ich I had heard something.

"Is it loaded, Major?" I asked, taking the piece from Lincoln.

"It is."

"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.

"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.

"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