Even as Liz saw the line of blue-uniformed figures on the top of a slope some three hundred yards away, recognising them as salvation and the means to end the Texans’ mission, she heard the bellow of Ysabel’s rifle. Up on the slope, the firer of the first shot slammed backwards under the impact of Ysabel’s .52 calibre bullet and flopped limply to the ground. A wild yell, like the sound of hounds clamouring around a treed cougar, rang out from the Union troops. Yelling an order to charge, their leader sent them boiling down the slope in a wild rush; but he did not take the lead as one might expect. Instead it seemed that he allowed as many of his party as possible to come between himself and those gun-handy Texans before allowing his horse to move forward. Elation, pleasure—and just a touch of disappointment—filled Liz as she watched the soldiers charging down. Soon she would be among her own kind again and able to tell them all she knew of Dusty Fog’s mission.
