Jesse shouted a jeer, and rising in his saddle again, pumped his Winchester first into the ranks of one body of troops and then into the other side, continuing to yell like a Comanche Indian on the warpath.
It was maddening. Not a shot was fired in answer by the enemy.
A blast of the bugle had commanded the troops to "cease firing."
"Charge!"
The notes of the command rippled musically from the bugler's horn and the troops, swinging to saddle as one man, swept down in pursuit.
They were moving in a half circle formation, now.
"We've got him this time, sure," exulted the Captain.
"Depends on whether our horses are faster than his, which I very much doubt," objected the Lieutenant.
"You've still got a few things to learn, young man," retorted his superior officer. "When you have been in the service longer you'll find out an officer has to use his eyes and every other sense that nature has given him, if he expects to save his hide, letting alone catching the enemy."