Pritchard and Ditch crept across the lawn toward the two men in gray coats. Ditch held the Hawken at the ready, with the hammer back. Pritchard grasped Ditch’s skinning knife in his left hand and a hatchet in his right.

It was dusk, and full dark was only minutes away. The flickering firelight from what was left of the Pritchard home, and the crackling of still-burning embers, cast dancing shadows and covered the sounds of their movement.

The two boys carefully circumnavigated the property and emerged from behind the sentries. The Union men were by now both seated and looked to be dozing, though one held a pistol loosely in each hand.

Pritchard picked up a hatchet from the woodpile near the barn as they made their way around the yard. He tried not to look above the two gray-coated men, at his father’s hanging body, but found he couldn’t keep his gaze from drifting up. The best he could do was stare at his pa’s dangling feet, one bootless, while keeping the two men below in sight.

Suddenly Ditch and Pritchard were upon them. Bob Toole saw the boys first. He cried out a warning, started to rise, and went for the pistol stuck in the wide belt around his gray reb coat.

Pritchard brought down the razor-sharp hatchet and sliced off Toole’s right hand in one clean swoop, as he tried to draw the Navy Colt. He followed up by ramming Ditch’s knife, hilt deep, into the hotel clerk’s chest.

Deputy Glenn Bedgley, his guns already in hand, struggled to get his fat body to his feet. As he clumsily rose, he thumbed the hammers back on his pair of 1858 Remington .44s. He was bringing the weapons to bear on Pritchard, at point-blank range, when the. 54 caliber ball fired from Ditch Clemson’s Hawken rifle entered his stomach. Bedgley dropped the pistols, screamed, clutched his midsection, and fell forward onto his face.

Ditch set his rifle against the tree as Pritchard examined the downed men. Bob Toole was dead, his sightless eyes staring up at nothing. Pritchard extracted the blade from his chest and handed it to Ditch.

“Cut down Pa, will ya?”

“Sure, Samuel,” Ditch answered solemnly, taking the knife.

Pritchard kicked Bedgley over onto his back. The bearded deputy was conscious and still clutching his stomach. His face was contorted in agony. He looked up at Pritchard looming over him.

“You’re in a heap of trouble, boy,” Bedgley grunted, straining to get the words out. He punctuated his sentence by spitting blood.

“And you’re gut-shot,” Pritchard said. “You won’t see morning.”

“Get me into town,” Bedgley ordered, “to the doctor.”

Pritchard ignored him. He tossed the hatchet aside and picked up Bedgley’s dropped revolvers. He had never before held a pistol. The weapons were heavier than he anticipated.