Ditch looked to his friend’s face. He was gratified to note the lethal shadow had not yet overtaken Pritchard’s features.

“Do it,” Lieutenant Gabel insisted.

“Not today,” Pritchard said, releasing the hammer. “I ain’t going to shoot you. I believe I’ll leave you in this field to die slow, without my assistance. You can go to your end knowing that while Ditch and I may not be Confederate officers, nor gentlemen, we’re better men than you.”

“That’s it,” Ditch said, removing the chain from Pritchard’s ankle. Ditch helped himself to Gabel’s other revolver.

Pritchard and Ditch both stood up, but started to go in different directions.

“You’re heading the wrong way,” Pritchard admonished. “That’s the way back to camp.”

“I know,” Ditch said. “I’m going back for my pa’s horse and rifle.”

“Are you loco?” Pritchard asked. “They’re fighting a battle back there, or can’t you hear?”

“I ain’t leaving without what’s mine. Go on ahead, I’ll catch up.”

“I ain’t going to let you go back into that reb camp alone,” Pritchard said.

“No use in both of us getting killed,” Ditch argued.

“I’ve got an idea,” Pritchard said, jumping back into the trench. He came up a minute later with a Union coat and cap. “Put these on,” he ordered Ditch, “and grab one of those rifles.”

While Ditch picked up one of the rifles belonging to their execution squad and ensured it was still charged, Pritchard recovered the leg-irons and draped them, unlocked, over his wrists. Then he took Ditch’s revolver and tucked his Confederate tunic over both pistols in his belt.

“I’m your prisoner,” Pritchard said. “You’re going to march me back into that camp, pretty as you please.”

“And you called me loco?” Ditch said.

Pritchard started to walk toward the Confederate camp. His hands were folded before him, near his concealed revolvers, though ostensibly restrained in irons. Ditch walked dutifully behind him, the bayonet of his Fayetteville musket in Pritchard’s back.

They passed the picket, where dead men lay all around them. The vast majority of the bodies were clad in Confederate gray.

In the camp, still shrouded in fog and a heavy blanket of gun smoke, the firing had grown sporadic. Dead and wounded men, many moaning and crying, covered the ground. Pritchard and Ditch had to step over a number of corpses to navigate their way towards the corral, which was fortunately near the edge of the camp. What was left of the fighting was now deeper within the interior of the post.

Pritchard and Ditch entered the corral. Several of the horses had been struck by gunfire and lay dead or wounded in the rope pen. To Ditch’s relief, Snake and Rusty were both unharmed.