“This won’t do,” Captain Witherspoon said, putting his hands on his hips. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to hang you for this, Atherton.”

“I’m getting powerful tired,” Pritchard said, shouldering the Sharps and taking aim, “of hearing men in uniform threaten to hang, or shoot, me.”

“There’s simply no way around it, son. Military discipline must be maintained. Come on down from that belfry.”

“I believe I will oblige you to come up here and get me,” Pritchard said.

“I was afraid you’d say that,” Witherspoon said. “You realize, of course, your noble intentions, however misplaced, were for naught. Because now, instead of hanging only you, I’m going to have to burn that church to the ground. I’m certain the fair maidens you were so hell-bent on protecting, if given the choice, would have rather endured the rough affections of my men, and live, than die in the flames of their house of worship along with you and your noble intentions.”

The captain motioned to his men. Several began lighting torches.

“You’d do that?” Pritchard said. “Roast innocent women and children?”

“Without a second’s hesitation,” Witherspoon said. “You heard me tell how I rode into Lawrence with Bloody Bill and Quantrill, didn’t you?”

“Roast in hell,” Pritchard said as he fired. His shot blew the top of Witherspoon’s head off.

Pritchard began his rapid-firing sequence again, aiming first for the men with torches. He got three before they got near the church. Then he took aim at anyone else in reb gray.

Some stood and fought, others took cover and returned fire, and still others simply ran. To Pritchard, it made no difference. He focused all his attention on loading, priming, and aiming the Sharps. One by one, Confederate guerrillas fell. Before long, another twenty-five men had joined their brethren lying dead on the main street of Independence, Kansas.

Except for Sergeant Murphy and two rangers, what was left of B Company, Shelby’s 5th, ran for their horses and rode out of town.

While Pritchard was firing down on the soldiers, Murphy and his two followers lit torches and stormed the church, setting it ablaze. The sergeant and his men stood at the bottom of the belfry ladder as the church began to burn. He yelled up at Pritchard, a revolver in each hand.

“Get out of that perch!” Murphy shouted. “Come down and fight, Atherton, you gutless son of a bitch!”

“I’m right here, Sergeant,” Pritchard said from behind him.

When Pritchard saw Murphy and the two Confederate guerrillas enter the church, he slung the Sharps, grabbed the bell rope he’d thrown over the side of the roof, and slid to the ground. He entered the church, a Remington in each hand, and found Murphy and the two partisan rangers still looking up the ladder.