little mist-cloud of the shell rising
slowly upward beyond the stone fort, which seemed not to know any harm
was possible or near.

* * * * *

Again Crittenden, leaning against the palm, heard his name called. Again
it was Blackford who was opening his mouth to shout some message
when--Ah! The shout died on Blackford's lips, and every man on the hill
and in the woods, at that instant, stayed his foot and his hand--even a
man standing with a gray horse against the blue wall--he, too, stopped
to listen. It really sounded too dull and muffled for a shell; but, a
few seconds later, there was a roar against the big walls of living
green behind Caney.

The first shot!

"Ready!"

Even with the cry at El Poso came another sullen, low boom and another
aggressive roar from Caney: then a great crackling in the air, as though
thousands of schoolboys were letting off fire-crackers, pack after pack.

"Fire!"

Every ear heard, every eye saw the sudden white mist at a gun-muzzle and
followed that first shell screaming toward the little Christmas toy
sitting in the sun on that distant little hill. And yet it was nothing.
Another and yet another mass of shrapnel went screaming, and still there
was no response, no sign. It was nothing--nothing at all. Was the
Spaniard asleep?

Crittenden could see attache, correspondent, aid, staff-officer,
non-combatant, sight-seer crowding close about the guns--so close that
the gunners could hardly work. He could almost hear them saying, one to
another:

"Why, is this war--really war? Why, this isn't so bad."

Twanged just then a bow-string in the direction of San Juan hill, and
the twang seemed to be getting louder and to be coming toward the little
blue farm-house. No cannon was in sight; there was no smoke visible, and
many, with an upward look, wondered what the queer sound could be.
Suddenly there was a screeching, crackling answer in the air; the
atmosphere was rent apart as by a lightning stroke directly overhead.
The man and the horse by the blue wall dropped noiselessly to the earth.
A Rough Rider paled and limped down the hill and Blackford shook his
hand--a piece of shrapnel had fallen harmlessly on his wrist. On the
hill--Crittenden laughed as he looked--on the hill, nobody
ran--everybody tumbled. Besides the men at the guns, only two others
were left--civilians.

"You're a fool," said one.

"You're another."

"What'd you stay here for?"