It took a week for Pritchard and Ditch to ride the 350 miles from Waco to the border town of Del Rio, Texas. The first couple of days, Pritchard was so weak Ditch thought he was going to fall out of the saddle. His complexion was sallow, his lean body was hunched over, and he spoke little, as if saving all his energy to remain atop his horse.

At Pritchard’s insistence, however, the duo pushed hard, riding all day with little rest. At Ditch’s insistence, they made camp each day by sunset, ate a hearty meal, and slept the entire night. It was a far different journey from the one they’d made during the war, when they were forced to travel by night and sleep by day to survive. By the third day, Pritchard had strengthened considerably, and by the end of the week he was sitting in the saddle almost like his old self.

Ditch carefully watched his brooding friend. On several occasions, as they rode the trail in silence, he thought he saw Pritchard’s death-shadow descend for a brief instant, before rapidly flickering away. He’d only previously witnessed the lethal specter on Pritchard’s features during violent, life-or-death actions he was forced to undertake to save his, Ditch’s, or someone else’s life. That the dark cowl fell over him while simply riding, without being triggered by a deadly threat or the need to kill, was cause for concern.

Five days into their journey, a band of six Comanche braves on horseback began paralleling them from a distance. After a few hours of shadowing the two riders and their packhorse, the braves slowly began to close in. When they got to within two hundred yards, Pritchard stopped his horse, pulled his Henry rifle from the saddle scabbard, and stared at them. Ditch followed suit. After a long, tense moment, the Comanche turned their horses around and rode off. Ditch couldn’t help but wonder, as he watched the death veil again fade from Pritchard’s face, if the superstitious Indians had seen it, too, and its appearance was the reason they’d elected to depart.

The horse Ditch brought Pritchard was a palomino, eighteen hands tall, named Biscuit. Though not his beloved Rusty, Biscuit was a strong horse of reliable temperament, and he could tell his friend was pleased with the choice.

Each night, while Ditch started the fire, made the fixings for supper, and tended to their three horses, Pritchard practiced with his pistols. Just as he had years before, he unloaded his guns and wedged a coin into a tree’s bark at head level. Then he would draw, aim, and fire, over and over again, with each hand, for hours at a time.

The first night’s practice, Ditch could tell the pain from Pritchard’s healing wounds was hindering his movement. He was still lightning fast, but there was an awkwardness, almost a hesitancy, to his draw.