There were no other deputies inside, and only two men locked in the jail. One looked, and smelled, like a tramp. The other prisoner was well fed and clean. The tramp appeared hungover. His roommate looked scared.

“Stay here,” one of the other rangers told Pritchard, “and hold. We’ll head on down to the general store.”

Pritchard nodded. As the rangers left, he went to the door and beheld the carnage unfolding before him.

What little resistance being offered by the townsfolk had all but ceased. The telegraph office was on fire, and the general store and bank were being swarmed by his fellow rangers. He could see the bodies of eight or ten townsmen littered along the street and sidewalk. A freight wagon had been “commandeered,” as Paul would say, and a mob of rebel horsemen were busily loading items from the store into the wagon’s bed.

Down the street, he could see Paul and Ditch leading a string of roped horses.

Pritchard bent down and took the Army Colt from the deputy marshal he’d shot. The man looked to have been in his early thirties, and had rough, calloused hands. The weapon was fouled with a significant accumulation of powder residue, and its cylinder would barely turn. Pritchard wondered if the deputy marshal hadn’t been anything more than a simple farmer before pinning on his star. Pritchard set the useless revolver on the marshal’s desk.

The gunfire stopped. The remaining townsfolk, a few old men, young boys, and a large collection of women and small children, were lined up at gunpoint along the wooden sidewalks. They huddled together, their terrified faces looking up at the disheveled men on horseback who’d invaded their town.

“I’m Captain Jed Witherspoon,” the captain announced. “General Shelby sends his regards. This town and all it contains, including you, are now the property of the Confederate States of America.”

The captain continued his address. “Which one of you is the mayor?”

“He’s lying dead in front of his store,” an old man answered. Pritchard realized, with some chagrin, that it had been one of his balls that contributed to his death.

“Where’s your town marshal?”

No one answered.

“I’ll ask only once more,” Captain Witherspoon said. “Where’s your town marshal?”

“He’s in here,” a voice behind Pritchard said. He turned around to find the tramp had spoken. “He took off his tin star and gun and locked himself in his own jail when he saw you fellers ridin’ in.” One look at the prisoner told Pritchard the tramp’s words were true.

“Bring him out,” the captain commanded.

A ranger went past Pritchard, took the key from a nail on the wall, and opened the jail door. At first, the marshal refused to come out. It was only at gunpoint that he relented. He was marched into the street before Captain Witherspoon, who was still on his horse.