Up whirled the gunbutt.
Jimmie, his eyes straight ahead, did not see the peril. But Dad, his eyes everywhere, saw it.
Saw and forestalled it. Before the impending blow could fall his sword had flashed with the speed of light, and into the rifleman’s bare throat the point bit deep and far.
The Virginian reeled back into the smoke-drift, his rifle clattering harmless to earth. Jimmie, blissfully excited, unaware of the danger averted from him, was running onward as fast as his stocky legs could move.
For now, just in front, the fight was surging about one huge pivot—a point whose center was the great swivel-gun.
Around this well-nigh priceless bit of war treasure—which, by the way, had no place in such an engagement—the Confederates rallied for their final stand.
Ten gunners wheeled its black muzzle into play, but before a shot could be fired the Federals were upon them.
Then it was hand-to-hand work, with no scope for solid shot or other artillery advantage.
Into the mêlée plunged Battle Jimmie, shoulder to shoulder with the man to whose presence he was still oblivious.
There was a confused second of tight-packed, grinding, breathless strife. Then in an instant the gray fighters fled—fled in every direction, leaving the gun and the rest of their artillery.