Pritchard had tossed his dynamite from the roof above the saloon, then shot as many of Stiles’s men as he could with his Henry rifle before the dust cloud from too many detonations, and a fogbank of gun smoke, made accurate shots from distance impossible. He raced down the stairs from the roof to engage the outlaws in close-quarters combat in the street.

When he reached the ground floor, Pritchard shot a raider twice with his rifle, from the hip, as he tried to enter the saloon. Maggie shot another outlaw entering behind that one with her Dragoon. Pritchard handed her his Henry and ammunition belt and headed out through the saloon doors with a revolver in each hand.

The street was filled with dust, gun smoke, and the sound of men and horses bawling in agony. Pritchard made his way through the carnage across the street.

A bloodied outlaw, trying to stagger to his feet from his knees, raised his pistol. Pritchard shot him in the forehead as he passed. He spotted another, aiming his revolver shakily at him from the ground. Pritchard quick-fired two rounds, one from each pistol, into the outlaw’s neck and head.

When he reached the barbershop, Pritchard discovered the door kicked open. He rushed inside.

He found two outlaws, both wounded, holding Bina and her elderly Apache assistant hostage. They were using the women as shields, cowering behind them with their pistol barrels wedged against their captives’ heads. Bina’s revolver was on the floor at her feet.

“Drop them guns,” the man holding Bina ordered Pritchard. He peered from around Bina’s shoulder. Pritchard holstered his revolvers and slowly raised his hands. The outlaw had been shot at least once in the torso, and had a nasty barbed-wire gash across his face.

“Take it easy,” Pritchard said calmly. “My guns are put away. What do you want?”

“I want a couple of horses,” the man continued, straining to get the words out. “Then me and my partner are going to ride out of town with these here squaws. Iffen you don’t do what I say, and get us what we want, we’ll plug both of ’em, right now.”

“Some water, too,” the other outlaw rasped. He appeared to have been gut-shot and could barely stand. Bina had evidently scored hits on both of them before being taken captive.

“Okay,” Pritchard said. “I’ve got what you need.”

“Where?” the first outlaw, the one holding Bina, said.

“Right here,” Pritchard said as he drew both revolvers.

Pritchard’s two .44 bullets, simultaneously fired, took each outlaw in the only portion of their faces they’d uncovered to speak from behind their hostages. Both were dead before they hit the floor.

The elder Apache woman released a torrent of profanity and kicked the outlaw lying dead at her feet. Bina walked over to Pritchard, kissed him, and said, “Thank you, Shadow Man.”