Pritchard led Rusty to the edge of town where the church was located. It was a beautiful structure, two stories tall, with a belfry topped by a cross. He tied the Morgan to a tree in the woods behind it and approached the ranger standing guard at the front door.

“I’m your relief,” Pritchard announced as he walked up. “You’d better head on down to the saloon before all the whiskey’s gone.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” the elated ranger said. He went off toward town as fast as he could walk.

Once the sentry was out of sight, Pritchard opened the church doors and entered. More than two hundred frightened faces looked up at him. Most of them were women.

The church was lit with lanterns, and Pritchard surveyed the congregation. There were only a handful of males, and those who weren’t children were old or infirm. He expected as much, since most towns in the territory were devoid of able-bodied men of fighting age due to the war.

“Who’s in charge here?” Pritchard asked.

“I am.” An ancient man stepped forward. He was bent over with rheumatism, and one of his eyes was white with cataract. “I’m Pastor Milburn Greer.”

“They’ll be coming soon,” Pritchard said, “for the women. You haven’t got much time. Just long enough for those boys to get a good drunk going.”

“You’re one of them,” an older woman snapped. “You’ll be joining them in the raping. The killing, too.”

“No, ma’am,” Pritchard said, “I will not. I have killed, sure enough, but only when I had to, and only armed men who were trying to do the same to me.”

“Then why did you come down here to the church?” another woman asked. She was quite pretty, and about his mother’s age.

“To stave them off,” Pritchard said, “iffen I can.”

“Why should we believe you?” yet another woman asked. She was about Pritchard’s age, and was holding an infant.

“You don’t have to believe me,” Pritchard said. “All you have to do is wait a few more minutes, and about seventy-five drunk and horny rebel guerrillas will come marching down the street and put truth to my words.”

“We could run and hide in the woods,” still another woman offered.

“You wouldn’t get far,” Pritchard countered. “A group this large would be easily tracked.”

The women looked at one another. “What choice do we have?” one asked.

“All right,” the pretty woman said. “What do you want us to do?”

“Is there a cyclone cellar in this church?”

“There is,” the pastor answered. Evidently his hearing was better than his vision. “Biggest one in town.”

“Will it hold everyone?”

“It’ll be tight, but we can cram ’em all in.”