Pritchard holstered his revolvers and walked down the hallway. He peeked quickly around the corner of the open bedroom door and saw Burnell Shipley sitting in a large bed. His mother, Dovie, was seated at the foot of the bed with her head hung and her hands folded in her lap. Shipley was holding a small, engraved revolver in his shaking hand. The weapon was cocked and pointed at her.

“Don’t be afraid,” Shipley said. “I won’t shoot. Not you, anyway.”

Pritchard entered the room and got his first full glimpse of Burnell Shipley in a decade. Shipley was morbidly obese and nearly bald. A few wispy strands of hair were stretched over a pate covered in oozing sores. His eyes were milky, and Pritchard suspected he could see only a few feet. Well enough, unfortunately, to hit Dovie at point-blank range with the gun in his hand.

“Allow me to introduce my wife, Dovie,” Shipley said, motioning at her with his revolver. “She bought this fancy little pistol, allegedly as a gift, for me. In truth, I think she intended to shoot me with it. Her mistake was buying it through my store. The man who runs the place for me, Oliver Manning, told me all about it. Marshal Stacy, the man you killed in my parlor just now, found it hidden in her room.”

“It’s too bad she didn’t get a chance to use it,” Pritchard said.

Dovie stared at her long-gone son, wide-eyed, with her mouth agape. Pritchard put a finger to his lips and winked.

“My men tell me you’re Smokin’ Joe Atherton,” Shipley went on. “I’ve heard of you. How could I not, with the same name as this town? Tell me, Joe; why is a famous Texas Ranger in Missouri, shooting all my men?”

“I came for you, Burnell,” he said.

“That’s ridiculous,” Shipley said. “I’ve never even been to Texas.”

“Neither had I,” Pritchard said, “until you murdered my father, burned our home, stole our property, and forced my mother to marry you.”

Dovie began to cry.

Shipley squinted up at Pritchard, trying to bring the big Ranger into focus. “I don’t understand,” he said.

“Of course you don’t understand,” Pritchard said. He removed his hat, revealing the scar. “You were told Deputy Gaines shot me in the head and buried me down by the river. My name isn’t Joe Atherton, Burnell. It’s Samuel Pritchard.”

Realization hit Shipley like a shotgun blast. His face began to flush, and the tremor in his hand worsened.