The memory of what the Stiles Gang had done almost three years before was still fresh in the townspeople’s collective memory. Las Cruces was a small town, and people came out when they saw the string of riders coming down the main street. When they noticed the cinco-peso stars pinned on the Rangers’ chests, and learned of their mission, they didn’t hide their indifference. After a few glances, most returned indoors.

The mayor, whose brother-in-law was one of the townsmen killed by Stiles and his gang during the bank robbery, remained in the street to greet them.

“Not the friendliest town I ever saw,” a Ranger commented.

“We saw you riding in from a distance,” the mayor explained. “We was hopin’, when somebody finally came around to bring justice, it would be the army. Folks around here don’t think twenty-four Rangers is gonna make a dent in Stiles’s Gang.”

“That’s comforting,” another Ranger said.

“Don’t be too hard on ’em,” the mayor said. “A lot of the womenfolk watched their husbands gunned in front of them. Some of them had to bear children sired by the men who did it. That’ll leave a mark on a town.”

“I reckon it would,” Captain Franchard said.

The mayor recognized Pritchard. “You’re Smokin’ Joe Atherton, ain’t you?” he asked, as Pritchard dismounted.

“I’m Atherton,” he acknowledged.

“I read about you,” the mayor said. “The paper said you’re the deadliest gun in Texas. Faster, even, than Bill Hickok.”

“Don’t believe everything you read,” Pritchard said.

“It’ll be reassuring for my wife to know the best gun in Texas is going after Dalton Stiles and the murderin’ gang of cutthroats who killed her brother. He was a deputy here in town.”

“We’ll be stayin’ the night,” Franchard said, “and pullin’ out, come morning. We’ll need our horses boarded and some grub. I can pay in Texas gold.”

“We’ll accommodate you,” the mayor said.

“I’d also like to have a word with anyone who eyeballed, firsthand, the robbery here a few years back.”

“Everybody in town witnessed what happened,” the mayor said. “I reckon not many are going to want to talk about it. I’ll talk to ya. Saw the whole shootin’ match, from right over there in front of the post office.”

“Tell me about Stiles,” Franchard said. “Whatever you can remember.”

“He’s a husky man,” the mayor began, “of medium height. In his late forties, I’d guess. Has red hair and muttonchop whiskers. He wears one of those wide-brimmed, Johnny Reb hats with a feather in it. Rides a big, black horse, too. You can tell he’s the one in charge; ain’t no doubt about it. Meaner’n hell. Didn’t bat an eye when he ordered his men to shoot the sheriff and deputies, my brother-in-law included, after they’d already surrendered.”

“What can you tell me about his men?”