Most of Witherspoon’s Rangers not on watch were inside Whistler’s, Independence’s main saloon. Captain Witherspoon was seated at a table before an unopened bottle of whiskey, receiving the after-action report.

It was dusk, and the men were standing around inside the tavern, anxiously awaiting word from their commander to begin drinking. Pritchard was loitering in the back of the saloon, awaiting the arrival of Ditch and Paul, who were at the livery tending to the company’s horses.

“How many of theirs killed?”

“Twenty-one men, two women, and a child.”

No mention of wounded was made. Pritchard didn’t know it yet, but Witherspoon’s Rangers, as a partisan guerrilla force, didn’t take prisoners.

“Horses?” Witherspoon asked.

“We lost nine,” the sergeant said.

“What did we take in?”

“It’s a solid haul, Cap’n,” Murphy said. “Got thirty good horses and plenty of ammunition, powder, and grain from the general store.”

“The bank?”

“More’n thirty thousand,” the sergeant said. “Over twenty in gold, the rest in Union paper.”

“Where’re all the townsfolk?”

“We put ’em all in the church, like usual,” the sergeant said. “Maybe two hundred of them, mostly women and kids.”

Pritchard watched the hungry eyes of the men as the sergeant mentioned the women.

“Has the watch been set?”

“Yes, sir. The town of Independence is secure.”

“Very well,” Captain Witherspoon said, uncorking the bottle, “those not on watch later tonight may commence their recreation. Advise the men we pull out at dawn. Any ranger unfit to ride will be left behind.”

Rebel yells filled the saloon and echoed across the vacant streets of Independence, Kansas. Confederate rangers vaulted the bar and began distributing bottles, which were quickly passed out among the men.

Pritchard picked up his rifle and walked out unnoticed through the saloon’s rear door. He made a stop at the jail for more ammunition, then collected Rusty and made his way through the empty street toward the church.

The rifle was an 1859 Sharps, which he found in the marshal’s office and “commandeered.” It had been well cared for, and Pritchard found it clean and in excellent working order. There were several boxes of. 52 caliber paper cartridges for the weapon inside the marshal’s desk.

Pritchard spent the afternoon cleaning and reloading his Remingtons, and disassembling and cleaning the Army Colt .44 that would have killed him had its owner maintained it. Once he was finished, and the Colt was reassembled, he loaded it with five balls and strapped on the belt and holster worn by the deputy marshal he left lying on the steps. Then he helped himself to as much powder, cap, and .44 caliber ball as he could carry.

Shortly before dark, all the rangers who weren’t standing guard mustered inside Whistler’s Saloon. After hearing the after-action report, and watching the rangers begin their drunken revelry, Pritchard knew what would transpire next.

He also knew what he had to do.