The first of the pursuing Yankees had appeared at the edge of the wood. One of them, a corporal, had been with the group of men charged by Starbuck and now, coming into the pastureland, he saw a mounted Confederate not fifty yards away and he thought of his dead comrade as he dropped to his right knee and brought his rifle into his shoulder and snapped off one fast shot. The smoke billowed to hide the Yankee’s view, but his aim had been good and the bullet struck the Colonel on his raised right arm, splintering the bone and ricocheting down to score across his ribs and lodge in his belly muscles. Blood poured from his arm that had been thrown back by the bullet’s force and his riding crop wheeled through the air. “Oh, God,” Washington Faulconer said, astonished rather than hurt. Then the pain stabbed at him and he cried aloud as he tried to force the arm down and to comprehend the sudden mess of torn and blood-soaked cloth and sharp pain.

“Colonel!” Ethan Ridley galloped to the Colonel’s side just as a volley of northern shots crackled at the wood’s margin. Ridley ducked and hauled on his reins as the minié bullets screamed about his ears. The Colonel was turning away, spurs slashing back, screaming with pain while Ridley was staring down at Starbuck who had brought his right hand out to protect himself from the Colonel’s beating. The Savage revolver was in Starbuck’s hand and Ridley, seeing it, thought the northerner had tried to kill the Colonel. “You shot him!” Ridley screamed in shocked accusation, then pulled his own revolver free of its holster.

Blood dripped from Starbuck’s nose. He was still shocked, still too dazed to understand what was happening, but he saw Ridley’s face grimace and saw the revolver spurt smoke, and then the saddle which was still supported by Starbuck’s left hand kicked as Ridley’s bullet thumped into the wooden tree beneath the leather.

The kick of the bullet hitting the saddle woke Starbuck from his daze. Behind him the northerners were swarming from the trees and Ridley was already turning away, not out of fear of Starbuck but to escape the onrush of Yankees. “Ridley!” Starbuck shouted, but Ridley kicked back with his bloodied spurs as Starbuck raised the heavy gun. He had a promise to keep and just seconds to keep it and so he aimed the big Savage revolver and pulled the upper trigger. Sparks ripped away from the exploding percussion cap as the gun hammered back in Starbuck’s hand.