Read Last Train to Bannock [Clayburn 02] for Free Online Page A

swept out the upstairs rooms."
        Clayburn drew ten dollars from his pocket and put it on the bar in front of Ranse Blue. The old buffalo hunter studied the money briefly, glanced at his boss, then turned and yelled to the barkeep, "Whiskey, Mac! Half-bottle."
        "Hold on," the saloon owner snapped. "You know you ain't allowed to do any drinking till after you finished work."
        Ranse Blue grinned at him evilly. "I am finished. I just quit. Got me another job."
        Clayburn walked away, left the saloon, and went hunting for more likely candidates.
        He was passing a wide, deep-shadowed alley when a drunk came lurching up the boardwalk toward him. The drunk, wearing what looked like some prospector's cast-offs, was a man of medium height with short legs, a long torso and heavy, sloping shoulders. There was a long white scar between his upper lip and the base of his nose, like a mustache. He staggered head-down at Clayburn, who side-stepped closer to the mouth of the alley to avoid him.
        The scar-faced drunk appeared to trip over his own feet. He sagged into a low crouch as though to keep from falling on his face. Then, abruptly, he ceased to be a drunk. He swiveled around and launched himself straight at Clayburn. The top of his head rammed into Clayburn's middle and knocked him backward into the wide alley.
        Clayburn caught his balance quickly, his feet spreading slightly apart and his hands closing into fists. The scar-faced man straightened from his crouch and came after him. A thick, heavy arm snaked around Clayburn's neck from behind and dragged him deeper into the shadowed alley. A fist came from somewhere to his left and bounced off the side of his head. The scar-faced man surged in with both fists coming up for a clubbing blow at Clayburn's face.
        Clayburn's right leg came up hard, the heel of his boot thudding into the scar-faced man's chest and slamming him against the wall. He brought his foot back down and stamped on the foot of the man holding him from behind. At the same time he twisted his body, jammed his elbow back into the man's gut, grabbed one of his fingers and tried to break it. There was a gasp of pain, the thick finger was wrenched from his grip, and Clayburn was freed. He twisted ail the way around, striking out blindly. His fist sank deep into thick muscles and the man stumbled backward. Someone rammed all his weight low against the backs of Clayburn's legs. He hit the dirt face down, rolled fast. He was coming up on one knee when he saw who the other two men were by the faint light filtering down into the alley from a second-story window. They were Adler's bodyguards-the hulking bruiser and the lean, surly kid.
        It was then that he realized they weren't just a bunch trying to knock him out and rob him. He yelled as loud as he could as he came up on his feet. All three of them landed on him, their weight driving him back down, a hand clamping over his mouth to cut the yell short. Clayburn sank his teeth into flesh. There was a cry and the hand whipped away. Clayburn started another shout. A fist smashed into his mouth. Blood flowed back into his throat. He struggled against the weight of their bodies, his knee jamming into someone's hip, his left hand closing on a throat. Fists pounded his body and face. Hands clutched at his arms, trying to hold them.
        He managed to throw one man off, wrenched out of the grasp of another, fought his way up onto his knees. A boot kicked him in the temple. He sprawled on his back, consciousness ebbing for moment. They got his arms in that moment, one man on either side of him. pinning his arms to the ground. The hulking bruiser came down on Clayburn's stomach with both knees, knocking all the wind out of him. A fist like an anvil crashed down against Clayburn's head, triggering an explosion inside his brain.
        "Hold him!" the bruiser on top of Clayburn panted. "Hold him…"
        He raised