang. I promise you that.”
One week later Michael Santelli rode into the town of Kiowa, Colorado, sizing it up as he went along the main street. The little town was made up of whipsawed lumber shacks with unpainted, splitting wood turning gray in the sun. A sign over the door of one rather substantial-looking brick building identified it as the BANK OF KIOWA. Still angered by the slim pickings from Rafferty’s Grocery, Santelli figured the bank might offer some promise for a bigger payoff.
So far, he had over five thousand dollars he’d stolen from a bank in Greeley and hidden in the bottom of an old abandoned well near Gunnison. His plan was to put together enough money to buy a saloon in Texas. The idea of owning a saloon appealed to him—unlimited access to whiskey and beer. And the whores working for him would be available to him anytime he wanted them. But he figured he would need at least ten thousand dollars . . . to set himself up for the rest of his life.
Santelli was a wanted man. There was so much money on his head every bounty hunter in the state was looking for him. The sooner he was able to put together enough money to get out of Colorado, the better it would be. Once he got to Texas, he would be a model citizen. He smiled. He might even run for mayor.
Santelli rode up to the hitching rail in front of the Silver Nugget Saloon, dismounted, and patted his tan duster a few times, sending up puffs of gray-white dust before he walked inside. The saloon was busy, but he found a quiet place by the end of the bar. When the bartender moved over to him, Santelli ordered a beer, then stood there nursing it as he began to formulate a plan for robbing the bank.
Matt Jensen stood at the opposite end of the bar with both hands wrapped around a mug of beer. Something seemed familiar about the man who had just come in, but he couldn’t place him. Studying the man’s reflection in the mirror behind the bar, he took in his average height and weight and unkempt black hair. He had dark, obsidian eyes and a purple scar starting just below his left eye and disappearing in a scraggly beard.
The scar helped Matt make the identification. He had seen drawings and read descriptions of the outlaw Michael Santelli and just that morning had heard that Santelli had killed a grocer and his wife for no more reason than that they didn’t have as much money in their cash box as he thought they should have.
Matt was neither a lawman nor a bounty hunter, but he didn’t plan to let Santelli walk away. Before he could make any move, Deputy Sheriff Ben Mason came into the saloon, and Matt decided to wait and see how things played out.
He had met the deputy earlier, when he first rode into town, learning about Santelli’s latest atrocity at the same time. Matt and Deputy Mason were about the same age, and Matt respected the lawman’s dedication to duty.
When Mason saw Santelli standing at the bar, he stopped and stared for a long moment until he was sure it was the wanted outlaw.
“Santelli,” Mason called out. “Michael Santelli.”
Matt saw the way Santelli reacted, stiffening at the bar, but not turning around. The reaction gave him away, and Matt knew his first impulse had been right. The man was Santelli.
“You are Santelli, aren’t you? Michael Santelli?” Mason asked. The lawman’s voice was loud and authoritative.
Everyone in the saloon recognized the challenge implied in its timbre. All conversations ceased, and drinkers at the bar backed away so there was nothing but clear space between the lawman and Santelli. Even the bartender left his position behind the bar.
Matt stood in place at the opposite end of the bar, watching Santelli with intense interest as the drama began to unfold.
Santelli looked up, studying the lawman’s reflection in the mirror, but he didn’t turn around. “Lawman, I’m afraid you’ve got me mixed up with somebody else.”
“No, I don’t think so,” Mason said confidently. “I know who you are. You are a bank robber and a murderer, and you are under arrest.”
Not until that moment did Santelli turn to face the lawman, and he did so with a slow and assured nonchalance. “It looks like I can’t fool you, can I?” he said as a frightening smile curled across his lips. “What are you, anyway? A city marshal? A sheriff?”
“I’m a deputy sheriff. Mason is the name.”
“Well, now, Deputy Mason, you think you’ve got yourself a big prize, don’t you? You’re right. I am Michael Santelli, but there’s not a thing you are going to be able to do about it. Because the truth is, mister, you have just bitten off more than you can chew. If you make a move toward your gun, I’ll kill you right where you stand.”
“And then I’ll kill you.” Matt added his voice to the conversation for the first time.
Santelli was startled to hear a new challenge from his left, and he turned his head quickly to see Matt standing away from the bar, facing him. Like Mason and Santelli, Matt had not drawn his pistol.
“Who asked you to butt into this?” Santelli asked.
“Nobody asked me. But I met Deputy Mason earlier today, and I found him to be a fine, upstanding gentleman. I don’t plan to stand here and watch you shoot him.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jensen,” Mason said. “I appreciate your help.”
Santelli’s face, which had been coldly impassive, suddenly grew animated. His skin whitened and a line of perspiration beaded on his upper lip. “Jensen?” he said nervously. “Is that your name?”
“Matt Jensen, yes.”
“You fellas seem to have me at a disadvantage, two of you to my one.”
