Billy Barton turned his bloodshot eyes on the President. His teeth were chattering.
"M-m-eaning of w-what?" he stammered.
"That cloud of dust coming toward the station?"
Billy stared in the direction the President pointed.
"Why, that's the—the—w-w-wagoners—they're trying to save the pieces I reckon—"
"The army has been pushed back?" the President asked.
"No, sir—they—they never p-p-ushed 'em back! They—they just jumped right on top of 'em and made hash out of 'em where they stood! Thank God a few of us got away."
The President turned with a gesture of impatience to an older man, dust-covered and smoke-smeared.
"Can you direct me to General Beauregard's headquarters?"