There had been feuds, raids, gunfights, and even murder, sometimes between members of the same family who’d chosen different camps. Such was life in the border states during the war, and it was Thomas Pritchard’s goal to remain as nonpartisan as a man could be in such volatile times. A big part of his neutral posture was keeping his son Samuel away from guns.

Before the war, it was rare to see men wearing sidearms. Though hunting rifles were common outside of town, and widely employed, a man wearing a pistol openly on his belt within town limits, who wasn’t a lawman or soldier, was a peculiar sight.

Now most men sported pistols, and not just in the country. Just about every fellow walking the streets of Atherton was heeled. Consequently, the last thing Thomas Pritchard wanted was for his son to become known as a skilled shot. Such a reputation, in these hair-trigger times, could get a man, or teenage boy, killed.

Pritchard took in, and let out, a slow, easy breath. Steadying the rifle’s front sight on the gobbler’s head, he gently placed his finger on the trigger. He had to make the shot count. The only ball, cap, and powder the boys brought were in the gun.

He was about to squeeze when the sound of gunshots rang out. There were five or six of them, off in the distance. The flock of turkey before him spooked and scattered.

“Damn,” Pritchard cursed at the missed opportunity. He lowered the rifle’s hammer and the boys stood up. “Who fired off all those shots?”

“I don’t know,” Ditch answered, “but look yonder.” He nudged Pritchard and pointed over the tree line to the east. “Smoke. It looks to be comin’ from where those shots came from.”

“That’s our place,” Pritchard said, dread creeping into his voice.

“I know,” Ditch said.

The boys started running.

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Pritchard and Ditch approached the edge of the woods bordering the Pritchards’ property at a full sprint. Ditch had taken the Hawken back, and both boys were out of breath from their all-out run. Pritchard was in the lead, as his much longer legs and greater strength gave him speed over his medium-sized friend. The smell of burning wood, and the increasing glow of flames as they neared, urged them onward.

Pritchard reached the woodline first and halted. Ditch skidded to a stop on his heels. Both stared in horror at the scene before them.

The Pritchard home was fully engulfed and sending a billowing trail of black smoke skyward. There were riders, six of them, wearing gray reb coats and cloth masks under their hats. All had pistols. Some wielded torches.