Free The Fiery Ring by Gilbert Morris Page A

I’ll stay out.”
    Earl laughed harshly. “Listen to this, Roy. He thinks he’s gonna stop us. You couldn’t stop anybody, mister.”
    And then Joy saw the smaller man strike a futile blow to Earl’s chest. He ignored it except to laugh. “Why, you couldn’t hurt a fly.” Then his own arm swung, and his huge fist caught Joy’s defender high on the head. She saw him careening backward to fall full length, and then Earl advanced toward him. Before her terrified eyes, Joy saw him viciously kick the pronefigure twice, then a third time. She heard his muffled cries of pain and heard Roy yelling, “Don’t kill him, Earl.”
    “I ain’t gonna kill him, but I’m gonna bust every rib he’s got, and then I’ll bust his face.”
    Joy suddenly remembered the gun. Moving slowly, she reached into her coat pocket and brought out the thirty-eight. Aiming over Earl’s head, she pulled the trigger. The sound of the shot brought a startled response from Earl. “Hey!” he yelled and whirled around. He found himself facing the muzzle of the revolver and a pair of steady eyes behind it, feminine eyes but full of determination.
    “Put that gun down, girl!”
    “You two get out now!” Joy demanded, waving the gun at Earl.
    Roy was startled. “We can’t jump from this train. We’d break our necks.”
    “It’s not moving that fast. Jump, both of you, or I’ll shoot you.”
    “She’s bluffin’, Roy,” Earl said. He took a step forward, and then another shot rang out. A blow struck Earl’s left forearm and turned him around. He grabbed his arm and looked down wild-eyed to see the blood seeping between his fingers. “Hey, you shot me!”
    “The next one’s right between your eyes. I’ll count to three, and on three you’re a dead man. One—two—”
    Earl stared at her wildly and then gave a startled cry. Holding his arm, he ran to the door, threw it open, and jumped from the car.
    “Now you!” Joy said.
    Roy whimpered but said nothing. He moved to the door, took a deep breath, and then casting a malevolent look at Joy, jumped with a wild yell.
    “I hope you both break your necks!” Joy shouted after them. She put the gun down and found she was trembling all over. She moved across the car and knelt beside the still form of the man who had come to her defense. Blood wasrunning down his face, and he was moaning. “Are you all right?” she said.
    “My side . . .”
    There in the boxcar Joy Winslow did not know what to do. This man had risked his life for her, taking away the attention of the two attackers. She had a horrifying image of what would have happened if he had not tried to help. Sitting down beside him, she pulled out a handkerchief and held it over his bleeding face to staunch the flow of blood. “We’ll get some help at the next stop,” she promised.
    ****
    As soon as the train pulled to a halt somewhere in central Nebraska, Joy jumped to the ground. She saw a brakeman hanging on to the side of the car, and she cried out, “Help! I need help!” She ran forward, and the brakeman turned warily to face her. “You been on this train?” he demanded.
    “There’s a man in that car. He’s hurt real bad.”
    The brakeman was a tall man with a deep chest and a pair of wide-spaced gray eyes. “What happened to him?”
    “Two men beat him up. He’s hurt bad.”
    “I’ll take a look.”
    Joy felt a wave of gratitude. “He’s down here,” she said. She led the brakeman to the car, and the two entered. Leaning over, the man studied Chase’s bloody face. “Can you hear me?”
    “Yes.” The voice was barely audible.
    “Where are you hurt?”
    “In my . . . side.”
    “They kicked him. I think his ribs are broken.”
    “Well, he can’t stay on the train. I’ll go get some help.” Joy knelt down, saying, “It’s all right, mister. You’re going to be fine.”
    “What’s your name?” Chase whispered.
    “Joy.”
    The man didn’t respond; he simply lay there. His breathing was shallow,