While most of the gunmen traded shots with the defenders, several of them brought out torches—lengths of cloth soaked in kerosene and wrapped around pieces of wood. With torches blazing brightly, the riders got ready to throw them at various buildings while their friends covered them. The Kid stepped out onto the boardwalk and snapped a couple shots at a man charging toward Milt Bennett’s livery stable with a torch in his hand. The range was pretty far for a handgun, but luck and skill guided The Kid’s shots. The slugs ripped through the gunman’s body and knocked him out of the saddle. The torch fell in the street beside him, burning out harmlessly in the dust. About to line up a shot on another torch-wielder, a more immediate threat lunged at The Kid. The form of a mounted gunman rode up emptying a Colt at him. He threw himself to the planks as bullets whined around his ears. Slugs chewed splinters from the boardwalk as he came to a stop on his belly, angled his gun up, and sent a bullet through the gunman’s throat.
