He wasn’t even sure why he began uncovering Pritchard’s body. His grieving mind angrily contemplated stealing a couple of horses from the Atherton stable, returning to the grave, and freighting the body back into town, as Pritchard had done with the two dead deputies. He wanted Pritchard’s mother to know she’d been cheated by Shipley, and her devil’s bargain with the corrupt mayor hadn’t saved her son.

He discarded the thought as quickly as it came. Such an act wouldn’t bring Pritchard back, and would rouse Shipley against him. Worse, the venal mayor would undoubtedly go after his father.

For now, he simply wanted Pritchard out of the shallow, unmarked hole. He thought he might rebury him alongside his pa, near the pond at what was once their family’s home. He figured he owed his lifelong friend that much.

Pritchard wasn’t buried deep. Ditch was easily able to scoop away the loose earth. In less than a minute, most of the large, upper body was exposed. He found his friend lying faceup, his head turned to one side. There was a jagged, bloody, circular bullet hole at his hairline over his right eye.

Ditch was uncovering his legs when Pritchard moaned. The sound startled him so badly he fell back onto his rump. With eyes like saucers and a pounding heart, he scuttled away from the open grave.

An instant later, Ditch watched in amazement as Pritchard moaned again. Dirt erupted from his nostrils and mouth, and his head lolled from side to side. Samuel was alive!

Ditch scrambled to the grave, cradled his friend’s head, and gently lifted him to a seated position. As Pritchard coughed and sputtered for air, Ditch examined his wounds.

The .36 caliber ball, fired from Deputy Eli Gaines’s 1851 Navy Colt, had entered the crown of Pritchard’s forehead at a downward angle because he was on his knees. The projectile skirted the skull beneath the skin and exited the back of his head behind his left ear. What looked like a through-and-through headshot was actually only a grazing wound, albeit under the scalp. The impact rendered Pritchard unconscious, and the graphic appearance of entrance and exit wounds on opposite sides of his head led his would-be murderers to conclude he was dead.

“Can you hear me, Samuel?” Ditch asked excitedly. Pritchard’s eyes were caked over with dirt.

“Not so loud,” Pritchard croaked. “My head hurts.”

Ditch hugged his friend, as his tears turned to laughter. “I’m gonna call you Lazarus from now on!”

“My noggin feels like somebody drove a railroad spike through it.”

“Can you stand?”

“I think so.”

Ditch helped the shaky Pritchard to his feet and led him to the river. Pritchard dunked his head, washing away dirt and blood, while Ditch unfolded his bedroll and began tearing his only clean shirt into bandages.