“Hey,” a well-dressed cattleman standing next to Pritchard suddenly exclaimed, “ain’t you Joe Atherton?” He elbowed the men with him. “Look fellas, it’s Smokin’ Joe Atherton! He’s a Texas boy, like us! I saw him down in Fort Worth a while back, after he and his Rangers rescued a bunch of kidnapped womenfolk from the Comanche!”

“Sure,” another cowhand shouted. “Who could forget him? He’s big as a barn!”

Before an astonished Pritchard could say anything, the fellow grabbed his hand and began pumping it.

“Boys!” yet another cowboy shouted to the crowd, “Over here! It’s Smokin’ Joe Atherton! Right here in Abilene!”

“You’re a celebrity,” Ditched laughed, as a swarm of cowboys closed in to shake Pritchard’s hand.

Within seconds, the crowd had entirely shifted its attention from the sales presentation and marksmanship display they had been viewing to the six-and-a-half-foot-tall Texas Ranger.

The diminutive, and now frustrated, salesman, not about to let his pool of potential customers be lured away, gave a wink and a nod to Colonel Bennington.

The colonel, who had busied himself reloading his pair of Colt revolvers while the crowd flocked around Pritchard, holstered one of them and retrieved an unopened bottle of whiskey from inside the wagon. He tossed the bottle into the sky above where Pritchard was surrounded by admirers, and shot it out of the air.

Glass fragments and whiskey rained down on the crowd. At the shot, everyone turned angrily back to face the colonel, who was now standing by the wagon with a smug expression on his face.

“Gentlemen,” the salesman continued his pitch, “if you will return your attention to the revolver I hold here in my hand, you will notice—”

“You’re a bit careless with your shootin’,” a cattleman interrupted as he and a number of others, including Ditch, Pritchard, and Paul, removed their hats to shake off the whiskey and glass. “Not to mention, wasteful of good drinkin’ stock.”

“I shoot where I want,” Bennington said, “and hit what I aim at.” He glared at the cattlemen. “Do any of you have a problem with that?”

“Pretty bold,” Ditch said, “shootin’ playin’ cards and whiskey bottles. Cards and bottles don’t shoot back.”

“Maybe you’d like to try shooting against me?”

Ditch opened his coat. “I ain’t heeled,” he said. “I ain’t carryin’ a pistol.”

“Maybe you should, running your mouth the way you do,” Bennington challenged. “Where’re you from, boy?”

“That’s none of your business,” Ditch said. “And I ain’t your boy.”

“If you were,” Bennington said. “I’d peel your britches and turn you over my knee. It doesn’t matter where you claim to hail from. You look like Southern trash, to me. All you rebel scum look alike. Smell alike, too.”

The crowd rumbled its disapproval. Most were Texans, and the vast majority had fought for the Confederacy.