“... Not a Single Notch!”

Captain Neal was the calmest Ranger of ’em all. Outlaws never doubted that he’d kill if necessary—he just never let it get necessary.

- WILLIAM CX HANCOCK WITH MRS. EDGAR THOMAS NEAL

The young Ranger rode out from Rio Grande City through the prickly pear flats where Pancho Morales was rendezvousing with his woman. He tied his horse some distance from the shack, then stealthily closed in on foot. He kicked the back door open and, in spite of his 225-pound frame, stepped inside with the speed of a panther, a Colt gripped in his right hand.

“Raise your hands, Pancho! This is Edgar Neal. Got a warrant for your arrest.”

Pancho and the woman were seated at a rude table, drinking tequila. Fortunately, the light was provided by a kerosene wall-lamp out of the fugitive’s reach. His back was toward Neal. With half-raised hands, he got slowly to his feet and faced about.

“Amigo mio,” he said, his eyes venomous slits, “Pancho very sorry we meet like this.”

“Me, too, Pancho. Powerful sorry,” said Neal with moving sincerity. In his youth, he had clerked in a grocery store where the Mexican was a delivery boy. Later, the two had punched cattle together for various South Texas outfits. But now, in 1896, Morales was high on the Texas Rangers’ wanted list—a rustler, he had killed several men and eventually murdered a Texas lawman. Edgar Neal had been ordered to bring him in alive.

“Hand over your pistol slow and easy with your fingertips and gun butt first.” He was speaking so kindly that he might have been requesting Pancho to pass the tortillas.

Morales did not comply. “Señor, it is better that Pancho die here than be hanged by gringos.” He was very tense and obviously getting set to attempt a draw. Neal’s non-killing record was hanging by the merest thread.