Pritchard got out first, to assist Caroline and the other female passenger in disembarking, and to help the driver and shotgun messenger with the luggage. He noticed the corral, some distance from the adobe building that served as the station house, was chock-full of horses; at least thirty, to his count. He’d never before seen so many animals at a single coach station, but gave it little thought as he handed down luggage from the roof of the stage.

The driver herded the passengers, led by Mr. Woodruff, into the station house. Accompanying Caroline and her chaperone was a middle-aged farmer and his matronly wife, en route to Austin to visit her sister, and a sour-faced surveyor going to the capital to file claims. By the time Pritchard and the shotgun messenger retrieved the luggage, everyone else had already gone inside.

As soon as Pritchard entered, ducking through the doorway due to his height, the first thing he realized was the station house was packed with people. The second thing he felt was the barrel of a pistol against his neck.

The luggage was torn from his grasp, and rough hands grabbed his arms. Both his pistols were taken. As Pritchard’s eyes adjusted to the dim interior, he realized men, many of them, were holding Caroline, the driver, shotgun messenger, and the other passengers at gunpoint. He presumed another man, tied to a chair in the corner, was the station agent.

The men had obviously been waiting, cramped inside the station, for the stage to arrive. He suddenly realized why so many horses were in the corral. He surmised their saddles and bridles had been stashed behind the station house.

A kerosene lantern was lit, and the room filled with light. “Good evening, Ranger Atherton,” one of the men croaked.

The speaker was short, bowlegged, and bent with age. The face under his ten-gallon hat was lined, and Pritchard saw no teeth in his mouth when he spoke. Pritchard looked slowly from face to face, burning the features of each gunman into his memory.

“Do I know you?” Pritchard asked.

“We haven’t formally met,” the man said. “My name is Winston Boone. This here,” he motioned with his pistol to a younger man beside him who bore resemblance, “is my boy Wesley. You already met my older son, Wade, when you strung him up in Waco, five years back.”

Pritchard’s heart sank as he realized this was no ordinary stage robbery. He glanced at Caroline, across the room, and read the fear in her eyes. She, too, recognized what was transpiring as no mere theft and that these men were not common highwaymen.

“I understand,” Pritchard began, “iffen you hold a grudge against me. These good folks got nothing to do with what’s between us. Let them go. We can settle our differences without them.”

“Are you askin’ me to grant mercy?” Boone said.

“I am,” Pritchard said.