“Well done!” cried a dozen of voices at once.
In a moment the rifle was wiped and reloaded.
“This time, Sergeant, the fellow with the linstock.”
During the reloading of the rifle, the Mexicans around the six-pounder had somewhat recovered from their surprise, and had rammed home the cartridge. A tall artillerist stood, with linstock and fuse, near the breech, waiting for the order to fire.
Before he received that order the rifle again cracked; his arm new up with a sudden jerk, and the smoking rod, flying from his grasp, was projected to the distance of twenty feet.
The man himself spun round, and, staggering a pace or two, fell into the arms of his comrades.
“Cap’n, jest allow me ter take that ere skunk next time.”
“Which one, Sergeant?” I asked.
“Him thet’s on the black, makin’ such a dot-rotted muss.”
I recognised the horse and figure of Dubrosc.