The rider hung the canteen on a branch at head level, as close to three hundred yards as one could guess. Then he pulled his horse back and waved his kerchief.

“Hell,” another soldier said, “you can’t hardly see the horse and rider from this far away.”

“I can see a tiny bit of metal, glinting in the sunlight,” another remarked.

Pritchard finished loading the Hawken and replaced the rod. Then he knelt and scooped up a handful of Arkansas dirt, letting it filter into the breeze. Finally, he lay prone and thumbed back the hammer.

“At your command, Captain,” Pritchard said.

“Fire when ready.”

The captain no sooner uttered the words than Pritchard fired. The rifle boomed. Nearly a second later, a faint tink was heard. Pritchard slowly stood up. In the distance, the rider gathered the canteen and galloped back across the prairie.

The reb rider pulled his horse up to the company, holding the canteen aloft for all to see. There was a neat hole in front and back. The men whistled their approval.

“Waste of a good canteen,” the rider said.

“I didn’t think he’d hit it,” Sergeant Murphy said.

“You ever shoot anything besides a squirrel?” the captain asked.

“I have,” Pritchard answered. “But not with this rifle.”

“We’ve killed eight men since we’ve been riding together,” Ditch said. “I done in one of them with that Hawken rifle, and Joe killed the other seven: five with pistols, one with a knife, and one with his bare hands.”

“Is this true?” the captain asked Pritchard.

In answer Pritchard took off his hat, revealing the bullet scar on his forehead. The silence that ensued among the rebel soldiers reflected their awe.

“Most men don’t walk away from a headshot,” the captain said.

“I ain’t most men.”

“What do you think, Sergeant Murphy?” the captain asked. “Shall we take on the big one, too?”

“He’s right good with that old Hawken, there’s no doubt,” the sergeant said. “I can only imagine what kind of hell he could raise with a Sharps or a Whitworth in his hands. But we’re mounted guerrillas, Cap’n, not infantry sharpshooters. We do most of our fighting on horseback, up close, where precision rifle shooting ain’t worth a damn. It’s pistoleers we need.”

Pritchard nodded to Ditch. Ditch suddenly snatched the canteen from the reb soldier’s hand and tossed it into the air. With lightning speed, Pritchard lifted his coat, drew one of the Remingtons from his belt, and fan-fired it three times. Each shot struck the canteen before it hit the ground.

“He’ll do,” Sergeant Murphy said.

Chapter 21

Chapter 21

“Do you boys swear allegiance to the Confederate States of America, and further swear to lay down your lives, if necessary, to defend her?”

Pritchard and Ditch put their left hands on Sergeant Murphy’s Bible and raised their right hands.

“I do,” Ditch said.