Ned knew that his bullet had sped true, and he felt a savage joy.
The other sharpshooters around him were also finding targets.

The Indian bullets still crashed into the crowded ranks in the hollow, but the white marksmen picked off one after another in the grass.

The moment a red face showed itself a bullet that rarely missed was sent toward it.
Here was no indiscriminate shooting.

No man pulled the trigger until he saw his target.

Ned had now fired four times, and he knew that he had not missed once.