by Sean Lynch
They were met at the steps of the Atherton Arms by yet another town marshal, this one with a Smith & Wesson in each hand. Pritchard’s shot hit him first, and Ditch’s an instant later. They stepped over his body and entered the lobby. There was no one about inside.
“That’s eight,” Ditch said as they once again topped off their rifles. “How many more marshals and deputies you reckon they’ve got left?”
“Can’t be too many more in town,” Pritchard said. “Those left are likely stationed upstairs to protect Shipley.”
Pritchard handed his rifle to Ditch. “Stay here,” he said, taking out his revolvers and inserting a sixth cartridge into each, “and watch our backs. A rifle’s too cumbersome inside. I’m going up for Burnell.”
“Take your time,” Ditch said, accepting the second Henry, “but don’t take forever.”
Pritchard patted his friend’s shoulder and headed upstairs with a Colt revolver in each hand.
A head peeked around the switchback on the second floor. Its owner took a potshot that flew well above Pritchard. He triggered each of his revolvers, and the deputy rolled down the stairs, past him, with two more holes in his face. Pritchard continued his ascent.
At the top floor, which Pritchard knew was the penthouse, he found two lawmen. One was a marshal, holding a shotgun, and the other a deputy, armed with a revolver. Both were in their late thirties or early forties, and looked nervous. Doubtless they’d heard the gunfire drawing closer. Pritchard surmised they were more experienced, given their ages, which was why they’d been assigned to defend the door to Shipley’s apartment.
“Drop those guns,” Pritchard called out from below them on the stairway, “and you can both walk out of here.”
“You go to hell,” the deputy said.
“Can’t say I didn’t give you a chance,” Pritchard said. He holstered his left-hand gun, removed his hat, and tossed it above him into the air over the horizon of the stairs.
Both lawmen reflexively fired. The marshal released both barrels, with a resounding boom, and the deputy fan-fired his revolver as rapidly as he could, emptying all six shots in a matter of a few seconds.
Pritchard redrew his left-side gun and dashed up the stairs. He fired twice, once with each gun, striking the lawmen in their chests. He shot them both once again, on their way to the floor.
Pritchard holstered his revolvers one at a time, after ejecting the spent cartridge cases and reloading the weapons. He picked up his hat and examined it. None of their shots had even nicked it.
From his position along the wall beside it, Pritchard knocked on the door. “Burnell Shipley,” he called out. “May I come in?”
“What do you want?” a muffled voice replied from within.
“I’ve come all the way from Texas,” Pritchard said. “You might at least invite me in. It’s the polite thing to do.”
“Door’s unlocked,” the voice said.
Pritchard again holstered one of his guns and turned the knob. It was unlocked. As expected, three shots rang out, and three holes appeared in the center of the door. He pushed the door open, but remained outside.
“That wasn’t very neighborly,” Pritchard said, as he darted in.
Instead of stopping on the threshold, Pritchard continued to move, redrawing his second gun as he entered. He found Marshal Elton Stacy, older, grayer, and just as skittish as when he’d last seen him, ten years ago. He was standing in the center of the luxurious room, from where he’d fired the three shots into the door, with a smoking pistol. The old marshal got one more shot off, which landed well behind Pritchard, before the crooked lawman was gunned down.
The spacious room was otherwise empty. Keeping an eye on the hallway, Pritchard knelt next to the dying marshal and tipped his hat back with the barrel of one of his pistols.
“You?” Stacy gurgled, through a mouthful of blood, as recognition struck him.
“None other,” Pritchard said as the marshal died. “Enjoy hell.” He stood up.
“I know you’re in there, Burnell,” Pritchard announced to the hallway. “Marshal Stacy is dead. So are most of his men. I’m coming down to talk.”
“You may as well,” a familiar voice called back. “But know that I have a hostage. There’s a woman in here with me. If you try anything, I’ll shoot her.”
“I’m putting away my guns,” Pritchard said. “Here I come.”
Chapter 54
Pritchard holstered his revolvers and walked down the hallway. He peeked quickly around the corner of the open bedroom door and saw Burnell Shipley sitting in a large bed. His mother, Dovie, was seated at the foot of the bed with her head hung and her hands folded in her lap. Shipley was holding a small, engraved revolver in his shaking hand. The weapon was cocked and pointed at her.
“Don’t be afraid,” Shipley said. “I won’t shoot. Not you, anyway.”
Pritchard entered the room and got his first full glimpse of Burnell Shipley in a decade. Shipley was morbidly obese and nearly bald. A few wispy strands of hair were stretched over a pate covered in oozing sores. His eyes were milky, and Pritchard suspected he could see only a few feet. Well enough, unfortunately, to hit Dovie at point-blank range with the gun in his hand.
“Allow me to introduce my wife, Dovie,” Shipley said, motioning at her with his revolver. “She bought this fancy little pistol, allegedly as a gift, for me. In truth, I think she intended to shoot me with it. Her mistake was buying it through my store. The man who runs the place for me, Oliver Manning, told me all about it. Marshal Stacy, the man you killed in my parlor just now, found it hidden in her room.”
“It’s too bad she didn’t get a chance to use it,” Pritchard said.
Dovie stared at her long-gone son, wide-eyed, with her mouth agape. Pritchard put a finger to his lips and winked.
“My men tell me you’re Smokin’ Joe Atherton,” Shipley went on. “I’ve heard of you. How could I not, with the same name as this town? Tell me, Joe; why is a famous Texas Ranger in Missouri, shooting all my men?”
“I came for you, Burnell,” he said.
“That’s ridiculous,” Shipley said. “I’ve never even been to Texas.”
“Neither had I,” Pritchard said, “until you murdered my father, burned our home, stole our property, and forced my mother to marry you.”
Dovie began to cry.
Shipley squinted up at Pritchard, trying to bring the big Ranger into focus. “I don’t understand,” he said.
“Of course you don’t understand,” Pritchard said. He removed his hat, revealing the scar. “You were told Deputy Gaines shot me in the head and buried me down by the river. My name isn’t Joe Atherton, Burnell. It’s Samuel Pritchard.”
Realization hit Shipley like a shotgun blast. His face began to flush, and the tremor in his hand worsened.
“I married you,” Dovie said, turning to face Shipley. Her tears had been replaced with rage. “Even though you killed my husband and took everything I had, I honored our agreement. I debased myself, all these years, to save my son’s life. You lied to me. You tried to murder my boy. You kept me as a slave, pretending he was alive, but believing he was dead.”
“That’s right,” Shipley said smugly, a smile spreading over his cracked lips, “I did all of that and more. If you’re expecting an apology, you’ll be disappointed.”
Dovie suddenly lunged at Shipley, throwing herself on top of him and pummeling him with both fists. Before Pritchard could reach them from across the room, a shot rang out.
Dovie gasped, clutched her abdomen, and slid from the bed to the floor. Pritchard snatched the Cloverleaf revolver from Shipley’s hand, at the same time striking a punch to the side of the bloated mayor’s head that rendered him senseless.
Dovie lay on the floor, a red stain spreading across her stomach. “Samuel,” she said, reaching up to him. Her own face was ashen. “Oh, Samuel.”
“Mama,” he said. He knelt beside her.
“Finish Burnell,” she said, “and
it’s all Idelle’s.”
“Stay quiet, Mama,” Pritchard said. “Don’t talk. Save your strength.”
“No!” she said, grabbing his arm. “I’m sick, Samuel. I was dying anyway. I’ve been infected by Burnell. This way is . . . better.”
“No,” Pritchard said.
“Yes,” she contradicted him. “Hear what I have to say. I went to Jefferson City, to the capital, with Idelle. I made sure the papers were all in order.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Burnell owns this town and everything in it. But I’m his wife. If he dies before me, I inherit everything. When I pass, it all goes to Idelle. The hotels, the stockyards, the mill, the railroad depot; the entire town. But he must die before I do. Get Dr. Mauldin. Hurry.”
He ran out of the apartment to the stairwell and called down to Ditch. “Fetch Dr. Mauldin,” he yelled. “Get him up here as fast as you can!” Ditch ran off, a rifle in each hand. Pritchard returned to his mother.
He picked her up, carried her into the parlor, and set her gently on a sofa. “Wait here,” he told her. “I’ll take care of Burnell.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Rest,” he said, ignoring her question. “Don’t worry.”
When Pritchard reentered the bedroom, he found Shipley dazed but conscious. He grabbed the pitcher from the nightstand and threw the water in his face.
A soaking Shipley blinked up at him. “Are you going to kill me now?”
“Sure as I’m standing here,” Pritchard said.
“It doesn’t matter,” Shipley said. “Look at me; I’m already dead. I can’t even get out of this bed. But you’d better know you’ll be right behind me. Sheriff Foster, Eli Gaines, and a posse of deputies will see you die by nightfall.”
“Not likely,” Pritchard said. “The next train from Kansas City doesn’t arrive before noon tomorrow.”
“You’re wrong,” Shipley said. “As soon as my men reported what happened at the school, I had a telegram sent to the hotel where Foster and Gaines are staying. Kansas City is only twenty miles away from Atherton, or did you forget? They’ll be here before dark.”
Pritchard heard voices in the parlor. He returned to find Ditch and an out-of-breath Dr. Mauldin. He remembered Atherton’s only physician from his youth.
“Samuel Pritchard?” Mauldin said incredulously. “Is that you?”
“Mama’s been shot,” Pritchard said, ignoring his query, “by Burnell.” He led the doctor to Dovie, fading in and out on the sofa. The physician immediately began to examine her.
“I’m so sorry,” Ditch said, looking down at Dovie.
“We’ve got more trouble,” Pritchard told Ditch. “Burnell got a telegram off to Foster and Gaines. They’re ridin’ hard, with a posse, for Atherton as we speak. We’ve only three or four hours before they get here.”
“We’ll be ready.”
Dr. Mauldin stood up and motioned for Pritchard to join him in the hallway.
“She’s been shot through the liver. There’s nothing I can do. She doesn’t have long.”
Ditch watched the shadow fall over Pritchard’s features again. “Come with me,” Pritchard told the doctor. “Stay with Mama a moment, will you?” he asked Ditch.
Pritchard and Dr. Mauldin entered the bedroom. “Hello, Dr. Mauldin,” Burnell said. “Are you here to witness my murder?”
“What?” the confused doctor asked.
“Burnell is about to expire,” Pritchard said. “You’re going to witness it and sign the death certificate stating the exact time of death and that he died of a heart attack. Your report will indicate that he became deranged and murdered his wife, but perished of heart failure before she passed away.”
“I most certainly will not,” Dr. Mauldin said. “I will not be a party to murder.”
Pritchard reached out, one-handed, and grabbed the doctor by the throat. He squeezed until Mauldin opened his mouth, then he drew a revolver with his other hand and stuck the barrel in, all the way to the back of his throat.
“I applaud the sudden arrival of your ethics,” Pritchard said. “But tell me, Doctor, how many times have you signed death certificates stating, ‘killed in self-defense’ after one of Burnell’s marshals or deputies gunned down an unarmed man? Or how many times have you listed ‘natural causes’ on the document after a hospitality girl at the Sidewinder bled out following one of your operations to relieve her of child?”
Dr. Mauldin’s face was turning from red to blue. “If you don’t do this, for my mother, you’re of no use to me at all,” Pritchard said. “I’ll end you, right along with Shipley. My mother’s dying, I’ve got a posse on the way, and I’m fresh out of time.” He thumbed back the Colt’s hammer with a loud click. “So are you. What’s it going to be, Doc?”
Dr. Mauldin bobbed his head up and down, signaling his cooperation. Pritchard withdrew his revolver, lowered the hammer, and released him. The physician fell to all fours, gasping for air.
“I guess my time’s up,” Shipley said. “Go ahead and shoot, Ranger.”
“Who said I was going to shoot you?” Pritchard said, reaching for a pillow.
Chapter 55
Dovie Pritchard died in her son’s arms, a smile on her angelic face despite the pain. She expired shortly after Burnell Shipley’s “heart attack.”
Her dying words were to ask her son’s forgiveness. The last time she’d seen him, when he was seventeen years old and leaving Atherton supposedly forever, he swore he’d never pardon her for what she’d done.
“Of course I forgive you, Mama,” he said, brushing her hair from her face. “You ain’t done anything to need forgiveness for. I love you.”
Dr. Mauldin signed both death certificates, as Pritchard specified, and swore to testify to their veracity if ever required. Which was prudent, on his part, since a grieving Pritchard swore to hunt him down and make the sputtering agony of Burnell Shipley’s death seem like a mercy killing if he didn’t.
Pritchard sat for a while, cradling his mother’s body. Dr. Mauldin left, promising to notify the local undertaker to care for her remains.
“We’ve got to go, Samuel,” Ditch finally said. “It’s getting on toward evening. We need to get back to Paul and Idelle, and come up with a plan for when that posse arrives.”
Pritchard nodded and gently released Dovie. He kissed her on the forehead and covered her with a sheet Ditch found in a closet.
Pritchard and Ditch checked their guns and left the hotel by the back stairs. While fairly certain they’d taken out all the deputies and marshals in town, they didn’t want to risk gunfire from any holdouts. They selected a route they’d frequented as boys to navigate the woods. It took longer than going through town, but they soon reached their destination.
When they arrived behind the schoolyard they found Rusty, along with Paul and Ditch’s horses, hidden in a copse of trees. There was no sign of activity at the schoolhouse. With their rifles at the ready, they left the cover of the forest and crept up to the school.
“Paul?” Ditch called out. “Idelle?” There was no answer.
They crept around the one-level building. When Pritchard and Ditch reached the front, they found the door wide open. They peered inside. Someone was lying on the schoolhouse floor.
“Paul!” Ditch cried out. They rushed in.
Paul Clemson was dead. He’d been shot several times. Empty cartridge cases lay about, but his revolver and rifle were gone. Ditch touched his brother’s shoulder and lowered his head.
“They took Idelle,” a voice said. Pritchard and Ditch looked up to find Alice Nettles, her eyes red from crying, standing in the doorway.
“Who did?” Pritchard asked.
“Sheriff Foster and Deputy Gaines,” she said. “They were here, along with men I’ve never seen in town before.”
“That’s not possible,” Ditch said, wiping his eyes. “They couldn’t have ridden all the way from Kansas City already.”
“They d
idn’t,” she said. “I heard them talking. They bragged to Idelle about commandeering a locomotive in Kansas City and forcing the engineer to bring them here at gunpoint.”
“That would explain it,” Pritchard said. “Was Idelle hurt?”
“No,” she said. “At least she wasn’t when I last saw her. Paul put up a terrific fight. He shot three of them, but there were just too many.”
“Where’s your husband?”
“He’s in the house, lying down. One of them pistol-whipped him, for no reason at all. He’s groggy, but he’ll be all right.”
“Do you know where they went?” Ditch asked.
“They told me to tell you they’d be at the Sidewinder Saloon, if you wanted to get Idelle back.”
“Do they know who I am?” Pritchard said.
“I don’t think so,” Alice Nettles said. “They know about Ditch, because Sheriff Foster and Deputy Gaines recognized Paul. They think you’re a Texas Ranger named Joe Atherton. They’re confused as to why you’re here, along with the Clemson brothers, causing trouble.”
“You’d best get back to your husband,” Pritchard said. “Thank you for speaking with us.”
“I’m sorry about Paul,” she said, starting to cry again. “I remember he was a good boy.”
Ditch handed his rifle to Pritchard. He took the elderly schoolteacher in his arms and comforted her. “Paul was a good brother, too,” he said, dropping a few tears himself.
Once they’d collected themselves, and Mrs. Nettles went home, Pritchard handed Ditch back his rifle.
“I have to get Idelle,” Pritchard said.
“Wrong,” Ditch said, his face hardening. “We have to get Idelle. After that, I’m gonna kill every one of those sons of bitches who had a hand in murdering Paul.”
“Wrong yourself,” Pritchard said. “We’re gonna kill ’em. C’mon. Let’s get the horses.”
They returned to the stand of trees where their horses were concealed. “You ain’t expecting us to ride to the Sidewinder?” Ditch asked. “We’d make pretty easy targets.”