Steering Rusty with his knees, the reins in his teeth, Pritchard fired his Henry rifle again and again, levering the action as fast as he could. He shot a Mexican in the face, a half-breed through the lungs, and a white pistolero with a Spencer rifle in the neck. All around him, his fellow Rangers did the same, engaging targets as they rode over them.

The hostages huddled together, shrieking in terror, as the Rangers stormed the camp. Several Comancheros who didn’t fall, overwhelmed by the sheer firepower of the Texans’ furious charge, chose to abandon the fight. They dropped their weapons and tried to flee.

A small group of Rangers, Pritchard among them, dismounted and ran to the women, taking positions to defend them. Other Rangers rode after the fleeing Comancheros.

After emptying his carbine, Pritchard tossed it aside and continued to fight at close quarters with his pistols against those Comancheros hardy enough to continue the combat. He put two more down before the fighting ended.

It was over in minutes.

The silence that ensued when the gunfire ceased was deafening. All you could hear were the sound of women sobbing, and hoofbeats as Rangers rode down the Comancheros fleeing on foot.

Pritchard holstered his pistols and drew his knife. He began cutting the leather bonds restraining the women. They were filthy, and their bare feet were bloody and raw from being dragged along behind their captors.

“Report!” Captain Franchard called out.

“One Ranger wounded, not badly,” a voice called out. “Two horses shot. All the hostages appear to be safe.”

“Reload,” Franchard ordered, “and stand ready.”

It was standard Ranger practice to immediately reload and prepare for counterattack in the wake of any skirmish. It was this sort of discipline that distinguished the Texas Rangers from many other frontier guerrilla outfits. Most, if not all, of the men in Franchard’s command had fought for the Confederacy, and many were experienced Indian fighters as well. They knew firsthand how quickly a seeming victory could be turned against them into a lethal rout.

“Thank you,” a woman exclaimed. She stood shakily and stumbled into Pritchard’s arms. She looked to be in her early twenties, and despite the exhaustion and fear in her eyes, was quite comely.

“Easy,” he said, lowering her back to a sitting position.

“Get these women some water,” Franchard commanded, “and round up all those renegade horses.” Rangers scrambled to comply.

“Over here, Cap’n,” a Ranger called out from across the camp. “Somethin’ you’d better see.”

Franchard and Pritchard walked past more than two dozen dead Comancheros to where a couple of Rangers stood staring at something on the ground. It was evidently what the Comancheros had been focusing on just before the Rangers rode in.

“Jesus, God, Almighty,” Franchard said under his breath.