Free Rage of the Mountain Man by William W. Johnstone

husband’s arm, which she noticed had developed a marked tremble. Her lips took on the shape of her disillusionment. She cut her eyes to Sally Jensen. “Do they mean it?”
    “Possibly,” Sally answered curtly. “All the more reason we delay them as long as possible. It wasn’t any outlaw started up the train. Smoke will be here soon,” she advised confidently.
    “It won’t do us any good,” Thomas blurted in an anguished wail. He broke free of his wife and all but trotted along the passageway toward the door. Sally started after him, then held back. Maybe she should shoot the little coward . . . One look at the stricken face of Priscilla Henning disabused her of that idea.
    “Come on, Priss. We have some planning to do, and some playacting.”
    In the parlor section of the private car, Sally explained what she intended while she hid her Colt Lightning between the cushions of a plush loveseat. Only seconds later, a jumble of voices overrode the frightened bleat of Thomas Henning. Five hard-faced, scowling outlaws advanced along the narrow corridor toward where the women waited. The one in the lead roughly shoved Thomas along ahead of himself.
    “We—ell, what do we have here?” the big, burly, barrelchested thug pushing Thomas drawled when they entered the parlor area and took in the two lovely women.
    “Who are you?” Sally Jensen demanded coldly.
    “More to the point, sister, who are you?” Buck Waldron asked through a leer.
    “Why, I’m . . . Sally, Miss Priscilla’s maid.”
    Astonishingly, Waldron touched fingertips to the brim of his hat in polite acknowledgment. “Please to make your acquaintance, Sally.” His eyes narrowed. “Who’s Miss Priscilla?”
    “She . . .” Sally began, to be cut off by Priscilla.
    “That’s all right, Sally. I can answer for myself. I am Priscilla Henning. That’s my husband you were shoving around, you lout.” For the first time since he had betrayed them by opening the door, Priscilla got a look at Thomas. His hair was mussed and his eyes were wild. A thin line of blood ran down from a split lip. “What have you done to him?” she demanded hotly.
    Waldron produced a wicked chuckle. “We didn’t like the way he took his sweet time opening the door. So Lovell here gave him a lesson in manners.”
    “You brute!” Priscilla screeched, and made to rake Waldron’s face with her long nails.
    “No, Miss Priscilla,” Sally cautioned firmly. “It would only get you hurt also.”
    “You’ve got some smarts, Miss Sally,” Waldron offered.
    While Priscilla Henning recovered her demeanor, Sally bored hot blue eyes into Waldron. “You still haven’t told us your names. With those masks on, we don’t know a thing about you.”
    Rucker and Dorne snickered. “That’s the idea, Sally-gal,” Rucker said, as though informing her of something she did not know.
    “Don’t see any harm in it, boys,” Waldron proclaimed. “M’name’s Buck Waldron. This is part of my gang. We rob trains for a living.”
    “How odd,” Priscilla gave him. “Why do you rob trains?”
    Buck Waldron shrugged. “Because they’re where the money is.”
    Wincing at his atrocious grammar, Priscilla attempted to ignore the lewd stares of the other four. Sally Jensen tried again to bait Buck Waldron.
    “I’m sure it takes men of abounding courage to menace two helpless young women.”
    Buck scratched behind one ear. “Sally, you don’t talk like a maid. You sound more like someone used to giving a maid orders.”
    Sally lowered her eyes and backed off. She had gone too far, she realized. “I suppose that after a number of years listening to my mistress’s orders, I’ve taken some of her ways of speaking.”
    “There’s somethin’ rotten about people who have servants,” Waldron declared in a rare philosophical moment. “Enough of this,” he dismissed their testy confrontation. “Tell us where the valuables are kept and we’ll help ourselves.”
    “There’s nothing,