The Rifle Rangers Part 24

"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.

"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 b.u.t.t 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 s.h.i.+vering 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."

I fired, but the ball sank at least fifty paces in front of the enemy.

"We expect too much. It is not a twenty-four pounder. Major, I _envy_ you two things--your rifle and your horse."

"Hercules?"

"Of course."

"Lord, Captain! you may do what you will with the rifle; and if ever we get out of the reach of these infernal devils, Hercules shall be--."

At this moment a cheer came from the guerilleros, and a voice was heard shouting above the din:

"_La metralla! la metralla_!" (The howitzer!)

I leaped upon the roof, and looked out upon the plain. It was true. A howitzer-carriage, drawn by mules, was debouching from the woods, the animals dragging it along at a gallop.

It was evidently a piece of some size, large enough to tear the light picketing that screened us to atoms.

I turned towards my men with a look of despair. My eye at this moment rested on the drove of mules that stood crowded together in a corner of the pen. A sudden thought struck me. Might we not mount them and escape? There were more than enough to carry us all, and the rancho was filled with bridles and ropes. I instantly leaped from the roof, and gave orders to the men.

"Speedily, but without noise!" cried I, as the soldiers proceeded to fling bridles upon the necks of the animals.