The masked gunman with Saunders spun around and tried to bring his pistol to bear on the tall Ranger. Pritchard drew and fired three times, the shots coming out almost as one. The robber fell off the dock, into the river, and didn’t surface.

Saunders instantly dropped his revolver and raised both hands. “Don’t kill me, Joe,” he begged, recognizing the giant lawman who’d arrested him once before.

“Why would I do that?” Pritchard said. “You’re worth a lot of money to me. Dead or alive, of course. I’d rather have you walk under your own steam to jail, but for a thousand dollars I’m happy to drag you.”

“Don’t shoot,” Saunders said, his voice trembling. “I’ll walk.”

“Figured you would,” Pritchard said.

Paul showed up and recovered the two dropped revolvers. Ditch, Paul, and Pritchard marched a despondent Six-Card Saunders to the marshal’s office.

“I like these new Colts,” Pritchard remarked, as they walked through the streets of Kansas City. “They’re fast out of the holster. Point well, too.”

“Faster into action than your old Remingtons?” Ditch asked.

“I hate to admit it,” Pritchard said, “but I’m afraid so.”

“I didn’t think you could get any faster,” Paul said.

They turned in their prisoner, got a chit for a thousand dollars, and deposited it the next morning, along with the money Ditch “won” at the crooked card game, in the Kansas City office of Wells Fargo.

Then they bought three railroad tickets to Atherton.

Pritchard was largely silent for the short train ride from Kansas City to Atherton. He stared out the window with his hat in his lap, as memories and emotions he’d suppressed for a decade came flooding back.

“Feels kinda strange,” Paul remarked, “comin’ home, after all these years.”

“I’ve been looking forward to this day,” Ditch said, “and dreading it, for over ten years. What about you, Samuel? How do you feel?”

“It’s not every day,” Pritchard said, “a fellow gets to visit his own grave.”

When the train pulled into the station, and other passengers attended to their luggage and began to disembark, Pritchard discreetly checked his revolvers.

“Relax,” Paul said. “The war’s over.”

“Maybe for you,” Pritchard said.

It was early afternoon when Pritchard, Ditch, and Paul stepped off the platform into Atherton, Missouri, with their horses in tow. All agreed the town had changed.

The once-tiny burg was now a bustling place, with a modern train station, several more hotels, saloons, and restaurants, and too many new buildings on the main street to count. Atherton was still a small town, but a vibrant one, and had clearly prospered during the postwar years.

The trio led their horses to the livery, in the same spot as the one they all remembered, but now much larger. They paid the attendant to board their horses and turned to one another.