A Lone Star Christmas by William W. Johnstone Read Free Book Online

Falcon could hear the thump of the dropping trap door. Deering’s laughter was cut off in mid-cackle.
    Elko, Nevada, May 2
    Lucas Shelton was not a train robber in the normal sense. That is because he didn’t mask himself and stop a train to rob the passengers, or to clean out the safe in the express car. Shelton had been a guard with the Railroad Protective Association, hired by the railroad to guard a money shipment. He had murdered the messenger who trusted him, and stolen the very money shipment he was supposed to protect. The shipment was just over one hundred thousand dollars in cash.
    Matt was in for ten percent of the money if he could locate Shelton and bring him in. It took him only two weeks before he found Shelton at a saloon in Elko, Nevada.
    â€œMr. Shelton, I’ve come to take you back,” Matt said.
    â€œLike hell you will!”
    â€œLook out! Shelton’s pulled a gun!” one of the men shouted.
    Matt had been expecting this, and when he saw the gun in Shelton’s hand he pulled his own, drawing and firing in the same, fluid motion, doing it so quickly that the noise of his shot covered Shelton’s so that they sounded as one, even though Shelton had fired a split-second sooner. Shelton’s bullet whizzed by harmlessly, burying itself in the wall behind Matt. Matt’s bullet caught Shelton right between the eyes, and the one-time President of the Railroad Protective Associates fell back against the bar, then slid down to the floor. Both eyes were open but there was a third opening, a small black hole, right at the bridge of his nose. Actually, only a small amount of blood trickled from the hole, though the bar behind him was already stained red with the blood that had gushed out from the exit wound. The others in the saloon looked at Shelton’s body in shock. It had all happened so fast that, for a moment, they could almost believe that it hadn’t happened at all. But the drifting cloud of acrid smoke said otherwise.
    â€œIs he dead?” someone asked.
    â€œAs a doornail,” another answered.
    Within moments after the shooting, a couple of deputy city marshals came running in through the front door, guns drawn. Matt’s letter of authorization from the Central Pacific Railroad, endorsed by Governor Stevenson, plus the eyewitness accounts from others in the saloon, were all Matt needed to satisfy the deputies.
    Two days later, with the money recovered, Matt Jensen was ten thousand dollars richer and moved on.
    Fort Worth, May 3
    It was a Saturday, and cowboys from several of the area ranches, including Live Oaks, had come into town to enjoy a day off. Clay Ramsey was playing a game of pool in the Trinity Saloon and Billiards Parlor when Tom Whitman came in. Tom had only been at the ranch for just under two months, but in that time he had impressed Clay with his intelligence, his eagerness to learn what he needed to know about ranching, and his willingness to take on any job without complaint. Seeing the strapping young man glance around the saloon as if looking for someone, Clay held up his hand.
    â€œHere, Tom,” he called.
    Nodding, Tom came toward him.
    â€œWant to play a game?” Clay asked. “I can re-rack them.”
    â€œBetter not,” Tom said. “And you might want to finish this game rather quickly.”
    â€œWhy? What’s up?”
    â€œDalton is in jail,” Tom said.
    â€œDamn.” Clay re-racked the balls and put the cue away. “Please tell me that it isn’t something serious.”
    â€œI don’t know exactly what he did, but I don’t think it is anything really serious,” Tom said. “And he is in the city jail, not the county jail.”
    â€œThat’s a good thing,” Clay said. “Marshal Courtright is a lot easier to deal with than Sheriff Cobb. I’ll see what I can do. Have you seen Dalton’s horse anywhere?” Clay asked.
    â€œYes, it’s down at