“Your boy shot an unarmed woman in the back,” Pritchard said. “He died better than he deserved.”

Winston tried to draw his own revolver. Pritchard stepped forward and effortlessly kicked it away. The rest of the prisoners cast uneasy glances at one another.

“I know what you’re all thinkin’,” Franchard said. “There’re eight of you, all armed, and only four of us. Those are pretty fair odds. You might as well go for it. It’s the only chance you’re gettin’ out of us, and a helluva lot more chance than you gave them poor souls at the stagecoach station. Go on,” he challenged. “Draw, you yellow bastards.”

No one was sure who drew first. Whether a Mexican army officer or a Triple B rustler, as soon as one went for his gun, they all did. Ditch, Franchard, and Ruiz cut loose with their Henry rifles. Pritchard drew both pistols and fired. Seven men fell to the ground without firing a shot.

Most of the downed men died instantly, but a few still twitched and writhed in the dust. Eventually even they ceased moving, and lay still as their death rattles echoed across the Mexican desert. The only one left alive was Winston Boone, loudly grieving his son. It occurred to Ditch that every time he’d heard the now-familiar sound, he’d been in Pritchard’s company.

Pritchard ejected the empty .44 cases from his Remingtons, as Winston Boone angrily wailed and sobbed. The others automatically reloaded their Henry rifles. Pritchard inserted fresh cartridges into his revolver’s cylinders, holstered the guns, and turned to face the old rustler.

“Get up,” Pritchard said. Winston Boone shakily complied.

“You done killed both my boys,” Boone said to Pritchard. “Finish me.”

“Not a chance,” Pritchard said. He drew and fired.

He fired four times. The first shot went into Winston Boone’s left elbow, the second into his right, and the next two shots ripped through both knees. Boone shrieked in pain and flopped to the dirt on his back.

“You’re going to take a while,” Pritchard said, “to meet your end. I’ll remind you of what you once said, Winston. ‘Leave him be, to contemplate,’ you told your son at the coach house, when he wanted to end me quick. I’ll be showin’ you the same mercy you showed me.”

“Kill me,” Boone begged.

“So long, Winston Boone. Enjoy your slow ride to hell. I hope the coyote and scorpions enjoy you, because I sure ain’t puttin’ you into the ground.”

Ditch looked on as Pritchard again reloaded and then holstered his pistol. Then he turned and walked away from the crippled, dying, old man, silhouetted against the burning ranch house.

As he handed Pritchard back his Henry carbine, Ditch saw the death-shadow, as he had so many times before, fade once more from his friend’s visage.

“What did we just do?” Ditch asked, examining the carnage surrounding him.