“B Company is probably somewhere between here and Murfreesboro by now, on their way to Hot Springs. They’ve been ordered back to Kansas, to cause more mischief for the army of Mr. Lincoln. I’m only telling you boys this because it’s common knowledge, and because you, young man, are clearly Pony’s brother.”

“I thank you,” Ditch said.

“You boys plan to join the outfit?”

“We do,” Ditch said. “If they’ll have us.”

“Can you boys ride and shoot?”

“As good as any man they’ve got,” Ditch answered.

“They’ll have you, all right. Good luck, boys. Tell ’em Major Turner, from Tennessee, sends his regards.”

Pritchard and Ditch retrieved their horses and guns and started back the way they’d come. Murfreesboro was only thirty miles north of Washington, and there was still plenty of daylight left. They hoped to meet up with Paul’s unit no later than the following afternoon.

As it turned out, it was shortly after dawn the next morning when they located the company of partisan rangers they were looking for.

The sun was just coming up as Pritchard and Ditch crested the steep ridge over Prairie Creek, a few miles south of Murfreesboro. They dismounted and took cover in some brush, because down below they could see several companies of Union infantry advancing through the woods toward a contingent of Confederate horsemen bivouacked at the creek.

The topography was such that Pritchard and Ditch could easily see the advancing Union forces, due to their overhead vantage point. But it was clear that the reb cavalry hadn’t yet detected them, as evidenced by their seeming lack of awareness. The Confederates were mustered in clumps, tending to their horses and morning toilet, and many were not yet fully dressed and armed. There was a campfire going and an iron pot on a tripod over it.

“Those rebs are fixin’ to get ambushed,” Pritchard said, stating the obvious. “They don’t have a clue about what’s coming at ’em through those woods.”

“Paul might be down there with ’em,” Ditch said, concern spreading over his features. “We’ve got to do something.”

“Give me the Hawken,” Pritchard said. “Then get ready to ride.”

“Those blue bellies look to be at least five hundred yards out,” Ditch said, handing the Hawken to Pritchard. “Ain’t no way you’re going to hit any of them, unless out of sheer luck.”

“Ain’t aiming for the blue bellies,” Pritchard said, lying prone and shouldering the rifle. He cocked the hammer back. “Get ahold of Rusty,” he said. “I don’t want the shot to spook him and leave me stranded afoot.” Ditch grabbed the big Morgan’s reins.

Pritchard exhaled, paused, and fired. Almost a full second after the shot, a faint metallic clang was heard. A blue cloud of gun smoke hovered over them.