“It doesn’t matter,” Shipley said. “Look at me; I’m already dead. I can’t even get out of this bed. But you’d better know you’ll be right behind me. Sheriff Foster, Eli Gaines, and a posse of deputies will see you die by nightfall.”

“Not likely,” Pritchard said. “The next train from Kansas City doesn’t arrive before noon tomorrow.”

“You’re wrong,” Shipley said. “As soon as my men reported what happened at the school, I had a telegram sent to the hotel where Foster and Gaines are staying. Kansas City is only twenty miles away from Atherton, or did you forget? They’ll be here before dark.”

Pritchard heard voices in the parlor. He returned to find Ditch and an out-of-breath Dr. Mauldin. He remembered Atherton’s only physician from his youth.

“Samuel Pritchard?” Mauldin said incredulously. “Is that you?”

“Mama’s been shot,” Pritchard said, ignoring his query, “by Burnell.” He led the doctor to Dovie, fading in and out on the sofa. The physician immediately began to examine her.

“I’m so sorry,” Ditch said, looking down at Dovie.

“We’ve got more trouble,” Pritchard told Ditch. “Burnell got a telegram off to Foster and Gaines. They’re ridin’ hard, with a posse, for Atherton as we speak. We’ve only three or four hours before they get here.”

“We’ll be ready.”

Dr. Mauldin stood up and motioned for Pritchard to join him in the hallway.

“She’s been shot through the liver. There’s nothing I can do. She doesn’t have long.”

Ditch watched the shadow fall over Pritchard’s features again. “Come with me,” Pritchard told the doctor. “Stay with Mama a moment, will you?” he asked Ditch.

Pritchard and Dr. Mauldin entered the bedroom. “Hello, Dr. Mauldin,” Burnell said. “Are you here to witness my murder?”

“What?” the confused doctor asked.

“Burnell is about to expire,” Pritchard said. “You’re going to witness it and sign the death certificate stating the exact time of death and that he died of a heart attack. Your report will indicate that he became deranged and murdered his wife, but perished of heart failure before she passed away.”

“I most certainly will not,” Dr. Mauldin said. “I will not be a party to murder.”

Pritchard reached out, one-handed, and grabbed the doctor by the throat. He squeezed until Mauldin opened his mouth, then he drew a revolver with his other hand and stuck the barrel in, all the way to the back of his throat.

“I applaud the sudden arrival of your ethics,” Pritchard said. “But tell me, Doctor, how many times have you signed death certificates stating, ‘killed in self-defense’ after one of Burnell’s marshals or deputies gunned down an unarmed man? Or how many times have you listed ‘natural causes’ on the document after a hospitality girl at the Sidewinder bled out following one of your operations to relieve her of child?”