What follows is offered in response to Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge. The word is "Rebel".
The metallic smells of shot, powder and blood hung over the field like a pall. The oppressive heat of the blinding sun, still and stifling, was heavy on him, heavy as the dead horse that lay across his legs.
The Yankees were waiting for them; cut them to pieces in a matter of moments; horrible, nightmarish moments. Moments during which blood spray hung in the air like a fine mist, leaving a sheen on everything - men, horses, equipment, even the long grasses of the field.
He was gut shot, thirsty. He knew he was dying.
He would die a Rebel.