The cry was repeated down the lines. The men, and Ernest, and Jim, began to edge along the breastwork, firing as they went, and ever shortening the distance to the field-piece.
Almost as fast as they arrived to help discharge it, the Mexican soldiers, both infantry and cavalry, were shot down. The cavalry tried another charge—officers urging with the flat of their swords; and again they broke and fled.
Five times the cannon belched, while the infantry, in the rear, delivered useless volleys, and the cavalry dashed and recoiled.
“The cannon and victory!” welled more determinedly the hoarse clamor.
Now the last detachment of impromptu cannoneers were cut to a last man. The mules, tortured and panic-stricken, had broken from their traces and had stampeded straight through the infantry. At the piece only one man was left; he sprang forward from the caisson with a hammer and spike, to drive the nail into the touch-hole and spike the gun. Sam Whiting, on Ernest’s right, hastily threw up his rifle and shot. [Down sank the last cannoneer]; and none came to replace him.
[DOWN SANK THE LAST CANNONEER]
“Wall,” drawled Henry Karnes, his hat gone, his red hair tousled with energy and wet with the perspiration, “I reckon that’s our gun. Nobody else claims it.”
Jim turned to Ernest. His face was aflame.
“Hooray!” he croaked. “We’ve won. Ninety-two of us licked four hundred.”