Pritchard was taking it in, frozen and aghast, when Ditch grabbed his arm and pointed to the big sycamore off to one side of the house. There, hanging by the neck from a rope looped over one of the big tree’s stout branches, was his father. One of his boots had fallen off. He swung slowly back and forth.

“Pa!” Pritchard gasped. He started toward him. Suddenly there was an explosion in his head and everything went hazy. The last thing he remembered was seeing the ground jump up toward his face.

* * *

Pritchard blinked, and his vision came back into focus. He was on his back, looking up at the sky. It was late afternoon, and the sun had begun to dip below the tree line. He carefully sat up. His head throbbed.

“Shhhh,” Ditch cooed, his hand over Pritchard’s mouth. “Stay quiet. There’s a couple of ’em still out there.”

Pritchard realized he was no longer at the edge of the woodline. Ditch removed his hand.

“I ain’t proud of smackin’ you in the noggin with a rifle butt,” Ditch whispered, “but I ain’t gonna apologize. We both know I can’t take you. If I’d let you run out there, you’d be swingin’ in that tree next to your pa.”

Pritchard slowly nodded. “How long have I been out?”

“Couple of hours. I drug you back into the woods, so’s we wouldn’t get seen. Your house is nothing but a pile of ashes.”

“Let’s go look.”

“You ain’t gonna get stupid again, are you?”

“No,” Pritchard said. “I’ve got my wits about me now.”

Ditch picked up the Hawken, and both boys crept silently again to the edge of the woodline. What awaited them was exactly as Ditch had described. The house was a smoldering black heap of charred wood. The barn was intact, but the doors were open, and all the horses gone. All but two of the gray raiders had departed.

The remaining two horsemen had dismounted and tied their animals nearby. One, sipping from a bottle and chewing a blade of grass, sat with his back against the sycamore tree where Thomas Pritchard’s body still hung. The other stood next to him, leisurely smoking a pipe. Both had removed their canvas masks. That a dead man swayed overhead seemed to bother them not in the least.

“You didn’t see any sign of my ma or Idelle, did you?” Pritchard whispered, angrily wiping back tears he hoped his friend Ditch didn’t see. He was almost afraid to ask the question.

“No sign of them,” Ditch assured him.

“Ma took Idelle into town to do some shopping this morning,” Pritchard explained.

“It’s just as well they weren’t home,” Ditch said. Neither wanted to think about what would have transpired if his mother or his nine-year-old sister, Idelle, had been present when the riders arrived.