Part 24 (1/2)

”Sergeant, the man with the shot!” I called out.

As I spoke, one of the artillerists was stooping to the muzzle of the six-pounder, holding in his hand a spherical case-shot. Lincoln pressed the trigger. The crack followed, and the artillerist threw out his arms, and doubled over on his head without giving a kick.

The shot that he had held rolled out upon the green-sward. A wild cry, expressive of extreme astonishment, broke from the guerilleros. At the same instant a cheer rang through the corral.

”Well done!” cried a dozen of voices at once.

In a moment the rifle was wiped and reloaded.

”This time, Sergeant, the fellow with the linstock.”

During the reloading of the rifle, the Mexicans around the six-pounder had somewhat recovered from their surprise, and had rammed home the cartridge. A tall artillerist stood, with linstock and fuse, near the breech, waiting for the order to fire.

Before he received that order the rifle again cracked; his arm new up with a sudden jerk, and the smoking rod, flying from his grasp, was projected to the distance of twenty feet.

The man himself spun round, and, staggering a pace or two, fell into the arms of his comrades.

”Cap'n, jest allow me ter take that ere skunk next time.”

”Which one, Sergeant?” I asked.

”Him thet's on the black, makin' such a dot-rotted muss.”

I recognised the horse and figure of Dubrosc.

”Certainly, by all means,” said I, with a strange feeling at my heart as I gave the order.

But before Lincoln could reload, one of the Mexicans, apparently an officer, had s.n.a.t.c.hed up the burning fuse, and, running up, applied it to the touch.

”On your faces, men!”

The ball came cras.h.i.+ng through the thin pickets of the corral, and, whizzing across the inclosure, struck one of the mules on the flank, tearing open its hip, causing it to kick furiously as it tumbled over the ground.

Its companions, stampeding, galloped for a moment through the pen; then, collecting in a corner, stood cowered up and quivering. A fierce yell announced the exultation of the guerilleros.

Dubrosc was sitting on his powerful mustang, facing the corral, and watching the effects of the shot.

”If he wur only 'ithin range ov my own rifle!” muttered Lincoln, as he glanced along the sights of the strange piece.

The crack soon followed--the black horse reared, staggered, and fell back on his rider.

”Ten strike, set 'em up!” exclaimed a soldier.

”Missed the skunk!” cried Lincoln, gritting his teeth as the horseman was seen to struggle from under the fallen animal.

Rising to his feet, Dubrosc sprang out to the front, and shook his fist in the air with a shout of defiance.

The guerilleros galloped back; and the artillerists, wheeling the six-pounder, dragged it after, and took up a new position about three hundred yards farther to the rear.

A second shot from the piece again tore through the pickets, striking one of our men, and killing him instantly.