Free Kill Dusty Fog by J. T. Edson

had only recently arrived and come hurriedly. He could see no sign of the battery-wagon — which carried tents and supplies for the guns’ crews — the travelling forage or six reserve caissons of ammunition which normally accompanied the Napoleons when they moved. While there had been some attempt to conceal the guns behind bushes, the crews had not raised protective earth-works. Nor had the three ammunition chests been removed from the guns’ caissons and brought closer to the pieces. So far the crews had fed their guns with charges brought from the limber’s chest. Their teams and the Dragons’ horses were held among a clump of trees over by the left side wall.
    ‘Fan out and find cover!’ Red snapped to Hayley and Prince. ‘Don’t bother with the Zouaves, go for the gun crews.’
    Swiftly they separated and each found a place which he felt suited his needs. Red flattened behind a rock, setting the box of bullets close to his left hand. Three hundred yards lay between him and the nearest cannon. The battery, spaced at around fourteen yards intervals and allowing a further two yards per gun, covered an eighty-two yards front. Which meant even the outer pieces were in range of his Henry or his companions’ Sharps carbines.
    Grimly Red set his rifle’s sights. With the wind blowing towards the Confederate side of the ford, Dusty might not hear the fighting. That meant there would be a delay before help could come. So Red knew what must be done. Unless the guns’ rate of fire was reduced, the Arkansas Rifles faced terrible losses. The bellowing of the Napoleons and sight of Confederate soldiers falling told him that.
    Taking aim, Red squeezed the Henry’s trigger and felt the recoil’s kick against his shoulder. Through the swirling powder-smoke, he saw the chief-of-piece for the third gun from the left stagger and fall. Down and up flicked the Henry’s lever, throwing an empty cartridge case into the air. Before it landed, Red had swung the barrel and shot the number-one man of the crew. Caught in the act of ramming a solid shot down the barrel, the soldier collapsed and snapped the shaft of the rammer. Until a spare could be brought up, the gun was out of action.
    Swiftly Red changed his point of aim, raking the fourth from left gun with half-a-dozen bullets. He hit two men and threw the rest into such confusion that the piece went unfired. From the sound of carbine shots on either side of him, he knew that Prince and Hayley were doing their part in slowing the battery’s rate of fire.
    Already the artillerymen were beginning to realize that the bullets did not come from the Arkansas Rifles and started to look for their new assailants. All too well they understood the danger to themselves. In the days of its greatest exponent, Napoleon Bonaparte, cannon-fire and especially canister had been a most deadly weapon to employ against unprotected bodies of troops. While canister was still terrible, improvements in hand-held arms had rendered it less effective and it no longer had the advantage of superior range over rifles. So the Yankees wanted to make the most of the canister before the Arkansas Rifles came too close.
    Seeing his men go down, the major commanding the battery swung to look at the slope. In doing so, he inadvertently saved his life. Kneeling behind a rock some thirty yards to Red’s right, Hayley had selected the major as his next mark. He touched off his shot just as the officer moved and missed.
    About the same distance to Red’s left, Prince rested his carbine on the lip of the hollow in which he crouched, sighted and fired. Caught in the head, the number-three man of the far left cannon spun around and with a spasmodic gesture flung away the vent-pick with which he had been about to prick open the loaded serge powder bag to make way for the insertion of the friction-primer. Cursing, the chief-of-piece fumbled in his pockets for another vent-pick, without which the gun could not be fired.
    The