“Can you hit that man with the sponge?” said I, returning the piece to the hunter.
“If this hyur thing’ll carry fur enuf, I kin,” was the reply.
“It will kill at a thousand yards, point blank,” cried the major, with energy.
“Ha! are you sure of that, Major?” I asked.
“Certainly, Captain. I got it from the inventor. We tried it at Washington. It is loaded with a conical bullet. It bored a hole through an inch plank at that distance.”
“Well. Now, Sergeant, take sure aim; this may save us yet.”
Lincoln planted himself firmly on his feet, choosing a notch of the stockade that ranged exactly with his shoulder. He then carefully wiped the dust from the sights; and, placing the heavy barrel in the notch, laid his cheek slowly against the stock.
“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.