They were formed again on the extreme end of the line at the right of a company of the infantry. The cannon properly stayed in the centre, where it belonged; and the other company of infantry were on the left of line. Here at the right, in company front, the cavalry and infantry, advancing together, made quite a sight—as far as they could be seen.
The muskets of the Mexican pickets and the rifles and shot-guns of the Texas skirmishers were still answering one another; but it was all a waste of powder, and soon the firing ceased.
Colonel Moore had ordered a halt, until the fog lifted. Duke stood with ears pricked, as if he wondered what all this commotion was about.
“Shake up your priming, boy,” cautioned Jim, to Ernest, as they sat carefully covering their rifle pans with their coats. “She’s thinning.”
And so “she”—the fog—was: slowly drifting away, and more and more revealing the country around. Ernest nervously wiped his flint with his damp fingers, and clapped his hand against the lock plate to shake the priming in case that it was caked.
Now could be made out the ghostly forms of trees, and other objects; and a low order was issued “to move forward at a walk.” The whole line moved. The Mexican pickets began to fire, again; and on the left some of the volunteers in the ranks shot back at them.
The pickets could be seen bolting away for their camp—with mounted skirmishers dashing in pursuit for better shots.
“Shucks!” complained Jim. “We aren’t in on this at all. Why don’t we charge?”
“What’ll we charge at?” retorted Ernest.
More ghostly objects were disclosed—and see, there were the Mexicans, at last: a crowd of spectre horsemen grouped on a little rise.