Rising to his feet, Dubrosc sprang out to the front, and shook his fist in the air with a shout of defiance.
The guerilleros galloped back; and the artillerists, wheeling the six-pounder, dragged it after, and took up a new position about three hundred yards farther to the rear.
A second shot from the piece again tore through the pickets, striking one of our men, and killing him instantly.
“Aim at the artillerists, Sergeant. We have nothing to fear from the others.”
Lincoln fired again. The shot hit the ground in front of the enemy’s gun; but, glancing, it struck one of the cannoniers, apparently wounding him badly, as he was carried back by his comrades.
The Mexicans, terror-struck at this strange instrument of destruction, took up a new position, two hundred yards still farther back.
Their third shot ricocheted, striking the top of the strong plank behind which the major was screening himself, and only frightening the latter by the shock upon the timber.
Lincoln again fired.
This time his shot produced no visible effect, and a taunting cheer from the enemy told that they felt themselves beyond range.
Another shot was fired from the zündnadel, apparently with a similar result.