It had been Jem Beddowes, Wyatt’s fellow Ranger, who’d shot Meeker’s horse from under him. Beddowes had been aiming at the rider, but the horse had shied at the last moment, startled by the volley of gunshots, and the ball had struck the animal instead, much to Beddowes’ annoyance. His companion, Donaldson, had compensated for the miss by shooting Meeker in the shoulder, which had left the fourth Ranger – Billy Drew – and Tewanias with loaded guns, along with two functioning rebels, the younger of whom, to judge by the way he was urging his horse towards the stream, was fully prepared to leave his companions to their respective fates.

Isaac Meeker, meanwhile, having lost his musket for the second time, pushed himself to his knees. Wounded and disoriented, he stared around him. His horse had ceased its death throes and lay a few feet away, its belly stained with blood from the deep wound in its side. Deacon and Levi Smede were sprawled like empty sacks in the dirt, their mounts having bolted. Half of Deacon’s face was missing.

He looked for Shaw and saw that the postmaster had fallen from his horse and was on the ground, trying to crawl away from the carnage. The musket looped across Shaw’s back was dragging in the dirt and acting like a sea anchor, hampering his progress. He was whimpering in agony. An uneven trail of blood followed behind him.

A fresh shot sounded from close by. Not a long gun this time, but a pistol. Meeker ducked and then saw it was Ephraim Smede, still in the saddle, who had fired at their attackers. Meeker looked around desperately for a means by which to defend himself and discovered his musket lying less than a yard away. Reaching for it, he managed to haul back on the hammer and looked for someone to shoot. He wasn’t given the chance. Ranger Donaldson fired his pistol on the run. The ball struck the distracted Meeker between the eyes, killing him instantly.

Ephraim Smede felt his horse shudder. He’d been about to make his own run for the stream when Billy Drew, having finally decided which of the two surviving riders was the most dangerous, took his shot.

The impact was so sudden it seemed to Smede as if his horse had run into an invisible wall. One second he was hunkered low in the saddle, leaning across his mount’s neck, the next the beast had pitched forward and Smede found himself catapulted over its head like a rock from a trebuchet. He smashed to the ground, missing Shaw’s prostrate body by inches. Winded and shaken, he clambered to his knees.