Last Train to Bannock [Clayburn 02] by Marvin H. Albert Page B

full bottles of whiskey. Carrying a bottle in each hand, he headed for Farnell's Freight Company, flanked by Roud and Blue.
        Some thirty minutes later, with the wagons ready and nothing left to do but wait for the train, Clayburn gathered Cora Sorel and the men inside the one-room warehouse next to the freight ramp.
        "I figure it's time for our last drink between here and Bannock," he told them, and looked at Cora. "If that's all right with you?"
        Cora made an open gesture with her graceful, slim-fingered hands. "You're running this game from here on, Clay. I'm only the boss."
        "Well then…" Clayburn picked up one of the whiskey bottles and uncorked it. He handed it solemnly to Cora. "You first, boss."
        She hesitated, until she saw the amused way in which he was watching to see what she'd do. Then she raised the bottle, her warm smile taking in the other men, and made a toast: "Here's to Bannock, to a big profit for me and a big bonus for each of you… and to hell with George Adler."
        She tipped the bottle to her lips and took a swallow. She even managed to do it without wincing. Clayburn admired her control.
        Lowering the bottle, Cora passed it to her pet killer, Matt Haycox, who was near her like a watchdog.
        "I don't drink," Haycox said quietly, and passed the bottle on to the next man.
        No one else voiced a similar quirk. By the time the bottle had gone halfway around, it was empty. Clayburn uncorked the other bottle and tossed it to the next man in line. When it reached Ranse Blue, the last man before Clayburn, there was about the equivalent of three doubles left in the bottom.
        Clayburn snagged the bottle out of Blue's hands before it reached his lips. "You don't drink either," he informed Blue, and tilted the bottle to his own mouth, keeping it that way until he'd swallowed the last drop.
        He lowered the bottle with a gasp, tossed it aside, and grinned at his crew. His eyes were suddenly very bright. There was a wildness in them that Cora Sorel hadn't noticed before.
        "Let's go have a look at the opposition," he said, and strolled out onto the loading ramp.
        The others crowded out after him and looked at Adler's wagons and men lined up along the opposite side of the tracks. Clayburn's eyes sought out Adler, held on him for a second, and then moved on to the hulking bruiser next to him.
        "Hello, Benjy."
        Benjy scowled at him, puzzled by the lack of animosity in Clayburn's tone.
        Clayburn started down the ramp toward him, his pace leisurely, his mouth smiling. His hands hung straight down at his sides, his long fingers flexing.
        But Benjy was not looking at his hands. He was studying his face. And as Clayburn reached the tracks, Benjy's scowl became a sneer.
        "What happened to you, Clayburn? You look kind of beat up."
        "I was beat up," Clayburn said, and by the time he'd said it he was across the tracks and Benjy was within reach.
        Without preamble, he drove his right fist into Benjy's stomach.
        

SEVEN
        
        Benjy sagged backward, clutching his middle, his face contorted as he fought for breath. Adler hastily got out of the way as Dillon leaped at Clayburn with fists swinging.
        Clayburn swiveled slightly at the hips, not shifting his feet, and backhanded Dillon across the face. The blow twisted Dillon's head around and flung him against a wagon. As he bounced off it, Clayburn hit him with his other hand as hard as he could. Dillon's eyes went blank. He hit the dirt on his side and stayed that way.
        It had given Benjy a chance to catch his breath, though he still couldn't straighten up fully. He came at Clayburn with murder in his face. Clayburn turned to meet his rush, sensing the rest of Adler's bunch converging on them, hoping his own crew was moving in behind him.
        Clayburn was in no mood for boxing with the bigger