"Yes, sir."

'Try and gain a high point where you can see something." Quinn, shifting the plug of tobacco in his cheek, grinned. "Shoot straight Quinn."

"Always do, sir."

Berdan swung up onto his gray horse and started out, his tamed Sharpshooters deploying into open skirmish order behind him.

The men were skilled, well-seasoned professionals. All the foolishness about keeping alignment, forming into lines, advancing by command was beneath them. They were better than that, and they knew it Let the others fight the way their granddaddies did, standing in volley line. The Sharpshooters were a new kind of soldier for a new kind of war.

As the three hundred men fanned out, each set his own pace, moving quickly without urging. It was hard to tell the difference between officers and men. The uniforms were the same, dark green trousers, jacket and green forage caps. Each man was armed with a long Sharps rifle, breechloading, and every one was deadly accurate, expected to hit nine out of ten times at three hundred yards. Besides the forty rounds in their cartridge boxes, each man carried an additional forty to sixty rounds in pockets and haversacks.

Quinn, running back to where his gear rested against a towering oak, swept up his rifle and canteen, then sprinted down to the right of the line, falling in with some of the men from E Company.

"So, Quinn, what're we hunting?" a corporal asked.

"Recon forward. Old Dan thinks the Rebs are moving to our front"

Coming up out of a shallow swale, they passed across the edge of a wheat field, the golden stalks hanging heavy, ready for harvest, then dropped down through a narrow band of forest and rough ground.

The pace was swift No orders needed to be given, just occasional glances toward Berdan riding in the middle of the line, which was spread out across a couple of hundred yards. Looking back, he could see where a lone regiment was coming out as well, their flag dark blue with a state seal. It looked to be Maine, most likely the Third. One regiment in support then. Most likely not much, just a little skirmishing ahead, something to get the blood moving.

A pheasant kicked up from the edge of the trees as they emerged into an open pasture, the ground sloping up toward a peach orchard. The man next to Quinn aimed his rifle at the bird.

"Bang!" he cried, and several men laughed, another sighting on a second pheasant and doing the same.

Directly ahead was the cavalry, Buford's men. They were starting to pack up, saddling their mounts. In the past, cavalry had been certain to draw hoots of derision, the usual jibes of "Hey, ever seen a dead cavalryman?" but not today. Word had spread about what Buford's boys had done, and the Sharpshooters approached the camp respectfully, several offering compliments. One of the troopers tossed Quinn a peach, which he grabbed and stuck into his haversack for later.

A cavalry lieutenant rode up to Quinn and nodded, falling in by his side for a moment.

'Take care up ahead, Sergeant. Some of my boys think there's trouble brewing."

"We'll see to it, sir. Aren't you boys joining us?"

"We're ordered down to Westminster, supposed to secure south of here first, some place called Taneytown. Some supplies and such moving through there. So the place is yours now."

The lieutenant fell away as they reached the edge of the orchard. The post-and-rail fence lining the road was down, consumed as all such fences had been for firewood. Crossing the road, Quinn looked to his left and saw Berdan hold up his hand then point, angling them a bit on the oblique, with Berdan now riding straight up the road that headed due west

Well, the old man wasn't going to fool around. Follow the road west and we're bound to run into something. Quinn pushed to the right a hundred yards before turning west again.

They passed a couple of cavalry troopers coming back off the line, one of them cradling an arm that looked to be busted.

"Son of a bitch got me while I was trying to piss," the trooper grumbled, and the men around Quinn could not help but laugh.

"Lucky he didn't shoot off your short arm," a wag replied.

The trooper cursed them all and rode on.

They pushed up over a low crest, and at that moment the old senses began to kick in for Quinn, that strange prickly feeling that he had just stepped across into another world, a place where the game of hunter and hunted was played for real.

Several men around him clicked their weapons to half cock. Quinn did likewise.

"See one," and a man next to Quinn slowed, leaning in against a tree, raising his rifle.

"Not yet," Quinn hissed, "keep moving."

A second later there was a fluttering whine through the branches overhead, a few leaves snapping off a branch, slowly spinning down.

A rifle snapped to the left, a man out on the road, standing near Berdan. The colonel slowed, reining in for a moment, then held up his hand, pointing forward again.

Coming out of the trees, the skirmish line pushed into another pasture. The feeling was not a good one, open field, a marshy creek below, then a low rise ahead. Damn Rebs were most likely up there in the trees, us in the open.

"Alright, boys, let's pick it up!" Quinn shouted, and he started off at the double. Puffs of smoke snapped from the distant tree line. An eruption of torn-up earth kicked up near Quinn's feet He shifted slightly, zigzagging, running now, heading down the slope, the ground getting thicker with tuffs of high marsh grass, and-with a leap he was into the narrow creek, almost completely across. He ducked down, edging up against the muddy bank. Raising his rifle up, he let it rest on the ground while he scanned the tree line, notching the rear sight to two hundred yards.

A puff of smoke. He took careful aim and squeezed. Another man was beside him, firing at almost the same instant

Levering the trigger guard down, Quinn reached into his pocket, pulled out a cartridge, and slipped it into the breech, levering it shut, then cocked his piece.

More puffs of smoke rippled along the tree line. Men were hunkered down along the creek bank, firing back. Most of the shots coming in were high, buzzing overhead, but one slammed into the muddy bank, spraying him with mud. Centering on a puff of smoke, he fired again and reloaded.

Leaning up, he looked to his left Berdan, at the shallow ford across the creek, was shouting for the men to press forward. Behind-him the Third Maine was deploying from column into line.

"Come on, boys, let's get this over with."

Quinn stood up, crouching low, and set off. Racing across the meadow, hunkering down for a moment behind a split-rail fence, taking another shot… and this time seeing it hit. Dumb fool, looked to be an officer, standing out in the open, an easy shot at 150 yards. The man collapsed, a couple of men running over to him, both going down as well while Sharpshooters to either side of Quinn drew careful aim and fired.

The fire from the crest slackened. Again looking to the left, he saw the Third Maine surging forward, a heavy double line of skirmishers mingling in with the Sharpshooters.

Quinn reloaded, took a deep breath, and stood up, running straight for the slope and tree line. Another round zipped past this one so close he felt the slap of the round passing his face.

A Reb, not fifty yards off, stepped out from behind a tree, rifle poised, aiming straight at Quinn. The Reb spun around and disappeared.

They were into the trees, the air thick with the sulfurous clouds of yellow-gray smoke. He spared a quick glance around. Ten, maybe fifteen Rebs were down. He pushed up the slope, dodging through the brush, ducking under low-hanging branches, and crossing over the crest. The land ahead sloped away, down to another marshy creek. The Rebs who had occupied the tree line minutes before were out in the middle of the field, running, fifty, maybe seventy-five or more.