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The phantom crackle of gunfire and the distant, fading shouts of the Yankee pursuit were behind him for the moment. John Munson, astride his weary mount, Pilgrim, felt the familiar thrum of adrenaline slowly give way to a cold, creeping dread. It had been a good raid, swift and punishing, hitting a Union supply wagon train southwest of Manassas, scattering their escort like quail. However, in the chaos of the withdrawal, in the smoke and the thunder of...