The next four men out of the ranch house were Triple B hands Pritchard recognized from the coach house massacre. Finally, Winston Boon stumbled out, helping his son Wesley, who was also obviously wounded. Old Man Boone looked even smaller and more bowlegged without his ten-gallon hat. All the former residents of the ranch house, Mexican and American alike, wore holstered pistols and appeared to have been drinking. Pritchard, Ditch, Franchard, and Ruiz covered them with their rifles.

Winston Boone, a stupefied expression on his ancient face, looked up at Pritchard.

“You’re dead,” Boone exclaimed, disbelieving his eyes. “We already done killed you.”

“You didn’t kill me enough,” Pritchard said.

“I told you, Pa,” Wesley griped, his voice tight with pain. “You should’ve let me finish him off in that stagecoach station. Now lookit what he’s done. He’s wiped us out.”

“You are Americans,” one of the Mexican officers said in excellent English to Franchard. “I know you. I have seen you before, in Dallas. You are a Texas Ranger. The Texas Rangers have no right to be in Mexico.”

“I’m on vacation,” Franchard said.

“I demand you release us at once,” the officer continued, emboldened. He suddenly lowered his hands and stood up straight. “This is illegal. I will not stand for this. I am a major in His Excellency’s army.”

“You’re a rustler and a horse thief in a soldier’s uniform,” Franchard said. “Put your hands back up.”

“Rest assured, your government will be made aware of this breach of our country’s sovereignty.”

“Put your hands up,” Franchard said. “Ain’t gonna tell you again.”

“I will take no more orders from you,” the major said. “You have no authority here.”

“Maybe not,” Franchard said, “but my rifle does.” He shot the major dead. Behind the major’s body, the ranch house was now fully engulfed in flames.

“Anybody else have a problem with doin’ what they’re told?” Franchard asked, levering the action on his Henry.

“You can all go to hell, Rangers,” Wesley Boone said. He leaned on his father and spat blood.

“You were the first to line up after my fiancée was laid out on that table, weren’t you, Wesley?” Pritchard said. He tossed his Henry rifle to Ditch, who caught it. He used Pritchard’s carbine, along with his own, to continue covering the prisoners.

“Go for your pistol, Wesley,” Pritchard said. “I’ll give you more of a chance than you gave Caroline.”

Wesley pushed off from his father and glared at Pritchard with unbridled hatred in his eyes. Then he went for his holstered revolver. He’d barely touched it when Pritchard drew and fired. The bullet entered just below his nose. Wesley spun around and fell on his face. Winston Boone cried out and dropped to his hands and knees.

“My boy,” he whimpered. “You killed my boy.”