"They are coming, Major!" shouted Captain Abbey, as the Confederate leader forced his cavalry on the charge. "What had we best do?"
"Draw—pistols!" shouted Deck, by way of an answer. "Give them a round as soon as they turn the bend."
The command had hardly been given when the first company opened fire, followed by the second company, both wheeling to the left to let the other companies fire. By this time the Confederates were answering with their pistols; but, on account of their rapid riding, their aim was poor, and the shots did but little damage.
The young major was a central figure in the combat, and more than one soldier in gray directed his fire at him. But he escaped unharmed, to find himself, two minutes later, faced by the Confederate leader, wearing the straps of a major also.
The fellow was all of six feet tall, heavy-set, with a black mustache, and beady black eyes, that somehow put Deck in mind of a rattlesnake ready to strike. He came on, giving the Confederate yell heard so many times before, and to be heard so many times afterward—a yell no pen can describe, and one which arose, clear and full, above the clash of arms.
"Down you go!" hissed the major in gray, as he advanced upon Deck with his sabre pointed, as if to run him through. His look was sufficient to paralyze any ordinary man; but Deck did not quail, having been confronted thus before. He spoke to Ceph, and the intelligent animal reared up, and came down on one side, and a sharp blow from Deck's weapon caused the Confederate's sabre to fly from his hand.
The Confederate was astonished, almost dumfounded, for he had calculated that such a youthful commander would be "easy meat" for him. With another yell he swung his horse in a circle to avoid a second blow from Deck, and then, pulling his pistol, aimed it at our friend's head.
But Lieutenant Fronklyn was in a line directly behind Deck, and he did not intend that his commander should be shot down thus readily. As the Confederate leader's pistol went up, Fronklyn's sabre came down, and the firearm fell to the ground, carrying with it three of the fingers which had clutched its handle.
"Good for you, Fronklyn!" cried Deck. "I owe you one for that!" And then the tide of the contest carried them apart.
Fully half a hundred of the Confederate horsemen were as daring as their leader, and, while the others fell back and into the hands of the second and third battalions of the Riverlawns, these continued to press forward desperately, hoping to force a passage by sheer might of will power. Truly, their bravery was worthy of a better cause.