Rough Justice by Lyle Brandt Page A

expecting any survivors.
    Ryder had heard of train robberies during the war, a favorite trick of Missouri guerrillas led by William Quantrill and Bloody Bill Anderson. It stood to reason that the practice would continue into peacetime, and the quickest way to rule out testimony from eyewitnesses was to eliminate them.
    Ryder wished he’d brought his Henry with him, but he hadn’t thought about it in his rush to keep the gunmen from annihilating unarmed passengers. There was no time to go back for it now. He’d have to make do with the weapons he was carrying—and the advantage of surprise.
    He left the solitary bandit with his horses, doubled back along the platform between cars, and checked the left side of the train again. One of the riflemen had disappeared, either inside the cab or in the mail car, which reduced the odds of Ryder being shot when he revealed himself. One man to face immediately, not as close as he’d have liked, but if he rushed the bandit . . .
    Ryder dropped into the open, wasn’t seen at first, his target either missing him or making the assumption that his friends would be the only people up and moving while the robbery was going on. He’d nearly reached the mail carwhen he raised the shotgun, sighted down its short barrels, and squeezed one of its double triggers.
    Ryder didn’t know what size of shot the cartridges contained, but he assumed that most would miss his target at the given range. Some found the mark, though, and the bandit staggered, dropped his rifle, clutching at his right arm where a splash of blood along his duster’s sleeve revealed a wound. He turned to face the stranger who had shot him, reaching for a pistol underneath his coat, but was hampered by his damaged arm.
    Ryder had reached the mail car now, was running past its open door, and saw movement inside. He fired the shotgun’s second barrel through the doorway, aiming high, hoping to miss any railroad employees still alive in there. With any luck, the twelve-gauge blast would buy him time to finish off the outlaw he could see, then he could think about the rest.
    Or else, die trying.
    The bandit with the useless arm was cursing, reaching for his holstered pistol with his left hand, having trouble with the hammer thong that held it fast. Instead of waiting for him, Ryder drew his Colt Army and fired one shot from twenty feet, putting the gunman down.
    He wasn’t dead when Ryder reached him, but the wet sound of a sucking chest wound said that he was on his way. Ryder relieved him of the pistol, tossing it aside, then snatched the dying bandit’s rifle—a Henry, like his own—and checked to verify it had a live round in the chamber as he turned back toward the train.
    Emerging from the driver’s cab, he saw the second rifleman he’d spotted earlier, a tall man with a bristling beard, descending with his own repeater pointed Ryder’s way. There was no time to place a shot precisely, so he triggeredthree in rapid fire, pumping the Henry’s lever action, hoping for a lucky hit to slow the bandit down.
    His first shot missed, struck sparks, and ricocheted into infinity. The second tore into his target’s hip, stunning the rifleman and throwing him off balance, while the third drilled through his shoulder, made him drop his Henry as he tumbled off the metal steps descending from the cab. The bandit landed on his face, the wind knocked out of him, and Ryder hurried over to him and slammed his rifle’s butt into the outlaw’s skull with every ounce of force that he could manage.
    Dead or just unconscious? Ryder frankly didn’t give a damn.
    He saw the engineer above him, peering down, and tossed the bandit’s rifle to him. “Check the other side,” he ordered. “There’s a lookout holding horses.”
    â€œYessir!”
    Ryder turned back toward the mail car, wishing that he’d taken time to count the waiting