Ditch found a rickety cropper’s shack at the edge of a vast field of corn, on a plot of land twenty miles south of Atherton. That was far too close for his liking, but he had no choice. Pritchard simply couldn’t go on.

Ditch led Pritchard into the shack, got some water, peach preserves, and a bit of whiskey into him, and wrapped his trembling friend in the blankets he’d pilfered from the stable. Then he grained the horses and tied them out of sight behind the crude hut.

By afternoon it started to rain. It was a heavy late-October downpour. It was cold in the shack, but both boys knew a fire was out of the question. Ditch gnawed on dried beef, kept watch over Pritchard as he fitfully dozed, and made sure the Hawken rifle remained handy.

Not long after dark, Ditch thought he heard a sharp noise outside and the horses whinny and stomp. He couldn’t be sure, due to the sound of rainfall on the leaky, thatched roof. He cautioned Pritchard to be quiet, picked up the Hawken rifle, and went out to investigate.

Soon came the report of a scuffle, then a thud. The door to the shack flew open, and Ditch was shoved roughly inside to the floor. He was missing his hat, and blood trickled from his hairline. Two soggy men, both wearing Union blue, held revolvers on him. One was holding his Hawken, the other a lantern.

“Got you, you horse-stealin’ little son of a bitch,” the one with Ditch’s rifle announced triumphantly. “You’ll be hangin’ from a tree come mornin’.”

“Who do we have here?” the other asked, pointing his pistol at the form lying under the blankets.

“He ain’t nobody,” Ditch said, from his hands and knees. “Just a fellow I met on the road. Pay him no mind. He’s sick.”

“Come out from under those blankets,” the shorter of the Union men ordered.

Ditch recognized him. It was Deputy Merle Crittenden. The taller man with him, holding the Hawken, was a Jackson County deputy also, although Ditch couldn’t remember his name. The deputies were obviously part of the posse searching for him, and wearing Union colors to prevent being mistaken for rebels if they encountered Union forces.

“You heard me,” Crittenden commanded. “Come out from under there, where we can see you.”

“Sure thing,” replied a weak voice from underneath the blanket.

The blankets were tossed aside and Pritchard came out shooting. His first shot, fired from Marshal Stacy’s Colt .44, took the deputy holding the Hawken through the right eye. As soon as he fired, he rolled. Deputy Crittenden’s return shot struck empty blankets.

Pritchard’s second shot hit Crittenden square through the middle, and his third hit the Jackson County deputy only an inch higher than the first. Crittenden dropped his pistol and lantern, fell back against the wall, and slid slowly to the ground.