“Hell,” Gaines said, “he killed all of ’em. Marshal Stacy and his men, too.”

“You seem to have plenty of help,” Pritchard said, pointing his chin at the men behind the sheriff and his chief deputy.

“These boys?” Foster said, gesturing with his thumb at the men surrounding him. “They ain’t my regular deputies. I hired ’em in Kansas City today after I got Burnell’s telegram.”

“For your sakes,” Pritchard said, “I hope they’re reliable.”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Foster said. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to arrest you, Joe,” he went on. “You shot the hell out of this town. You’re gonna have to hang for that.”

“One of your deputies tried to arrest me earlier today,” Pritchard said. “It didn’t turn out so well for him.”

“This arrest,” Foster said, “is going to be different. Because if you don’t drop those guns and come along to jail peacefully, the young lady here, Miss Idelle Pritchard, is going to get herself shot.”

“That’s a mighty cowardly way to make an arrest,” Pritchard said, “from behind a woman’s petticoats.”

“Maybe so,” Foster said, “but that’s how it is. Give up those guns or she takes a bullet.”

“I think I’ll keep my guns,” Pritchard said. “Go ahead and shoot her.”

Idelle’s expression switched from fear to indignation. She glared at her brother. He ignored her.

“You really want us to shoot her?” Foster said.

“Help yourself,” Pritchard said. “But you’ll find your stranglehold on this town gone if you do.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Burnell Shipley is dead. He died of a heart attack, shortly after shooting his wife.” Pritchard watched the expression on Idelle’s face. He could tell she already knew.

“We heard,” Foster said. “Doc Mauldin told us. What’s it to you?”

“Shipley died before his wife,” Pritchard said. “That means she automatically inherited his estate, which is all of Atherton. When she died, that estate transferred to her only living heir, Miss Idelle Pritchard. It’s all registered at the capital, in Jefferson City, nice and legal. If you idiots kill her, the state of Missouri inherits this town.”

“The hell you say,” Foster said.

Pritchard laughed. “I can hear the carpetbaggers now, climbing over themselves to catch the train to Atherton from Jefferson City. Your town, what was once Shipley’s empire, will be run by bureaucrats one hundred and fifty miles away. Think you’ll still be sheriff after that happens?”

Pritchard could see his words were having an effect on Sheriff Foster. Doubt had overtaken his features.

“Let the woman go,” Pritchard said, “or I’ll shoot her myself.”

“Don’t worry, Horace,” Gaines said to Foster, also reading the reservation on the older man’s face. “I’m going to marry Idelle, remember? Then everything will belong to me. We’ll make out just fine.”