“Make sure it’s loaded,” Pritchard directed as a Ranger retrieved the weapon.

“One cartridge,” Gaines said, “is all I’m gonna need.”

Pritchard stepped back and allowed Gaines to be escorted ten paces away from him. All the other Rangers, women, and Apache retreated to the sidewalks on either side of the street.

Gaines was still wearing his holster and gun belt. The Ranger who’d fetched his Colt inserted the revolver into his holster and quickly moved off.

The two men faced each other. One was tall and thin, the other much taller, and broad.

“Blow his head off,” Stiles yelled to Gaines. “Put one right between his eyes,” another captive outlaw shouted.

Gaines was hunched in a crouch, his entire body tense, and held his right hand poised above the grip of his revolver. Pritchard stood relaxed, with his hands loosely at his sides.

“You sure look familiar,” Gaines said. “Seems if I’d ever met someone as big as you, I’d remember, but I don’t. You claim you know Elijah; are you from Missouri, too?”

“I am. A town called Atherton.”

“That’s my hometown.” Gaines’s only eye narrowed. “Your father didn’t happen to own a sawmill there, did he?”

“He did,” Pritchard said.

“Why, hell,” Gaines said, “I remember you. You were just a runt when I left.”

“Things change.”

“They surely do,” Gaines said, and went for his gun.

Faster than the eye could track, Pritchard drew his right-hand gun and fired. The .44 bullet tore straight through the elbow of Gaines’s gun hand, just as the tip of his pistol’s barrel cleared the top of the holster. Gaines uttered an involuntary yelp, and his revolver dropped to the ground from his now-useless hand.

Pritchard fired five more rounds in rapid succession, dancing Gaines’s revolver down the street. He then drew his other revolver, left-handed, with similarly blinding speed, and skittered Gaines’s Colt even farther with six more shots.

Everyone watching, including Rangers, townsfolk, captive outlaws, and Apache braves, stared at Pritchard, wide-eyed, in silence.

Gaines cradled his shattered arm as his gun ricocheted away. “Finish it,” he croaked. “Kill me, you yellow bastard.”

“Sorry,” Pritchard said with a shrug. He held up his empty revolvers. “Can’t help you, Rube. Out of bullets.” He turned to Sergeant Finley. “Tie him back up and make sure you bandage his arm. We wouldn’t want him to bleed out before the festivities tonight.”

As Gaines was returned to the saloon porch, and his hands were rebound, Pritchard ejected the spent cases from his revolvers and reloaded them with fresh cartridges from the loops on his belt.

Franchard picked up Pritchard’s hat and handed it to him.