Pritchard brushed off the sawdust from his button-front shirt and belted on his pair of .45 Colt revolvers. He topped his blond hair, which was closely cropped at the sides and back but long enough on top to mostly cover the bullet-hole scar on his forehead, with his Stetson.

“Let’s go welcome the count,” he said to Ditch, gesturing toward the door. “I’d hate to keep royalty waiting.”

Chapter 3

It was overcast, chilly, and threatening rain when Pritchard and Ditch reached the depot. A sizable crowd, larger than the usual group of townspeople meeting the afternoon train, had assembled at the station. Both men surmised the extra gaggle of spectators were connected to the impending confrontation between the mysterious European passenger and Atherton’s town marshal. The train slowly came to a halt in a cloud of hissing steam.

Idelle waved to them from across the station. When they met, she gave her brother and fiancé a hug. Like Pritchard, she had blond hair and crystal blue eyes. But unlike her colossal, rawboned, and muscular brother, Idelle was petite and delicate of feature.

“There’s talk all over town of a showdown,” she said, glancing around at the people milling excitedly about. “All these folks have come to watch you and that Count Strobl fellow shoot each other to pieces.”

“They’ll likely be disappointed,” Pritchard said.

“Please be careful,” Idelle said. “I read in the Kansas City Enterprise that Count Strobl has already killed four men in duels since coming to America; one of them with a sword. They say he killed over a dozen more in Europe.”

“Hell,” Ditch grunted, “Samuel’s killed more’n that in one afternoon.” Pritchard elbowed his friend.

“This isn’t a joke,” Idelle said. “According to the article, Strobl’s a professional duelist. Which means somebody’s put up money to have you killed.”

“You’re jumping to conclusions,” Pritchard said calmly. “Maybe this Strobl feller’s just passin’ through?”

“Who are you kidding?” Idelle said. “Atherton’s only a small town on the rail line to Kansas City from Saint Louis. There’s no reason for him to get off the train here, other than you. And why would he brag to all those reporters about wanting to challenge you if he wasn’t on the prod?”

“I don’t know the answers to those questions,” Pritchard said to his sister, “but gettin’ worked up over things that ain’t yet occurred makes no sense. Give me a chance to meet this Count Strobl. Who knows? Maybe he’s a swell feller.”

“And maybe he’ll shoot you on sight,” Idelle said drily.

“Folks are unloading,” Ditch remarked, pointing to the passenger cars. They scanned the people as they got off. The crowd’s eyes were on Marshal Pritchard, over a full head taller than anyone else at the station, as the passengers began to disembark. Pritchard’s, Ditch’s, and Idelle’s eyes searched for the mysterious Count Strobl.