The assembly once again swarmed Pritchard. They patted him on the back, whooping, hollering, and firing their guns into the air.

The salesman made his way through the crowd. “Your prize,” he said, handing over a brand-new Colt Single Action Army revolver. The weapon featured a custom five-and-a-half-inch barrel, which differed from the standard barrel length of seven and a half inches, and would at a later date go into regular production as the Artillery Model.

Pritchard hefted the weapon. “Has a good feel to it,” he said. “I like the balance.” He reached into his pocket and produced a double eagle. “I’ll take another, of the same barrel size, if you please. I always carry a pair.”

As soon as Pritchard purchased another Colt, dozens of eager men lined up behind him. The delighted salesman sold out his entire wagonload of revolvers within minutes.

“You could make a lot of money,” the salesman said to Pritchard, “if you were so inclined. I can use a man like you on the road. Especially now that the colonel’s shooting days are over.”

“Doing what?” Pritchard asked. “Shootin’ cards? No, thanks. I don’t shoot for sport.”

Chapter 51

Chapter 51

The elated mob of cowboys insisted on dragging Pritchard, Ditch, and Paul into the Alamo Saloon for celebratory drinks. That a Texas Ranger, Smokin’ Joe Atherton, no less, had outshot and showed up a famous Yankee pistoleer who’d insulted the South, in Kansas, of all places, was too great a victory not to celebrate.

Pritchard and the Clemson brothers never did get to eat their lunch. They spent midday drinking beers and whiskey, none of which they bought, and reveling in the company of Texans. Neither Pritchard, Ditch, nor Paul had the heart to divulge that they weren’t really Texans themselves, and hailed originally from Missouri.

They made their exit from the Alamo late in the afternoon. Pritchard made a stop at McInerney’s Boot and Saddle Shop and got measured for a custom-fit, two-gun holster rig for his new Colt revolvers. After a much-needed steak-and-potatoes dinner, the trio found themselves back at their hotel. When they walked in, the clerk hailed Pritchard.

“Mr. Atherton,” he called out as they entered the lobby. “There’s a telegram for you.”

Pritchard opened the envelope to discover the telegram was sent by Tom Franchard, from Albuquerque.

His former Ranger captain’s telegram alerted Pritchard that if he needed cash, there was a thousand-dollar bounty on a wanted Texas prison escapee named Jack Saunders. Saunders was reputed to be in hiding out in Kansas City under an unknown alias.