The captain approached, with a stocky, bandy-legged sergeant at his heels. “What’re your names?” he asked.

“Davey!” a voice cried out, before either Ditch or Pritchard could answer. Paul Clemson, wearing reb gray, emerged from the crowd of soldiers. He and Ditch embraced.

“You know this man?” the captain asked.

“I surely do, Cap’n,” Paul said. “This here’s my little brother, Davey. Everybody calls him Ditch. And this fellow,” he started toward Pritchard, “is—”

“Joe Atherton,” Ditch blurted, cutting Paul off before he could finish his sentence. He gave his older brother a play along, I’ll tell you later glare and stepped between Paul and Pritchard before the two could embrace.

“I met Joe on the road,” Ditch went on. “His family was murdered in Missouri by Union men. He saved my life, more’n once. He wants to join up, too.”

Paul, who’d known Pritchard since he was born, went along with the charade. He shook Pritchard’s hand and said, “Nice to meet you, Joe. Thanks for saving my little brother’s worthless life.”

“Can your brother handle horses as good as you?” the captain asked Paul.

“Better,” came the reply. “He was the best breaker in Jackson County.”

“And what about you?” the captain asked Pritchard. “You’re big as a tree and look twice as stout. You got any skills I can use?”

“I can kill,” Pritchard said. “Is that enough skill for you?”

“He made that shot from up on that hill, to warn your unit,” Ditch offered. “He’s one helluva sharpshooter, with either a rifle or a pistol.”

“That was at least a four-hundred-yard shot,” said the sergeant.

“If Pony Clemson says you’re a horseman,” the captain said to Ditch, “that’s good enough for me. Pony’s the best there is, and I need all the wranglers I can get. But as far as your marksmanship,” he said to Pritchard, “I’m ridin’ with the best riflemen and pistoleers in the Confederacy. Unless you can prove your friend’s bold claim, you’ll have to ride on.”

Pritchard walked over to Ditch’s horse and retrieved the Hawken, ignoring the half-dozen revolvers leveled at him.

“Put me to the test,” he said as he began to reload the rifle.

“Lower your guns,” the captain said. “Sergeant Murphy, have someone ride a target out as far as he’ll let you.”

The squat sergeant took a canteen and handed it to a reb soldier, who mounted his horse.

“Three hundred yards ought to do,” Pritchard said.

“Which direction?” the rider asked.

“Don’t matter,” said Pritchard. “Sun’s overhead.”

“Can you even see a target that small at three hundred yards?” Sergeant Murphy said.

“Been shooting squirrels farther than that since I was a kid,” Pritchard said. “Last I checked, canteens don’t move.”