Already a mighty cannonade was pouring a storm of death over the heads of
the skirmishers toward the defenders, and the brigades came on steadily
and splendidly to the continued rolling of the drums.
Dick rose up again, watching now for his enemy who, he knew, could not
remain much longer behind the rock, as he would soon be within range of
the Northern skirmishers advancing on that side.
He fancied that he could hear the massive tread of the thousands coming
toward the pass, and the roll of the drums, distinct amid the roar of
the cannon, told him that his comrades would soon be at hand, driving
everything before them. But his eyes were for that big rock on the other
side of the valley. Now was his time for revenge upon the sharpshooter
who had sought his life with such savage persistence. The Northern
skirmishers were drawing nearer and the fellow must flee or die.
Suddenly the sharpshooter sprang from the rock, and up flew Dick's rifle
as he drew a bead straight upon his heart. Then he dropped the weapon
with a cry of horror. Across the valley and through the smoke he
recognized Harry Kenton, and Harry Kenton looking toward his enemy
recognized him also.
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