Free Winchester 1887 by William W. Johnstone Page A

newspaper fold, and far more detailed, was another article.
    That one, he read with interest.
    Fort Worth, Texas
    Twenty hours on a Fort Worth–Denver City train was about as much as Millard Mann could stand, and when he stepped out of the coach onto the crowded Fort Worth depot, his clothes reeked of cigar smoke and sweat. The air around the cow town didn’t make him feel any better, but he knew where to go.
    The first man he saw was heading across the street toward the nearest saloon, and he didn’t like it one whit when Millard Mann stopped him.
    â€œWho was the yard boss when the southbound came in the other night?”
    â€œHow in the—” The railroader must’ve seen something in Mann’s eyes that warned him. His tone changed quickly, and he took a couple steps back. “On the F.W. and D.C.?”
    Mann’s head nodded.
    The railroader wet his lips. “Flannery Finn. Be my guess.”
    â€œWhere do I’d find Mr. Finn?”
    The railroader shrugged. “If he ain’t in jail or Boot Hill, try the café yonder.” He pointed.
    â€œThanks.” Carrying his grip and Winchester, Millard weaved through the porters, passengers, and greeters, stepped down the steps, and waited for an omnibus to pass before crossing the busy street toward the Iron Rail Café.
    The place was packed, and the smell of greasy food and hot coffee reminded him of the last time he had eaten. But food could wait. He picked out Flannery Finn instantly, and moved quickly, turning sideways to avoid a petite blonde carrying plates of food, and squeezed between two seats at the counter. “Finn.”
    He was a big, burly Irishman with red hair, a full beard, and a face pockmarked with scars. The man crushed out his cigarette in the runny yokes of what remained of his eggs, and turned. “Who wants to know?”
    â€œMann. Boss a crew in the Panhandle.”
    â€œI boss the yard at Fort Worth. And I’m eatin’ me breakfast.”
    â€œYou’ve finished eating,” Mann pointed out. The grip fell to the floor, and as Finn began to rise, the barrel of the Winchester found itself between two buttons on the center of the big brawler’s chest.
    The Irishman sank into the stool. A few diners nearby decided their stomachs were full, and left in a hurry.
    Millard smiled. “My treat, by the way.” Holding the rifle with one hand, the stock braced against his hip, he fished a dime from his vest pocket and dropped it on the plate near the cigarette and leftover crumbs. He had fetched two coins from that pocket. The forefinger and thumb of his left hand held a Morgan dollar. “Information?”
    Flannery Finn smiled. “Now what can I bloody well do for a kindly gentlemen like yeself?” His massive left hand came up, palm open, underneath the coin.
    â€œAny riders on last night’s southbound F.W. and D.C.?”
    Finn understood the meaning was vagabond freeloaders. “Aye. There was one.”
    Millard breathed a little easier, but did not lower the rifle. “Where might I find him?” His finger tightened on the trigger.
    The big man’s laugh boomed across the café. “I left the cur dog with Doc Gertrude. Across from the Donovan Brothers mercantile on Weatherford.”
    Millard felt the blood rushing to his head, and he had to fight for control. Finn’s eyes turned troubled, and the grin vanished.
    Millard Mann spoke, though his words were quiet. “You . . . beat . . . up . . . a . . . teenaged . . . boy?”
    Just about everyone in the café stopped eating. Most of them, including Flannery Finn, held their breath.
    â€œAre ye off yer bloody rocker?” Finn pushed up his Irish cap. “A boy? ’Twas a man full grown. A brute named Clanton that I’ve warned ten thousand times not to let me catch him ridin’ on our line’s dime ag’in. He deserved ever’ busted bone I give him, he done.