Rough Justice by Lyle Brandt

ear to ear and said, “Sounds like the party’s starting early.”
    Ryder shot him in the face, not taking time to aim as he would do in practice, on a firing range, but trusting muscle memory to place the .44 slug where he wanted it. Between the eyes was good, but when the dark hole suddenly appeared it was off-center, just above the target’s right eyebrow. He was already toppling over backward when a spout of blood erupted from the wound and drew a crimson track across his startled face.
    Now there was chaos in the car, and Ryder had to raise his voice, moving to stand over the dead man and relieve him of his pistol. “Everyone be quiet!” he commanded, glaring at the frightened faces that surrounded him. “Stay in your seats and duck down if you see somebody coming. I’ll be back to tell you when it’s clear to move around.”
    Adding
I hope,
to keep from tempting fate.
    He moved along the aisle, a six-gun in each hand, and hesitated at the car’s exit. There was a little window in the door that let him see into the next car, separated by the coupling, each car with a small platform for boarding, metal steps descending on both sides. Inside the middle car, he saw a shooter standing in the aisle, holding a scattergun and staring back at Ryder, wondering what had become of his associate.
    He didn’t think about it long before he raised the double-barreled weapon and let go. Ryder just had time to duck before the buckshot smashed through first one window, then the other, raining shattered glass on top of him, while women screamed and men cursed in the background.
    Call it six or seven seconds to reload the shotgun, minimum, unless the shooter switched off to a pistol. Ryder usedthe time he had, shoved through the door, and leaped across the narrow gap between the cars, bursting through the second door to face his enemy.
    The man was fumbling with a brass cartridge when he looked up and saw death coming for him. He dropped the shotgun then, too late, and started reaching for a holster on his right hip, tied down low for speed.
    Too late.
    Raising the captured pistol in his left hand, Ryder shot him in the chest and watched him fall.
    *   *   *
    H e stepped in blood, moving to fetch the fallen bandit’s shotgun and the cartridges he’d dropped as he was dying. Ryder glanced around the car, saw several of the passengers regarding him with fearful eyes as he reloaded, while the others made a point of staring out their windows, carefully avoiding Ryder’s gaze.
    â€œWho’s armed?” he asked, of no one in particular.
    Reluctantly, not knowing what they should expect, two of the men put up their hands.
    â€œAll right,” he said. “Each of you take one door. No one gets in the car unless I’m with them to approve it.”
    He got nods from both men as they rose and drew their pistols, one moving to watch the door Ryder had entered through, the other trailing him to reach the north end of the second car, where Ryder stopped, repeating his surveillance of the last car through the doubled door windows.
    This time, he didn’t see a shooter in the next car, only passengers milling around and peering through their windows, trying to determine what was happening. Ryder left them to it, easing through the door, onto the narrow platform, moving toward its left side, where he craned to lookaround the car, up toward the locomotive and the water tower standing tall beside it.
    Two men were standing on the ground, both aiming rifles up toward the engineer’s cab. Behind the locomotive, Ryder saw the broad sliding door to the mail car was open. He ducked back, crossed the narrow platform, and leaned out to check the train’s right-hand side. One bandit there, sitting astride a roan, holding the reins to six or seven other horses.
    He had begun to wonder how they’d missed the gunfire, but he understood it now.
    They weren’t