And now a consuming rage seized them all.

They felt as if an advantage had been taken of them.
While they were fighting a great battle in front a sly foe sought to ambush them.

They did not hate the Southern army which charged directly upon them, but they did hate this band of sharpshooters which had come creeping through the woods to pick them off, and they hated them collectively and individually.
It was Dick's single and fierce desire at that moment to catch sight of Slade, whom he would shoot without hesitation if the chance came.
He looked for him continually as he crept from bush to bush, and he withheld his fire until fortune might bring into his view the flaps of that enormous hat.

The whole vast battle of Chickamauga passed from his mind.

He was concentrated, heart and soul, upon this affair of outposts in the thickets.
Men around him were firing, and the bullets in return were knocking up the leaves about him, but Dick's finger did not yet press the trigger.
The great hat was still hidden from view, but he heard Slade's whistle calling to his men.