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

tone. "You a railroad detective?” Travis demanded.
    "Nope. Only a passenger,” Smoke told him.
    "This ain’t yer money. Why you doin' the Santa Fe any favors?”
    "I got bored back in that private car. Thought I’d mix in and put some zest in my life.”
    "Who are you, anyway?” Travis queried.
    "Name’s Jensen. Smoke Jensen.”
    "Oh, sweet Jesus,” Travis moaned. “I don’t need this. I surely don’t need to face off with Smoke—by God—Jensen.”
    "You can always leave. Without the take from the safe, f course.”
    "Jensen, you still packin’ a badge?”
    ‘‘I am.”
    “Won’t do you any good here in Kansas,” Travis goaded, oping he was right.
    He was wrong. “Deputy United States Marshal,” Smoke informed him. “I reckon it works here as good as in Colorado.”
    “Aw, hell, Jensen. We’re good as goners as it is. Might as well come out.”
    “You do that. I’ll be waiting,” Smoke invited.
    Travis motioned to the two unwounded men with him that he wanted them ready. They nodded silently, unseen by Smoke Jensen. Then Travis rose from behind the mail sorting frame and rushed the door, sixgun blazing.
    Smoke Jensen shot him in the hip. Travis spun, stumbled, then swung back from his waist and fired at Smoke. A second round punched into the exposed belly of Travis. He doubled over as his underlings rushed past.
    From behind Smoke came the roar of Quincannon’s revolver. One of the attacking outlaws cried out and pitched through the opening. He landed on his head. Smoke could hear the dry stick crack of the bones in the wounded man’s neck. The other loomed over him and a bullet cut a hot wind past Smoke’s head a moment before he returned fire.
    An expression of sheer surprise lighted the face of the man Smoke shot. He remained upright, made a desperate effort to recock his Colt, and then keeled over to one side and out of sight in the express car.
    “I ain’t armed,” came a cry from the man Smoke had wounded earlier. “I’m comin’ out. I’ll crawl on my belly.”
    “Good enough,” Smoke advised him. “Make it slow.” He turned to Liam Quincannon. “We’ll secure this one and head for the train. You can be sure there’s a few of them looting the passengers.”
    “Right ye are, Smoke.” Quincannon swung around at the rumble of fast hooves, his expression washing to one of gloomy resignation. “B’God, they’re some of ’em comin' back.”
Six
    Six of the Waldron gang had recovered their horses and now rode at a gallop back to the train. Laying along the necks of their mounts, they fired shots at the strangers who stood outside the express car. They risked no harm to any of their own, for one of the men they shot at wore the uniform of a conductor for the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe railroad.
    A spurt of smoke came from the weapon in the conductor’s hand and one horse let out a wild whinny when the slug cut through the tip of its ear. The bullet did greater harm to the rider as it entered the top of his shoulder and splintered the collarbone. Pink froth formed on his lips as the damage it had done took effect.
    Before they had closed half the distance, he sagged and fell from his mount, one lung filled with blood. The other five reined up short when the other intruder opened up. Three rounds from Smoke Jensen emptied three saddles. A single bandit remained when Liam Quincannon took aim on the hapless man’s chest. Wisely he threw up his hands, sixgun held between thumb and forefinger.
    Behind him, one of the wounded came to his knees and threw a shot at the big hombre in the expensive suit coat. His slug snapped the hat from Smoke Jensen’s head. It didn’t effect his aim any, which his assailant found out a split second later as hot liquid fire exploded in his chest. The lights went out for him and he died without ever knowing who had shot him.
    “We had better find out where the rest are on the train,” Smoke prodded, as he reloaded his .45 Frontier.
    “Right ye