Pritchard and Ruiz had tougher going. Ditch and Franchard were obscured from view by the bunkhouse, but Pritchard and Ruiz had twenty yards of open space to traverse between the corral and the guards. The bunkhouse’s guard, a Triple B hand, sat on the front porch of the large one-level building, lighting a second cigarette with his Henry rifle across his knees. The Mexican soldier stood his post directly in front of the one-story ranch house’s front door.

Ruiz crept along the bunkhouse, beneath the windows, with his knife in his teeth. He made eye contact with Pritchard, who had worked his way behind a trough near the well, twenty feet from the Mexican soldier.

Ruiz whistled, and both men sprang into action. Ruiz rushed the seated cowboy. As the Triple B guard looked up, he was butt-stroked in the face with a Henry rifle before he could cry out. As he fell, unconscious, Ruiz cut his throat.

The Mexican soldier heard the scuffle behind him, across the yard, and turned to investigate. He saw Ruiz pounce on the other guard. He raised his army-issued Spencer repeating carbine, and was drawing the hammer back, when Pritchard grabbed him from behind. Like Ruiz, the powerful Pritchard struck a blow that rendered the soldier unconscious. He finished the guard by stabbing him in the back of the neck.

Ruiz whistled softly again, and Franchard and Ditch came running toward them. There was no sign their actions had alerted anyone inside either the ranch house or bunkhouse. Ruiz tossed Pritchard his Henry carbine back, having confiscated a similar rifle belonging to the guard he’d just killed.

“The fuses are lit,” Franchard whispered, as he joined Pritchard and Ruiz. All four quietly levered their Henry rifles. “You all know what to do. Once the bunkhouse blows, I’ll take the back of the ranch house, Ditch and Al the sides, and Joe the front. Torch the place, and when they come runnin’ out let ’em have it.”

The four men scurried to duck behind the trough and stone well. Pritchard, Ditch, and Ruiz watched Franchard set down his rifle, close his eyes, and plug his ears with his thumbs. They all looked at one another, then hastily followed suit.

A tremendous explosion erupted under the bunkhouse, followed by a second, equally thunderous, blast an instant later. The two cases of dynamite detonated almost as one.

The ground shook. Pritchard, Ditch, Franchard, and Ruiz felt the concussion all the way to their bones. They sensed the brief flash, even though their eyes were shut. When they opened them, the entire bunkhouse, and the nearly fifty Triple B hands and Mexican soldiers inside, had been obliterated. Only a large, smoking hole, a mushroom-shaped cloud of dust, and a cascade of falling wood splinters and ash remained.

“Get goin’!” Franchard yelled, awakening the others from their awestruck states. They grabbed their rifles and ran to their assigned places surrounding the ranch house.