“There’s Ugartechea, with the cavalry!” exclaimed Jim. “Who’s the infantry officer?”
“Colonel Cos. He’s brother to the general, lad,” was an answer.
The infantry were marching, with arms trailed, to the right, so as to front the Texan lines; the cavalry stayed mainly in the centre, but extended also to right and left, as if preparing for a sweeping charge; and between them and the infantry was the brass cannon, pointed, its gunner whirling his match to keep it aglow.
“Why don’t we shoot?” demanded Ernest, fretfully. “I can’t hold this bead forever!”
“Steady, boys,” warned the officers.
“Aim for the whites of their eyes,” cheered Henry Karnes.
The infantry had formed not more than 200 yards away, and were raising their pieces; a trumpet pealed briskly, in a signal—and now, somewhere far down the Texan line, rang a rifle. The gunner with the lighted match threw up his free arm and plunged headlong.
“Give it to ’em, boys!” echoed the rapid order. “Never mind the infantry. Watch the cavalry and that gun.”
“Crackity-crack-crack!” spoke the rifles.
“Bang! Bang-bang-bang!” mingled the muskets, of heavier voice.