"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 snatched up the burning fuse, and, running up, applied it
to the touch.
"On your faces, men!"
The ball came crashing 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.
"Aim at the artillerists, Sergeant. We have nothing to fear from the
others."
Lincoln fired again. The shot hit the ground in front of the enemy's
gun; but, glancing, it struck one of the cannoniers, apparently wounding
him badly, as he was carried back by his comrades.
The Mexicans, terror-struck at this strange instrument of destruction,
took up a new position, two hundred yards still farther back.
Their third shot ricocheted, striking the top of the strong plank behind
which the major was screening himself, and only frightening the latter
by the shock upon the timber.
Lincoln again fired.
This time his shot produced no visible effect, and a taunting cheer from
the enemy told that they felt themselves beyond range.
Another shot was fired from the _zundnadel_, apparently with a similar
result.
"It's beyond her carry, Cap'n," said Lincoln, bringing the butt of his
piece to the ground, with an expression of reluctant conviction.
"Try one more shot. If it fail, we can reserve the other for closer
work. Aim high!"
This resulted as the two preceding ones; and a voice from the
guerilleros was heard exclaiming:
"_Yankees bobos! mas adelante_!" (A little farther, you Yankee fools!)
Another shot from the six-pounder cracked through the planks, knocking
his piece from the hands of a soldier, and shivering the dry stock-wood
into fifty fragments.
"Sergeant, give me the rifle," said I. "They must be a thousand yards
off; but, as they are as troublesome with that carronade as if they were
only ten, I shall try one more shot."