troopers were doing their best to make sure the Confederates couldn’t outflank the ugly, noisy thing, anyhow.
A bullet cracked past Ramsay’s head. The noise—and the fright it gave him—made him realize this wasn’t practice any more. The U.S. soldiers were doing their damnedest to kill him, and their damnedest, by the way his comrades and their horses were crashing to the ground, was better than he’d expected. He’d never seen combat before, not even fighting Mexican bandits along the frontier with the Empire. His cherry was gone now, by Jesus.
He raised his carbine to his shoulder and fired at a green-gray-clad Yankee. The fellow did not pitch from the saddle, so he had to have missed. He worked the bolt to get rid of the casing and chamber a fresh round, then fired again. Another bullet zipped past him, and another. Now he didn’t bother looking after he fired, to see what effect each round had. The more he put in the air, the better his chance of hitting something.
A lot of bullets were hitting the armored car. The sound of them rattling off its side put Ramsay in mind of hail hitting a tin roof. But the car kept on coming, like an ironclad smashing its way through a navy of wooden ships. The comparison was apt, for it was doing more damage to the Confederates all by its lonesome than all the troopers who came with it.
Bobby Brock made a noise somewhere between a groan and a scream. There was a neat hole in the front of his uniform tunic. As he slumped down over his horse’s neck, Ramsay got a look at the hole the bullet had made going out through his back. That wasn’t neat at all. It looked more as if somebody had set off half a stick of dynamite in his chest.
The trooper right alongside of Brock went down as his horse took three bullets—neck, barrel, and hock—from that damned machine gun in the space of a second and a half. The cavalryman pulled himself free, but he didn’t bounce to his feet. Having a horse fall on your leg wasn’t the best thing that could ever happen to it.
For a couple of dreadful minutes, Ramsay was afraid the armored car would win the little battle all by its lonesome, even though the Confederate troopers were mopping the floor with the damnyankees whenever they could engage them away from the car with its machine gun. But then the vehicle, all of its tires shot out, slowed to walking pace and, when it went into a hole, couldn’t pull itself out no matter how the engine growled and roared and sent up clouds of stinking exhaust.
Ramsay threw back his head and let out the catamount wail of a Rebel yell. “Damn thing is stuck, boys!” he shouted. “Now we can get around behind it and settle the rest of these bastards.”
The Confederates went wide to right and left around the bogged-down armored car, getting away from the deadly arc of fire its machine gun could command. Once that gauntlet was run, chasing the Yankee cavalry back toward Kingman proved the work of only a few minutes.
“And now we settle with this goddamn thing,” Captain Lincoln said, riding toward the armored car from the rear. The machine gunner proved to have a firing port in the back of the steel box that enclosed him. He banged away with a pistol. The range was still long for a handgun, and he missed. Captain Lincoln yelled, “Parley, dammit!” The U.S. soldier held his fire. Lincoln said, “You come out of that damned iron turtle of yours, or we’ll chuck a couple of sticks of dynamite under it and blow y’all to kingdom come.”
With a squeal of metal against metal, a hinged roof on top of the armored car and a door in its side came open. The machine gunner stood up with his hands in the air and the driver stepped out. “All right, you’ve got us,” the gunner said with a grin, sounding and looking a lot more jaunty than he should have, considering how much damage he’d done to good Southern men and horses. “Take us and—”
He never got any farther than that. Somebody’s carbine
A bullet cracked past Ramsay’s head. The noise—and the fright it gave him—made him realize this wasn’t practice any more. The U.S. soldiers were doing their damnedest to kill him, and their damnedest, by the way his comrades and their horses were crashing to the ground, was better than he’d expected. He’d never seen combat before, not even fighting Mexican bandits along the frontier with the Empire. His cherry was gone now, by Jesus.
He raised his carbine to his shoulder and fired at a green-gray-clad Yankee. The fellow did not pitch from the saddle, so he had to have missed. He worked the bolt to get rid of the casing and chamber a fresh round, then fired again. Another bullet zipped past him, and another. Now he didn’t bother looking after he fired, to see what effect each round had. The more he put in the air, the better his chance of hitting something.
A lot of bullets were hitting the armored car. The sound of them rattling off its side put Ramsay in mind of hail hitting a tin roof. But the car kept on coming, like an ironclad smashing its way through a navy of wooden ships. The comparison was apt, for it was doing more damage to the Confederates all by its lonesome than all the troopers who came with it.
Bobby Brock made a noise somewhere between a groan and a scream. There was a neat hole in the front of his uniform tunic. As he slumped down over his horse’s neck, Ramsay got a look at the hole the bullet had made going out through his back. That wasn’t neat at all. It looked more as if somebody had set off half a stick of dynamite in his chest.
The trooper right alongside of Brock went down as his horse took three bullets—neck, barrel, and hock—from that damned machine gun in the space of a second and a half. The cavalryman pulled himself free, but he didn’t bounce to his feet. Having a horse fall on your leg wasn’t the best thing that could ever happen to it.
For a couple of dreadful minutes, Ramsay was afraid the armored car would win the little battle all by its lonesome, even though the Confederate troopers were mopping the floor with the damnyankees whenever they could engage them away from the car with its machine gun. But then the vehicle, all of its tires shot out, slowed to walking pace and, when it went into a hole, couldn’t pull itself out no matter how the engine growled and roared and sent up clouds of stinking exhaust.
Ramsay threw back his head and let out the catamount wail of a Rebel yell. “Damn thing is stuck, boys!” he shouted. “Now we can get around behind it and settle the rest of these bastards.”
The Confederates went wide to right and left around the bogged-down armored car, getting away from the deadly arc of fire its machine gun could command. Once that gauntlet was run, chasing the Yankee cavalry back toward Kingman proved the work of only a few minutes.
“And now we settle with this goddamn thing,” Captain Lincoln said, riding toward the armored car from the rear. The machine gunner proved to have a firing port in the back of the steel box that enclosed him. He banged away with a pistol. The range was still long for a handgun, and he missed. Captain Lincoln yelled, “Parley, dammit!” The U.S. soldier held his fire. Lincoln said, “You come out of that damned iron turtle of yours, or we’ll chuck a couple of sticks of dynamite under it and blow y’all to kingdom come.”
With a squeal of metal against metal, a hinged roof on top of the armored car and a door in its side came open. The machine gunner stood up with his hands in the air and the driver stepped out. “All right, you’ve got us,” the gunner said with a grin, sounding and looking a lot more jaunty than he should have, considering how much damage he’d done to good Southern men and horses. “Take us and—”
He never got any farther than that. Somebody’s carbine
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