“That’s a good idea,” seconded Fitzpatrick the Bad Hand.
“Yes; throw a shell across the lake, sergeant; but don’t hurt anybody,” said the lieutenant to Sergeant Zindel.
Nothing loath was Sergeant Zindel. He and his cannoneers sprang to the brass howitzer, unlimbered it and swung it about, pointing it diagonally over the lake-meadow. Under the short guttural orders of the sergeant a charge was rammed home, and was followed by a shell. The three Indians—the two guides and the young Chinook—gazed with much wonderment, and even the Frémont men were expectant.
The cannoneers sprang aside; Sergeant Zindel applied the fuse to the primed vent. The loud “Boom!” of the howitzer rolled to the mountain-slopes around about, but before any echoes had answered, there a quarter of a mile away, over the lake-meadow against the timber back-ground burst with white explosion the shell!
“Bravo! Hooray!” cheered the company, now listening to the echoes.
“Wah! The gun that speaks twice!” murmured the three Indians, awed by the shot.
“Those fellows know something’s happened, all right,” remarked Mr. Talbot.
For instantly every smoke had been quenched, as the frightened Tlamaths would conceal their villages and themselves from the astounding “medicine people” who had appeared.
Camp was pitched upon a piny point, before which the animals could graze under guard.