Caudell

They were like no coins Caudell had seen before, with the profile of a bearded man on one side and an antelope on the other, but below the antelope were magic words: 1 oz. GOLD, .999 FINE.

The Guns Of The South Turtledove, Harry 1960

Caudell hurried over, grabbed a couple of magazines, and stuffed them into his pockets.

The Guns Of The South Turtledove, Harry 1960

Looking at the tiny, weed-infested plot Gwynn cultivated -- or rather, did not seem to cultivate -- Caudell marveled that he managed to make a living from it.

The Guns Of The South Turtledove, Harry 1960

The range was still long; had Caudell been leading that Federal skirmish line, he would not have had his men shoot so soon.

The Guns Of The South Turtledove, Harry 1960

Most of that breed were arrogant, eager to get their ever-so-precious words in first, but this one stood quietly until Caudell was through.

The Guns Of The South Turtledove, Harry 1960

Caudell knew he would never find out -- or stop wondering.

The Guns Of The South Turtledove, Harry 1960

As Caudell had noted on the practice range, the new repeaters had a shorter, sharper report than any rifle he'd known before.

The Guns Of The South Turtledove, Harry 1960

Caudell filled his pockets again, crouched behind the breastwork, and waited.

The Guns Of The South Turtledove, Harry 1960

For a moment, Caudell was too bemused even to shoot at them.

The Guns Of The South Turtledove, Harry 1960

Then, to his disgust, Caudell learned he'd somehow gone right past his regiment and had to double back.

The Guns Of The South Turtledove, Harry 1960