In response, ten or fifteen rangers fired their pistols at the belfry.

No bell rung, however. Before the mob arrived, Pritchard had taken the liberty of removing the heavy bell from its mount. He set it aside on the roof and tied one end of the bell rope, which led all the way down to the church, to a post before tossing it over the side.

Pritchard took aim with the Sharps, as pistol shots struck the heavy wooden belfry all around him. He fired, and the ranger who’d threatened to kick his ass fell dead with a bullet through his head. Pritchard levered open the action and had another cartridge in the breech, and a cap on the nipple, in an instant. His next shot dropped another reb with a .52 caliber bullet to the skull.

Pritchard commenced systematically firing. The men of B Company, Witherspoon’s Rangers, most of them well on their way to being blind drunk, foolishly stood like a herd of cattle in the street and fired their revolvers up at him.

Pritchard had fair light, high ground, excellent cover, a superb rifle, more than one hundred cartridges in his coat pocket, along with that many percussion caps, and multiple targets of opportunity bunched up below him like ducks in a barrel. Confederate guerrillas dropped left and right.

More than twenty rebs lay dead in the street before the mob collectively decided to break and run. Pritchard didn’t let up as they scattered. He methodically fired, reloaded, and fired, again and again. Another ten men were shot down running away.

Pritchard paused and opened the action to let it cool. He liked the Sharps, which he considered a vast improvement over the Hawken. The weapon had power, balance, ease of reloading, and seemed to fit his hands as if made for him.

Not all of Witherspoon’s men fled. He noticed a guerrilla taking aim at him from behind a trough. He snapped another cartridge and cap on the weapon, took aim, and pulled the trigger, just as the reb fired. The pistol shot whanged harmlessly on the belfry’s roof, but Pritchard’s rifle shot hit his intended target squarely in the chest.

Pritchard reloaded and waited. As expected, Captain Witherspoon soon came walking down the street with Sergeant Murphy beside him. He was surrounded by what was left of his furious men.

“Private Atherton,” the captain called out. He shook his head as he stepped over the bodies of his rangers. “What is your problem, son? You just wiped out damn near half my men.”

“Their choice, Cap’n,” Pritchard replied, “not mine. I told them to leave the womenfolk be, or I’d take it personal. They chose to ignore my warning.”

“It would seem,” the captain continued, still counting dead bodies, “that your sense of chivalry is only exceeded by your marksmanship.”

“I hit what I aim at, sir.”