“You may not know it, boy,” the marshal said, “but horse thievery is a hanging offense.”

“It ain’t thievery when the horses belong to you,” Ditch said. “These two are wearing my pa’s brand.”

Marshal Stacy held up the lantern and squinted. “I know you. You’re Rand Clemson’s boy, Davey.”

“That’s right. These horses are mine.”

“Like hell,” Stacy said. “They were brought in by county deputies. They’ve been commandeered for the war effort, on Mayor Shipley’s orders. They’re now owned by the U.S. government. Get off that horse. I ain’t gonna tell you again.”

“All right,” Ditch said. “Don’t get your britches in a bunch. I’m a-comin’ down.”

But instead of easing himself to the ground, the athletic youth suddenly leaped from the saddle. He tackled the overweight, middle-aged town marshal, knocking the pistol and lantern from his hands and sending both of them crashing to the straw-covered ground. Ditch, as intended, landed on top.

Before the terrified marshal could shout an alarm, Ditch furiously fist-beat him into unconsciousness. Once he was sure Stacy was out cold, and he’d caught his breath, he extinguished the lantern. Then he took the lawman’s revolver, an Army Colt .44, and his hat, before remounting Snake. He rode out of Atherton unnoticed, leading Rusty, and was back at Pritchard’s side in less than an hour.

Ditch left his friend concealed in a stand of trees, wrapped in his bedroll with the Hawken rifle for company, before going into town. Unfortunately, he was only a mile from where he’d risen from the grave. Dizzy and with blurred vision, Pritchard wasn’t strong enough to walk far, and Ditch wasn’t strong enough to carry his extra-large friend without help.

By the time Ditch got back, he found Pritchard wracked with fever. He explained what transpired at the livery stable as he disinfected the gunshot wounds with whiskey. The urgent need to put as much distance between themselves and the Atherton posse that was soon to be on their trail went unspoken.

Pritchard stifled howls of agony as Ditch poured whiskey on his head and replaced his makeshift bandages with strips of clean bedsheet, courtesy of Idelle and the Atherton Arms Hotel. With his friend’s help, and now wearing the marshal’s hat, Pritchard was able to mount Rusty. The two boys headed off into the night.

They wouldn’t get far. They rode south all night, staying off the roads, but by sunup, Pritchard had become delirious and had fallen off his horse. Ditch was able to get him remounted, but only just. He knew if the barely conscious Pritchard fell off again, he’d never get him back in the saddle.