Franchard claimed it made better sense to wait in Del Rio and capture a member of one of the Triple B’s scouting parties. A prisoner could tell them exactly where Winston Boone and the rest of the Triple B hands were hiding out, as opposed to traipsing all over Mexico in search of them.

Pritchard and Ditch couldn’t argue with Franchard’s logic, especially since Pritchard insisted that the face of each and every one of the Triple B men who were present at the coach station when Caroline was murdered was burned into his memory, like a brand.

“How do you want to play it?” Franchard asked Pritchard.

“You take the front, Tom. Ditch, you cover the rear.”

“What about you?”

“I’m going into that cantina to get me a prisoner.”

“Alone?” Ditch said. “Don’t be a fool. Let one of us come with you.”

“Not necessary,” Pritchard said.

“Let him go,” Franchard said to Ditch. “He’ll make out.” To Pritchard, he said, “Just be sure to leave one of those hands alive. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to keep one of the Mexicans they’re parlayin’ with this side of perdition, too. Those Mexes brokerin’ the deal with ’em in there probably know quite a bit about the area Winston is hiding out in. Could be, they could provide us with valuable tactical intelligence.”

“Okay,” Pritchard said, adjusting his pistol belt. “Be back out in a minute.”

Pritchard waited a moment for Ditch to make his way to the rear door of the cantina. Then he nodded to Franchard, at the front doors, and went inside.

He wasted no time. He knew a white man as big as he was would be noticed immediately, so he strolled directly over to where the three Triple B hands sat drinking tequila at a corner table.

Three sets of eyes widened as the Triple B hands looked up and recognized Pritchard. The two Mexicans looked from their seated companions, who were clearly shocked by the arrival of the newcomer, to the giant man looming over them.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” one of the incredulous Triple B men said. It was Jim Collins.

“You ain’t the first person to tell me that,” Pritchard said. Four of the five drew on him.

It was over in a second or two.

The first Triple B hand went for a cross-draw pistol while seated, the second for a revolver in his belt, and Collins tried to stand and draw from a belt holster. In a flash, Pritchard drew both of his pistols and shot the two seated gunmen in the face simultaneously. He shot Collins twice, in the elbow and shoulder of his gun hand. He finished by drilling one of the Mexicans, the one drawing a Navy Colt, through the eye. The other Mexican never went for his gun, opting instead to slowly raise his hands.