Also, as expected, Ranger Franchard and Pritchard were ambushed en route to Waco by a party of Triple B hands, forty miles east of Bristow. Ten cowboys came charging at them on horseback while they were breaking morning camp. They whooped and hollered and fired their pistols, hoping to convince the Ranger and his young sidekick to abandon their prisoner and flee for their lives.

That was before Pritchard unlimbered the Sharps from his saddle, Franchard his Henry, and both men cut loose. The two riders who fled moments later, with their tails between their legs, left eight of their friends lying dead in the Texas dust behind them.

Five days later, Pritchard, Franchard, and Wade Boone arrived in Waco. On the sixth day, the good citizens of that town held a brief trial. On the morning of the seventh day, Wade Boone had his neck stretched in the town square. That was also the day Samuel Pritchard, otherwise known as Joe Atherton, was sworn in as a Texas Ranger.

In the ensuing five years, Pritchard fought Indians, battled renegades, hunted outlaws, faced off with bandits, and traveled from New Mexico to the Oklahoma Territory in the service of the Republic of Texas. Though one of the youngest Rangers to ever pin on a cinco-peso star, he soon became a legend within the ranks of lawmen and outlaws alike as “Smokin’ Joe” Atherton. He earned the moniker, it was said, because if you were foolish enough to cross him you’d end up smoking in hell.

No one knew the true number of men Ranger Smokin’ Joe Atherton had sent to boot hill, but anyone who’d ever seen the huge Ranger shoot didn’t doubt the figure, however exaggerated it might have been.

During that same period, Tom Franchard had been promoted twice; from ranger, to sergeant, to captain. He now commanded his own Ranger detachment. He always made certain, wherever he went, and with each new promotion or assignment, to take young Ranger Joe Atherton along with him.

“How many, Joe?” Franchard asked, his voice a whisper.

“About thirty, I reckon,” Pritchard said, handing the spyglass to the senior Ranger. “Maybe thirty-five. See for yourself.”

Franchard scooched down next to Pritchard and squinted through the lens. “I count at least thirty, all right,” he said. “The women look to be unhurt.”

“For now,” Pritchard said. “Those Comancheros have been ridin’ ’em too hard to get in much rapin’. I’m guessing that’s about to change.”

“It’s likely why they took the women down into that wash,” Franchard said.