Tamera Alexander - [Timber Ridge Reflections 01] by From a Distance Page B

for his target in a sea of Federal blue. He’d practiced with the firearm but hadn’t used it in combat yet—if these assignments they gave him could rightly be termed “combat.” They were certainly part of the war and always ended in a death. Always. So he guessed they qualified just fine.
    His superior told him that this gun, with its special sights, could accurately shoot a target up to a mile away. Even farther if you were really good, which he was.
    The leafless branch at his back acted as both support and reminder of his lofty perch, and he blew into his hands, trying to warm them, loosening up the tendons. Temperatures had dipped low during the night as he’d dozed below with his regiment, slipping from wakefulness to sleep and back again. But long before dawn the cold had finally dispelled any hope of rest, and he’d risen to climb to his perch.
    His stomach growled and he tried to ignore the pangs. His rations were gone. They’d stripped the bark from trees and had used water from the creek to make a bitter drink. It had done little to satisfy his belly and had only invited the chill deeper inside him.
    No fires allowed—Major’s orders—which made smelling the smoke from the Federals’ camp that much harder. He had no socks, and the leather soles of his boots had worn through in spots, but at least he had boots. Most of the men in his unit didn’t.
    The cold steel of the Whitworth felt like a branding iron against his cheek, and he took a breath, held it, then exhaled, feather-closing his left eye in order to sharpen his focus. He secured his target, over a mile away, and watched the man through the crosshairs.
    The colonel sat astride a bay mount, double rows of polished brass buttons lining his decorated uniform and glinting in the pale morning sun, easily distinguishing him from the lesser-ranking officers and soldiers standing nearby. Down to the last man, each Federal soldier gathered round their commander looked warm and well fed, and he couldn’t help but envy them for that. But he didn’t envy what awaited them on this side of the ridge—the Tennessee Army, crouched and ready to strike.
    He snugged the trigger with his index finger, patient for the right angle. He’d only get one chance. Minutes passed, and he could feel the eagerness of his regiment awaiting his lead. Relax, steady breaths. He whispered a prayer, and fired.
    In an instant, the world changed.
    Stricken, the Federal colonel clutched at the hole in his chest even before the blood soaked his uniform. Through his sights, Daniel watched the commander fall headlong from his horse, a split second before the report of the rifle reached the Federal camp, though Daniel doubted the man heard.
    But the colonel’s men did, and they acted quickly. Confusion engulfed their camp, according to plan.
    His assignment complete, Daniel sheathed the Whitworth and began his downward climb just as an eerie screech rose from the densely wooded hillside beneath him. One voice lifted at first, followed by another and another, until the unearthly, primal chorus flooded the forest floor and rose in a fearsome swell over the pike. His spine tingled with the chill of it, familiar though it was, and he wondered how any enemy could hear the rebel yell and not shudder.
    Below him, his regiment pushed through thick stands of pine and prickly bramble until they crested the ridge. Eager to join them, Daniel had started to climb down when he heard a faint high-pitched whistle. It cut through the cacophony. He sensed it more than heard it and might not have done that much had he not had such experience with it on the opposite end. He placed the sound an instant before the bullet slammed into his back.
    The force knocked him belly first over a limb, and he dangled there, suspended, momentarily blinded by the fire scorching his back and right shoulder. Distant gunfire registered and impulses collided inside him.
    Strangely weightless, he hung there, able to make