But it ain't no volcano.

It's my ammunition waggons which, with two thousund rounds is standin' about one hundred yards to my r'ar.

The Yanks done blows up the whole outfit with one of their shells.
"'It's strictly the thing, however, which lets my battery out.

The thick smoke of the two thousand cartridges drifts down an' blankets what's left of us like a fog.

The Yanks quits us; they allows most likely they've lifted me an' my six brass guns plumb off the earth.
Thar's some roodiments of trooth in the theery for that matter.
"'These last interestin' details sort o' all happens at once.