“Certainly, by all means,” said I, with a strange feeling at my heart as I gave the order.
But before Lincoln could reload, one of the Mexicans, apparently an officer, had snatched up the burning fuse, and, running up, applied it to the touch.
“On your faces, men!”
The ball came crashing through the thin pickets of the corral, and, whizzing across the inclosure, struck one of the mules on the flank, tearing open its hip, causing it to kick furiously as it tumbled over the ground.
Its companions, stampeding, galloped for a moment through the pen; then, collecting in a corner, stood cowered up and quivering. A fierce yell announced the exultation of the guerilleros.
Dubrosc was sitting on his powerful mustang, facing the corral, and watching the effects of the shot.
“If he wur only ’ithin range ov my own rifle!” muttered Lincoln, as he glanced along the sights of the strange piece.
The crack soon followed—the black horse reared, staggered, and fell back on his rider.
“Ten strike, set ’em up!” exclaimed a soldier.
“Missed the skunk!” cried Lincoln, gritting his teeth as the horseman was seen to struggle from under the fallen animal.