Free Rage of the Mountain Man by William W. Johnstone Page B

righted himself and got his boots under him. Stealthily he hastened to the place of his next planned appearance.

    Rucker stepped over the prostrate form of Thomas Henning and advanced on Sally. Banning joined him and had snatched her left forearm when a shadow filled the largely glassed portion of the door to the observation platform. He looked up with a startled expression when it slammed open.
    “Let go!” Smoke Jensen commanded with the voice of doom.
    In the same second, Sally Jensen yanked her hand from the space between the cushion and the arm of the loveseat. She took quick aim with the .38 Colt Lightning and squeezed the double, action trigger. The Long Colt cartridge, far superior to the .38 Smith and Wesson, held plenty of punch for the 142-grain, round-nosed slug that splatted into Rucker’s chest and punched through his heart.
    At the sound of the shot, Buck Waldron spun around in time to see his most trusted gunhawk bend forward as though making a courtly bow to the attractive woman beyond him. He saw the powder smoke rising between the two a moment before Banning reacted.
    Smoke Jensen had not anticipated the shot from Sally at that particular point, though he did accurately gauge who would be first to recover. His own .45 Colt sounded loudly in the confined space of the parlor. Banning jolted from the impact, but continued to raise his sixgun. He got off a round that burned a painful swath along the outside point of Smoke’s shoulder.
    He still tried to cock his weapon when Smoke Jensen sent him off to join Rucker with a swift, sure safety shot right between the eyes. Recocking, he pivoted and put a round through the elbow of a slow-moving Dorne, who had turned from his lewd fondling of Priscilla Henning.
    Dorne howled and his shotgun went flying. Buck Waldron blinked at the incredible speed and accuracy and belatedly made his move.
    His hand halted its downward thrust when Sally Jensen swung the muzzle of her deadly Lightning to cover him. “Uh-uh,” she grunted tersely.
    Smoke Jensen had advanced two steps into the car by then and put another round into Dorne’s belly as the robber went for a holdout gun in the small of his back. Reflex powered Dorne’s legs as he did a backward leap that cleared the chair on which Priscilla sat. She let out a squeal of alarm.
    With the odds rapidly diminishing, Smoke centered his muzzle on Miller, the other outlaw who sought to have his way with the bride. Priscilla’s eyes widened as she took in the deadly steel glint in Smoke’s eyes. She raised a hand as though to intercede for her attacker. At the same moment, Miller made a desperate try for his Colt.
    Hot lead spat from the muzzle of Smoke’s .45. It pinwheeled the tough, rangey bandit, who absorbed the impact with a grunt and a blink. He hauled his iron clear of leather and fired in haste. His slug dug a hole in the flooring, two inches from Thomas Henning’s head.
    Quickly Miller adjusted his aim as Smoke Jensen shot him again. For some reason it grew unusually dark for mid-morning. Miller felt overwhelmingly tired; he wanted to find a place for a nice snooze. To those watching, he sagged, reeled three steps, and dropped to his knees. Smoke turned his attention back to Buck Waldron.
    In a crazed moment of desperation, Waldron tried his luck anyway. He cleared leather and swung his upper body at the hips to line up on Smoke Jensen, who had cast a quick glance over one shoulder at the vanquished Miller. The hammer came back noisily and Buck Waldron produced a nasty leer of triumph.
Seven
    Sally’s second shot took Waldron in the upper flare of his hip bone. He howled in agony and completed his draw. Sally shot again and missed. Then Smoke’s Peacemaker boomed a third time.
    Buck Waldron’s .45 made a dull thud when it hit the Oriental carpeting of the parlor section. Eyes wide; the pupils already rolling upward, he swayed on his feet, an expression of curious disbelief on his face as he idly reached up to