“Then what?” Maggie asked. “He’ll be furious. He and his gang will come roaring back into Magdalena with blood in their eyes.”

“That’s kinda the point,” Franchard said.

“But you can’t stay here and protect us forever. What if Stiles sends only half his men? Then what? After you Rangers leave, the rest will return.”

“We’re not going let that happen,” Franchard reassured her. “We’re gonna wipe that vermin out to the last man, Maggie. If Stiles don’t send in all his boys, which I believe unlikely, since there’s supposedly nothin’ but undefended women here, we’ll capture a couple of ’em. They’ll tell us where the rest are, and we’ll hunt ’em down and finish ’em off.”

“What makes you think they’ll tell you?” she asked.

“The cap’n can be very persuasive,” Pritchard said, remembering how Franchard had once convinced a group of captive Comancheros to dig their own graves.

“I wouldn’t have said this a week ago,” Maggie said, smiling at Franchard, “but I trust you, Tom.”

As ordered, the Rangers had cleaned up. All had shaved, including Pritchard, though many, like Franchard, kept their now well-trimmed mustaches. Pritchard had even allowed Maggie to cut his long blond hair while his fellow Rangers were off in Albuquerque.

While Maggie was giving Pritchard his haircut, in a chair in the barbershop, a number of women came to watch, point, and giggle as his Samson-length hair was clipped off. They stopped laughing and silently stared when the tall, broad-shouldered, blue-eyed, chisel-jawed, and now clean-shaven Ranger stepped out of the barber’s chair to examine his face in the mirror.

While trimming his hair, Maggie couldn’t help but notice the pronounced bullet scar, but said nothing. She wordlessly left enough on top to partly conceal the telltale mark when his hat was off.

“You’re a right handsome fella,” she smiled, brushing the hair remnants off his back and shoulders. “I must admit, though, you’re a mite younger than I took you for without those whiskers.”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen my own face,” Pritchard said, rubbing a hand across his bare jaw. “I forgot what I look like.”

Maggie gestured with her thumb at the women gawking at him from outside the shop. “If you forget again, I reckon there’s a few gals around here might want the opportunity to tell you, in private and up close.”

She was pleased to see him blush, which she took as a sign of his youth and good character. “Tell me,” she said, “do you have a gal back in Fort Worth? I’ve got a feeling there’re some in town would like to know.” She handed him his hat.

“No, ma’am,” he said softly.