Pritchard and Ditch separated, taking cover behind a trough and rain barrel. The lawmen fired rapidly and recklessly. None of their rounds struck near either Pritchard or Ditch. Pritchard took careful aim and shot the gunman inside the tavern, through the window. By then, Ditch had already taken out two of the lawmen foolishly shooting from the open. Pritchard dropped the third with a headshot.

“These Atherton lawmen sure don’t shoot very well,” Ditch commented, as he and Pritchard reloaded.

“How good a shot do you need to be,” Pritchard replied, “to shoot unarmed men in the back?”

They resumed their march to the hotel. They’d made another twenty yards when a deputy began shooting with a pistol from an open, upper, window at the Sidewinder Saloon. Both Pritchard and Ditch retuned fire. They were rewarded with a woman’s scream from within the room. The lawman slumped forward, his body half in and half out of the window. His revolver clattered to the wooden sidewalk below.

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.