Described by one breathless reporter as “. . . six and a half feet tall, with the powerful physique of a lumberjack, blond-haired, blue-eyed Texas Ranger Joe Atherton is the living embodiment of an ancient Viking warrior come back to life. Not yet twenty-four years old, and bearing an ominous bullet scar on his forehead, it has been reported to this journalist by those in good standing to know that this young man, whose origins and past remain a mystery, is a veteran of the late troubles on the side of the Confederacy. It has also been reported, again, by those in authority with privilege to such information, that Ranger Atherton is the fastest, most lethal pistoleer in all the Texas Rangers, with countless outlaws, renegades, rustlers, and road agents having fallen to the thunderous justice of his brace of revolvers.”

A photograph of all eighteen of Captain Franchard’s Texas Rangers was taken on the steps of the Fort Worth town hall and published in every newspaper across America. Pritchard, as the tallest, stood in the back alongside Captain Franchard.

The Rangers remained in Fort Worth, resting their horses, buying new duds, and having drinks and steaks bought for them by virtually anyone they met. Pritchard did his best to keep a low profile, but due to his celebrity, height, youth, and good looks, found himself more often than not hounded by reporters, gawkers, inquisitive citizens, and not the least of all, attractive young women.

Pritchard would politely decline the unwanted company, and ended up spending more than one afternoon hiding out with Rusty in the livery to escape the annoyance of pestering fans. He cleaned and oiled his guns, practiced with them, cared for his horse, and counted the days and hours until his Ranger unit would ride out of bustling Fort Worth and get back to the familiar anonymity of the dusty trail.

Captain Franchard explained to his men that as distasteful as being in town was, he had orders to temporarily remain in Fort Worth. Their overlords in the Texas Rangers relished the excellent publicity Franchard’s men had brought upon their organization and hoped to parlay it into political influence and greater funding from Austin.

The entire detachment was boarded at Fort Worth’s finest hotel, which made it that much more difficult for Pritchard to lay low and remain unbothered. He was walking back to the hotel from the livery, just before supper, when a distinguished-looking man wearing a bowler and a pressed suit approached him in the lobby.

“Are you Ranger Atherton?” the man asked.

“I am,” Pritchard said. “No disrespect intended, but I’m done talking to reporters.”

“I am not a reporter,” the man said. “My name is Benjamin Woodruff. I am an attorney from Austin.”

“Good for you,” Pritchard said. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Actually,” Woodruff said, “I represent someone who very much wants to speak with you.”