warfare advised him.

Dick, Warner and Pennington armed themselves with rifles of the fallen,
and they felt fierce thrills of joy as they crept forward. Burning with
the battle fever, and enraged against this man Slade, Dick put all his
soul in the man-hunt. He merely hoped that Victor Woodville was not
there. He would fire willingly at any of the rest.

Before they had gone far Slade and his riflemen began to fire. Bullets
pattered all about them, clipping twigs and leaves and striking sparks
from stones.

Had the fire been unexpected it would have done deadly damage, but all of
the Winchesters, as they liked to call themselves, had kept under cover,
and were advancing Indian fashion. And now a consuming rage seized them
all. They felt as if an advantage had been taken of them. While they
were fighting a great battle in front a sly foe sought to ambush them.
They did not hate the Southern army which charged directly upon them,
but they did hate this band of sharpshooters which had come creeping
through the woods to pick them off, and they hated them collectively and
individually.

It was Dick's single and fierce desire at that moment to catch sight
of Slade, whom he would shoot without hesitation if the chance came.
He looked for him continually as he crept from bush to bush, and he
withheld his fire until fortune might bring into his view the flaps of
that enormous hat. The whole vast battle of Chickamauga passed from his
mind. He was concentrated, heart and soul, upon this affair of outposts
in the thickets.