by Sean Lynch
Consequently, beef prices had risen. Ditch sold his entire stock, on the first day they arrived, for just under twenty-five dollars per head. He paid off his hands, giving each a handsome bonus. Then he tasked Alejandro Ruiz with collecting the flush SD&P cowboys, after a few days’ celebration in town, of course, and herding them back to the ranch in Texas.
Ditch, Pritchard, and Paul deposited over seventy-three thousand dollars in the Wells Fargo Bank. They were looking for a café to dine in, to celebrate, when their attention was drawn to a commotion in the streets.
A large crowd had assembled around a wagon that was parked on Cedar Street, in front of the Alamo Saloon. A barker standing in the wagon was addressing an enraptured public. This, in itself, was not an unusual sight, except that this particular sales pitch was punctuated with gunshots.
The trio made their way through the throng of onlookers, which was unsurprisingly composed of mostly cowhands and cattlemen. They found two men at the wagon. The salesman, atop, was small, rotund, and wearing a bowler. He was displaying, for the crowd’s admiration, a shiny black revolver.
The fellow with him, standing in the street, sported a wide-brimmed, black hat, had long hair and a sculpted beard, and wore a fancily embroidered suit along with equally fancy hand-carved boots. He also wore twin cross-draw holsters and was firing a pair of pistols at a deck of playing cards set up against a backdrop in the wagon.
“. . . the best sidearm to ever grace the frontier,” the salesman bellowed to his rapt audience as he held the revolver aloft, like a chalice in a religious ceremony.
“Stronger of frame,” he continued, “more accurate, lighter of weight, better of balance, smoother of trigger, and chambered in the .44 caliber cartridge, Colt’s new Single Action Army revolver has been adopted by none other than the United States Army! These extraordinary weapons, as you can see demonstrated in the capable hands of none other than famous Union war hero, Indian fighter, and pistoleer, Colonel Dexter Bennington, are the finest, most accurate, one-handed guns ever built!”
As the salesmen made his impassioned speech, Colonel Bennington slowly shot the playing cards, one at a time, from ten paces. He held the pistols at arm’s length, with one eye closed, aiming carefully between shots.
“Look at that,” Ditch whistled. “A gen-u-wine Yankee war hero and Indian fighter.”
“Never heard of him,” Pritchard said.
“I have,” Paul said. “I heard tell that dandy spent the war in Washington, fightin’ off senators’ wives. The only Indians he ever shot were in front of a cigar store, and made out of wood.”
“While these incredible guns will not be in full production and widely available to the general public for several more months,” the peddler continued, “due to the army’s demand for them, I happen to have a limited supply of these magnificent weapons right here in my wagon, direct from the Colt factory in Hartford, Connecticut. One of these unparalleled pistols, the finest in the world, can be yours for the meager sum of only twenty dollars. That’s right, folks; for a twenty-dollar gold piece, you can get your very own Colt’s revolver! For another five dollars, I’ll throw in a holster and a box of cartridges to go with it!”
“Twenty dollars for a pistol?” Paul said.
“Must be quite a pistol,” Pritchard said.
“Or that salesman is quite a thief,” Ditch said.
“Actually,” Pritchard said, “he’s smart. Selling his guns in a cowtown like Abilene, in the summer, when all the hands are flush with cash, is a shrewd play. Betcha he wouldn’t get twenty dollars for ’em in Kansas City in January.”
“I reckon not,” Ditch agreed.
“Hey,” a well-dressed cattleman standing next to Pritchard suddenly exclaimed, “ain’t you Joe Atherton?” He elbowed the men with him. “Look fellas, it’s Smokin’ Joe Atherton! He’s a Texas boy, like us! I saw him down in Fort Worth a while back, after he and his Rangers rescued a bunch of kidnapped womenfolk from the Comanche!”
“Sure,” another cowhand shouted. “Who could forget him? He’s big as a barn!”
Before an astonished Pritchard could say anything, the fellow grabbed his hand and began pumping it.
“Boys!” yet another cowboy shouted to the crowd, “Over here! It’s Smokin’ Joe Atherton! Right here in Abilene!”
“You’re a celebrity,” Ditched laughed, as a swarm of cowboys closed in to shake Pritchard’s hand.
Within seconds, the crowd had entirely shifted its attention from the sales presentation and marksmanship display they had been viewing to the six-and-a-half-foot-tall Texas Ranger.
The diminutive, and now frustrated, salesman, not about to let his pool of potential customers be lured away, gave a wink and a nod to Colonel Bennington.
The colonel, who had busied himself reloading his pair of Colt revolvers while the crowd flocked around Pritchard, holstered one of them and retrieved an unopened bottle of whiskey from inside the wagon. He tossed the bottle into the sky above where Pritchard was surrounded by admirers, and shot it out of the air.
Glass fragments and whiskey rained down on the crowd. At the shot, everyone turned angrily back to face the colonel, who was now standing by the wagon with a smug expression on his face.
“Gentlemen,” the salesman continued his pitch, “if you will return your attention to the revolver I hold here in my hand, you will notice—”
“You’re a bit careless with your shootin’,” a cattleman interrupted as he and a number of others, including Ditch, Pritchard, and Paul, removed their hats to shake off the whiskey and glass. “Not to mention, wasteful of good drinkin’ stock.”
“I shoot where I want,” Bennington said, “and hit what I aim at.” He glared at the cattlemen. “Do any of you have a problem with that?”
“Pretty bold,” Ditch said, “shootin’ playin’ cards and whiskey bottles. Cards and bottles don’t shoot back.”
“Maybe you’d like to try shooting against me?”
Ditch opened his coat. “I ain’t heeled,” he said. “I ain’t carryin’ a pistol.”
“Maybe you should, running your mouth the way you do,” Bennington challenged. “Where’re you from, boy?”
“That’s none of your business,” Ditch said. “And I ain’t your boy.”
“If you were,” Bennington said. “I’d peel your britches and turn you over my knee. It doesn’t matter where you claim to hail from. You look like Southern trash, to me. All you rebel scum look alike. Smell alike, too.”
The crowd rumbled its disapproval. Most were Texans, and the vast majority had fought for the Confederacy.
The salesman noticed the crowd’s displeasure and began to glance nervously about. Bennington merely smiled, relishing in taunting the Southerners, and the agitation he had stirred.
Ditch started to step forward, but Paul took his arm. “Let it go,” he said. “That blue-bellied popinjay ain’t worth your time.”
“What did you call me?” Colonel Bennington demanded, his smile vanishing.
“I’m hungry,” Paul said, ignoring the colonel’s question and turning away. “Let’s go get lunch.”
“Don’t turn your back on me, boy,” Bennington said. He drew his other revolver and leveled both at Ditch’s and Paul’s backs.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Pritchard said, “if I were you.”
“Are you going to stop me?” Bennington said.
The crowd on both sides of Pritchard quickly stepped back, clearing a space between him and the Yankee sharpshooter.
“Iffen you don’t stop pointin’ your pistols at my friends,” Pritchard said flatly, “I’m gonna stop you cold.”
“Do you think you can outshoot me?” the colonel grinned.
“I don’t know how good I can shoot against cards and bottles,” Pritchard admitted, “but I can sure as hell put you in a pine box.”
“Is that so?” Bennington asked.
“Certain as sunset,” Pritchard said.
Ditch noticed the sh
adow he’d seen so many times before beginning to descend over Pritchard’s features. He knew what was coming next.
The salesman suddenly stepped between them, his hands in the air. “Please, gentlemen,” he said, “this isn’t necessary.”
“Shut up,” Bennington ordered the salesman. “It is necessary. I’ve been insulted. I insist on satisfaction.”
“There ain’t gonna be no duel at dawn on the moors,” Pritchard said. “You’re holdin’ your pistols, Colonel, and mine are still wearin’ leather. Put them guns away, or I’m going to end you. I ain’t gonna tell you again.”
“You’d best swallow your pride and do as he says,” Ditch called out to Bennington. “You have no idea what you’re facing.”
“This dispute can be settled without blood,” the salesman said, seizing upon an idea to both defuse the impending violence about to erupt, and return the crowd’s attention to the revolvers he was trying to sell.
“How about a marksmanship contest?” the salesman addressed the crowd. “A test of skill between these two pistoleers? One, a venerated military officer of the North during the recent troubles, and the other, a legendary Texas Ranger and soldier of the South? The winner, as decided by you fair citizens, will get the satisfaction so important to his honor. And as an added prize, a brand-new Colt’s revolver!”
The crowd roared their approval.
Bennington holstered his revolvers, utterly confident in his ability to defeat the Ranger. “I accept,” he said. “Providing, of course, my opponent isn’t too afraid to engage in a fair test of marksmanship?”
“Suits me,” Pritchard said.
The salesman started to set up more playing cards, but the crowd booed. “I see you’re a Remington man,” he remarked to Pritchard. “You’ll soon discover the superiority of the Colt revolver.”
“It’s the man,” Pritchard said, “not the gun. And puttin’ holes in bits of paper ain’t no way to determine who’s better with a shootin’ iron.”
“What do you suggest?” the salesman said.
“Have the colonel and me stand off ten paces, draw, and fire. Whoever’s still standin’ at the end of the contest, wins.” He smiled at Bennington. “Providing, of course, my opponent isn’t too afraid to engage in a fair test of marksmanship?”
If the crowd was enthusiastic before, they now went wild.
“Just remember,” Bennington admonished the crowd, “it was his idea. Because after I shoot this very large Texan dead, I want to hear no remonstrations.”
“I’m uncomfortable with this,” the salesman said. “I don’t want anyone to get hurt. Certainly not killed.”
“You want to sell pistols, don’t you?” Bennington asked. “Shut your mouth, put a bullet in that revolver, and fire it in the air. That’ll be the signal for us to draw.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Pritchard said. “I’m happy to let the colonel draw first.”
Bennington laughed. “You can’t be serious?”
Pritchard didn’t answer him.
“Very well,” Bennington said.
Pritchard paced off ten steps without turning his back on Colonel Bennington. The assembly, which had grown quite large, went silent.
The colonel smoothed his mustache and shook his wrists. He took in a deep breath, exhaled, and stared at Pritchard. Pritchard stood relaxed, with his hands loosely at his sides.
“Anytime you’re ready,” Pritchard said. Bennington immediately drew the pistol on his right hip.
Pritchard drew and fired, blazingly fast, and shot the colonel through his right wrist. He involuntarily gasped and dropped the revolver. The crowd cheered.
“That should settle it,” Pritchard said.
“Not by a mile,” an enraged Bennington snarled. He drew his other pistol.
Pritchard, in turn, drew his second gun, just as fast as he’d drawn the first. Another shot rang out, and Bennington dropped his second gun. Both of his wrists were now perforated and shattered. Ditch was relieved to see the shadow lift from Pritchard’s face.
“I let you keep your honor today,” Pritchard said to Bennington, “and your life. But somebody else will be feedin’ you your soup tonight.” The congregation howled with laughter.
The colonel stood holding his bloody wrists to his chest, bitter fury seething from every pore.
“I’ll get you for this,” Bennington hissed.
“I doubt that,” Pritchard said. “I suspect it’ll be a while before you terrorize any more decks of cards, or whiskey bottles, either.”
“I declare Joe Atherton,” the salesman said, raising Pritchard’s arm and giving Colonel Bennington a disdainful look, “the winner!”
The assembly once again swarmed Pritchard. They patted him on the back, whooping, hollering, and firing their guns into the air.
The salesman made his way through the crowd. “Your prize,” he said, handing over a brand-new Colt Single Action Army revolver. The weapon featured a custom five-and-a-half-inch barrel, which differed from the standard barrel length of seven and a half inches, and would at a later date go into regular production as the Artillery Model.
Pritchard hefted the weapon. “Has a good feel to it,” he said. “I like the balance.” He reached into his pocket and produced a double eagle. “I’ll take another, of the same barrel size, if you please. I always carry a pair.”
As soon as Pritchard purchased another Colt, dozens of eager men lined up behind him. The delighted salesman sold out his entire wagonload of revolvers within minutes.
“You could make a lot of money,” the salesman said to Pritchard, “if you were so inclined. I can use a man like you on the road. Especially now that the colonel’s shooting days are over.”
“Doing what?” Pritchard asked. “Shootin’ cards? No, thanks. I don’t shoot for sport.”
Chapter 51
The elated mob of cowboys insisted on dragging Pritchard, Ditch, and Paul into the Alamo Saloon for celebratory drinks. That a Texas Ranger, Smokin’ Joe Atherton, no less, had outshot and showed up a famous Yankee pistoleer who’d insulted the South, in Kansas, of all places, was too great a victory not to celebrate.
Pritchard and the Clemson brothers never did get to eat their lunch. They spent midday drinking beers and whiskey, none of which they bought, and reveling in the company of Texans. Neither Pritchard, Ditch, nor Paul had the heart to divulge that they weren’t really Texans themselves, and hailed originally from Missouri.
They made their exit from the Alamo late in the afternoon. Pritchard made a stop at McInerney’s Boot and Saddle Shop and got measured for a custom-fit, two-gun holster rig for his new Colt revolvers. After a much-needed steak-and-potatoes dinner, the trio found themselves back at their hotel. When they walked in, the clerk hailed Pritchard.
“Mr. Atherton,” he called out as they entered the lobby. “There’s a telegram for you.”
Pritchard opened the envelope to discover the telegram was sent by Tom Franchard, from Albuquerque.
His former Ranger captain’s telegram alerted Pritchard that if he needed cash, there was a thousand-dollar bounty on a wanted Texas prison escapee named Jack Saunders. Saunders was reputed to be in hiding out in Kansas City under an unknown alias.
Pritchard remembered Jack “Six-Card” Saunders well. He was a high-stakes gambler from El Paso who would find himself a big-money game and then deliberately lose to another player he’d specifically targeted. Through cheating, he’d ensure every other player in the game lost to the mark, as well. When the winner left the gambling establishment, his pockets stuffed with his winnings, Saunders, or one of his men, would be lying in wait to rob him. More often than not, the robbery resulted in the victim’s death by gunshot wound to the back.
Franchard and Pritchard had arrested Saunders after he’d fled to San Antonio. He was tried, convicted, and sentenced to twenty years in Huntsville. He should have been hanged for murder, but due to lack of witnesses, the Republic of Texas was only able to pin the robberies on
him.
“Looks like I’m going to Kansas City,” Pritchard said, showing Ditch and Paul the telegram, “to make some easy money.”
“You mind if we come along?” Paul asked.
“It’s only a half a day’s ride into Atherton from Kansas City,” Ditch said, “or a couple of hours by train.”
“It’d be good to go home,” Paul said, “after all these years. What do you say, Samuel?”
“Way ahead of you,” Pritchard said.
Chapter 52
Pritchard stepped off the train and took in Atherton. It had been almost ten years since he’d been run out of town.
He’d spent the last week in Kansas City, with Ditch and Paul, searching the saloons and gambling halls for Jack Saunders. They found him in a riverboat on the Missouri, slinging cards under the name John Barton. Since Saunders knew Pritchard’s face, Ditch and Paul sidled up to him at the card table. They made sure their fat wallets, laden with cash, were visible.
They let themselves be cheated all night. Paul and the other four gamblers at the table consistently lost, but Ditch couldn’t seem to lose. He alone raked in the pot from hand after hand. By midnight, he was several thousand dollars richer.
Pretending to be drunk, Ditch bid the other gamblers good night and stumbled down the gangplank to the dock. John Barton, claiming to have been cleaned out by Ditch’s extraordinary run of good luck, had already made his apologies and bowed out a few minutes prior to Ditch’s departure.
When Ditch reached dry land, he found two men with pistols facing him. Though both wore their neckerchiefs over their noses and mouths, one of them was wearing a fancy, ruffled suit suspiciously similar to the one Barton wore during the card game.
“Give me your wallet,” Barton demanded.
“Evening, Jack,” Pritchard said, stepping from out of the shadows. “It’s been a long time. Drop those guns, both of you.”
The masked gunman with Saunders spun around and tried to bring his pistol to bear on the tall Ranger. Pritchard drew and fired three times, the shots coming out almost as one. The robber fell off the dock, into the river, and didn’t surface.