Read Online Rage of the Mountain Man by William W. Johnstone - Free Book Online

inside the express car.

    Nothing had gone right on this job from the beginning. Buck Waldron thought, as he led the way out of the last chair car and into the vestibule between it and the first Pullman. So far they had taken only a hundred or so in cash and some trinkets. If Travis didn’t hit a bonanza in the express car, they might as well have stayed in Hays and gotten drunk.
    “Okay, Dorne, you go through there. Watch for some fool playin’ hero,” Buck ordered.
    Dorne entered the sleeping car ahead of his boss, a fat Smith American .44 in his left hand. A woman shrieked a moment before the quartet of bandits heard the fusillade from the express car far forward. Buck Waldron spat a curse and shook his head.
    “We’ll have to take care of that later. First we pluck these fine folks of what they have.” To a portly gentleman whose face had turned an apoplectic red, “Dump it in the bag. Watch, rings, then your pocketbook. We even accept small change, so be generous.”
    “I'll see you hang first,” the outraged citizen grunted.
    He complied, nevertheless, when Buck Waldron shoved the muzzle of his .45 Colt into the expanse of belly, an inch above the thick gold chain that retained his watch. Waldron glowered menace at him.
    “Watch first, remember?”
    Swiftly the gang stripped the passengers of their valuables. When they reached the back of the car, Dorne opened the door and stepped onto the vestibule. A frightened face jerked back from the window in the portal to the second Pullman. At Dorne’s side, Rucker laughed sneeringly.
    “Like a bunch of chickens with a fox in the roost,” Rucker observed. “Want to bet they’re already diggin’ out their cash an’ goodies?”
    “Naw,” Dorne replied scornfully. “They can’t believe this is happening. Not to them; at least.”
    Whoever had been watching for them had at least presence of mind enough to throw the bolt. Two .44 slugs from Dorne’s Smith and Wesson weakened the metal sheath around the deadbolt enough to allow them to shoulder open the door. Two women screeched in this car, and three small children huddled together, large tears running silently down their cheeks.
    When Dorne reached out and chucked a boy of seven or eight under the chin, the lad began to whimper. “Here, now,” Dorne said gruffly, unsettled by the situation. “Big boys like you don’t cry, let alone make noises like a baby. Lady,” he added to the horrified woman who comforted the youngster, both arms draped over his shoulders, hugging him close, “don’t be doin’ that, it’ll make a sissy out of him.”
    “How dare you!” she exploded in outrage.
    Dorne winked at her. “Because I’m the one with the gun.”
    “Empty out,” Buck Waldron commanded. “We accept everything. Watches, then rings and ladies’ brooches, then you gentlemen contribute your pocketbooks. Don’t stint on the change in your coin purses, either.”
    Slowly the outlaws worked their way down the aisle, totally unaware of what awaited them in the private car behind this one.

    Quickly as it had begun, the rattle of gunfire from the express car ended. Powder smoke streamed out over the upper lip of the shattered door and formed a gray billow. Smoke Jensen approached cautiously. Behind him, Liam Quincannon faced outward, watchful for the return of any of the robbers out chasing their horses.
    Smoke gave him a swift glance, then edged up to one side of the splintered door, which hung downward to the ballast. With colt leading the way. Smoke poked his head around he side. At once the sharp report of a Peacemaker bounced iff the inner walls. Poor shot. Smoke considered, as the slug vent wild a foot above his head. Smoke answered in kind.
    "My God, I’m hit, Travis,” a voice rewarded Smoke’s accuracy.
    "Shut up and keep down,” Travis growled back.
    "How many of ’em is out there?” another bandit asked. "I don’t know,” Travis said shortly.
    "Enough,” Smoke Jensen provided in a jaunty