Pritchard let the deputy get his gun out, far enough for everyone to see that he drew first, then drew his Colt and shot him between the eyes. His massive body fell to the ground with a loud thud.

The other two marshals froze, their eyes widened in fear. Idelle’s mouth fell open. Both Nettleses gasped. Paul shook his head, and Ditch once again saw the shadow darken Pritchard’s brow.

“Either of you want my guns?” Pritchard asked the marshals.

“You can keep ’em,” a scared marshal said.

“Thank you,” Pritchard said. “Where can I find Eli Gaines?”

“He’s in Kansas City,” the other marshal said, “with Sheriff Foster. He ain’t due back until tomorrow, on the noon train.”

“I’ll be waitin’ at the station,” Pritchard said. “Now git. And take your friend with you.”

“We can’t,” the first marshal said. “He’s too big for us to lift.”

“Then go get a wagon,” Pritchard said, “and a few more of Burnell’s hired guns. But you’d best tell ’em that if anyone else tries to arrest me, they’re gonna end up like the ex-deputy here.”

The two marshals rode off at a gallop as Pritchard reloaded and holstered his gun.

“That went well,” Paul said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Stand ready,” Pritchard said, “because it’s about to get worse. I came home to set things right, not have a friendly reunion.”

“We’d best get back to the livery,” Paul said to his brother, “and get our guns.”

“Welcome home,” Ditch said.

Chapter 53

Chapter 53

Word of the shooting spread throughout Atherton like wildfire in a drought. There had been no shortage of gunplay in Atherton since the war, but it was almost always the marshals or deputies doing the shooting. Those getting shot were usually drunks, saddle tramps, or belligerent mill workers. No one had ever shot back at a deputy or town marshal because they couldn’t; the lawmen rarely shot armed men. Certainly no deputy or marshal had been killed since the war. By the time Pritchard, Ditch, Paul, and Idelle walked back across town to the livery, people were staring and scurrying to get themselves off the streets. Doors were closed and windows shuttered.

“Those marshals ain’t gonna wait for tomorrow at noon,” Ditch said, as they collected guns and ammunition from their saddlebags. Pritchard refilled his empty pistol belt loops with .44 cartridges, while Ditch and Paul belted on their revolvers. Following Pritchard’s lead, they’d each bought a new Colt revolver from the wagon vendor in Abilene.

“They surely won’t,” Paul agreed. “They’ll send for help from the county deputies. When they feel their numbers are sufficient, they’ll come for us.”

“How many marshals and deputies does Shipley have?” Pritchard asked Idelle.

“Five or six town marshals,” Idelle said, “counting Marshal Stacy. Sheriff Foster’s got at least ten deputies, but he and Chief Deputy Gaines are out of town.”