“Can’t say I didn’t give you a chance,” Pritchard said. He holstered his left-hand gun, removed his hat, and tossed it above him into the air over the horizon of the stairs.

Both lawmen reflexively fired. The marshal released both barrels, with a resounding boom, and the deputy fan-fired his revolver as rapidly as he could, emptying all six shots in a matter of a few seconds.

Pritchard redrew his left-side gun and dashed up the stairs. He fired twice, once with each gun, striking the lawmen in their chests. He shot them both once again, on their way to the floor.

Pritchard holstered his revolvers one at a time, after ejecting the spent cartridge cases and reloading the weapons. He picked up his hat and examined it. None of their shots had even nicked it.

From his position along the wall beside it, Pritchard knocked on the door. “Burnell Shipley,” he called out. “May I come in?”

“What do you want?” a muffled voice replied from within.

“I’ve come all the way from Texas,” Pritchard said. “You might at least invite me in. It’s the polite thing to do.”

“Door’s unlocked,” the voice said.

Pritchard again holstered one of his guns and turned the knob. It was unlocked. As expected, three shots rang out, and three holes appeared in the center of the door. He pushed the door open, but remained outside.

“That wasn’t very neighborly,” Pritchard said, as he darted in.

Instead of stopping on the threshold, Pritchard continued to move, redrawing his second gun as he entered. He found Marshal Elton Stacy, older, grayer, and just as skittish as when he’d last seen him, ten years ago. He was standing in the center of the luxurious room, from where he’d fired the three shots into the door, with a smoking pistol. The old marshal got one more shot off, which landed well behind Pritchard, before the crooked lawman was gunned down.

The spacious room was otherwise empty. Keeping an eye on the hallway, Pritchard knelt next to the dying marshal and tipped his hat back with the barrel of one of his pistols.

“You?” Stacy gurgled, through a mouthful of blood, as recognition struck him.

“None other,” Pritchard said as the marshal died. “Enjoy hell.” He stood up.

“I know you’re in there, Burnell,” Pritchard announced to the hallway. “Marshal Stacy is dead. So are most of his men. I’m coming down to talk.”

“You may as well,” a familiar voice called back. “But know that I have a hostage. There’s a woman in here with me. If you try anything, I’ll shoot her.”

“I’m putting away my guns,” Pritchard said. “Here I come.”

Chapter 54

Chapter 54