Read Online Winchester 1886 by William W. Johnstone - Free Book Online

had managed to pull himself up, leaning back against the sacks packed three feet high off the floor, blinking the blood out of his eyes, tasting more blood on his tongue and lips. His vision had cleared somewhat, enough that he could see Waco standing over him, could see the barrel aimed at his chest.
    â€œYou heard that, didn’t you?” Waco asked.
    â€œI heard,” Borden answered.
    â€œI don’t tolerate liars. So who do I kill? You? Or do I dispatch Ted Dunegan to kill one of the Katy’s passengers?”
    Borden turned his head and spit out blood. “This is the Number Four, but there’s no payroll.”
    â€œMy man in Texas . . . he knows things.”
    Borden’s head bobbed. Even that hurt. He cringed, tried to shake off the pain, and smiled. “He set you up, Danny. The payroll. We put it on the Flyer.”
    â€œThe Flyer!” Dunegan cried out, followed by some curses, and a fist slamming against the express car’s wall. “Waco . . . you told me to let that train go by.”
    Borden laughed—until Waco kicked him in the chest, knocking him to his side.
    Waco walked back and forth, knocking over packages, kicking boxes, cursing, screaming, shouting out that he’d ride to Texas and personally kill Mr. Percy Frick.
    Borden tried to catch his breath. He pulled himself back to a seated position, smiling with satisfaction at the irate, almost insane, outlaw. He saw this young kid—must have been Ted Dunegan—climb into the car, and begin opening letters, packages. To Borden’s right, the big Indian Waco had called Tonk was doing the same.
    Moments later, Waco had calmed down. “What are you doin’?”
    â€œSeein’ if there’s anything valuable in this mail,” said the young outlaw, a blond-headed, pockmarked kid with peach fuzz for a mustache. He found a check, folded it, and stuck it inside his vest pocket.
    â€œHow much did we get off the passengers and crew?” Waco asked.
    Peach Fuzz, Mr. Ted Dunegan of Bluejacket, shrugged. “Not forty thousand dollars. Not by a long shot.”
    Waco cursed again. “Percy Frick’s a dead man.” He knelt to pick up the purse of coins he had tossed out of the safe. He pulled on the string, tugged it open, and cursed again. “Nickels.” He glowered at Borden. “Who puts nickels in a safe?”
    Borden didn’t answer. He saw the Greener leaning against the handle of a McCormick’s reaper in the back of the coach, and saw the legs of the big Indian. Heard him opening a box, and Borden’s heart sank.
    â€œWell, here’s somethin’.”
    â€œMoney?” Waco looked up.
    â€œBetter.”
    Borden heard the metallic sound of a rifle being cocked.
    â€œThat’s a sweet action.” The trigger pulled, snapping loudly.
    Borden saw the Winchester ’86 sailing across the room into Danny Waco’s hands.
    â€œA rifle?” Dunegan spit onto the floor. “It ain’t worth forty thousand dollars, is it?”
    â€œShut up.” Waco had left his Winchester lying on the floor. He studied the rifle that had once belonged to Nels Who Smells, but was supposed to be going to James Mann in McAdam, Texas. Cocked it again, pulled the trigger, then flipped the gun around, staring down the barrel. “I’ve seen caves smaller than this.” He grinned.
    â€œYeah,” the Indian said. “Here.”
    Waco shifted the big rifle, sticking it underneath his left armpit, and held up his hands like some ballist awaiting the throw of a baseball. Instead, he caught the box of shells the Indian had tossed, green paper with the image of a bullet in the center.
    â€œFor Winchester Repeating Rifle, Model 1886,” Waco read and laughed. “Fifty caliber, hundred grains of powder, and a four-hundred-fifty grain chunk of lead for a bullet.”
    â€œThat would stop a train,” the Indian said.
    â€œNo.”