Instantly following it came a sputtering of reports, then a settled, heavy fire. The noise of so many soldiers firing at will was like that made on Fourth of July by a hundred packs of cannon crackers all going off at once.

Yet over all the din rose the yells of the surprised Moros in the trench. It had caught them hard, for most of the soldiers were doing good shooting.

Heedless, now, of the fire from the planter's house, the Moros in the trench rose to flee. Some of them dropped where they stood. Others ran away as fast as their brown legs could carry them, some brandishing their rifles with defiance, a few others throwing down their firearms as they started to bolt.

About a dozen of the rascals tried to return the fire of the soldiers, but fired too high. None of the khaki-clad men were hit.

"Cease firing!" shouted Lieutenant Prescott, but he addressed his order to the bugler who stood beside him. No voice could carry over such a din of firing.

Ta-rar-ta-ra-ta! rang the bugle. As the men obeyed the command to cease firing one would again have been reminded of exploding packs of fire crackers, for the fire died down sputteringly, with here and there another report or two from soldiers who felt that they had a fine bead drawn and ached to "get" another enemy or two.

Fully twenty-five of the Moros had fallen, either in the trench at the first crash of fire, or else while running to cover.

These, however, were not the only enemies at hand, for, from a grove off to the left of the planter's house a heavy fire now crashed out, and bullets began to clip twigs from the trees among which the soldiers lay.

Other bullets whizzed by over the heads of Uncle Sam's men as they lay there. There was a peculiarly spiteful sound to the pa.s.sage of these bullets. "Whew-ew-ew!" they sang, for most of the Moros were using the .43 Remington, with the bra.s.s-jacketed, heavy bullet, this being a favorite arm in the islands among the natives. There are always adventurers at Hong Kong who, for a price, will land any number of Remingtons and any amount of ammunition at lonely spots along the coast of the islands.

Shading his eyes with his left hand Lieutenant Prescott tried to locate this other firing party of Moros. Smokeless powder gives no clue to the hiding places of an enemy, and even if there be any kind of echo it is a confusing guide.

But at last Prescott was sure he had located the second Moro fighting party and he pointed out the place to his men.

"Send them a volley over there, all together," ordered the young officer. "Ready; load! At six hundred and fifty yards, aim. Fire!"

Prescott's face beamed with satisfaction as he held his field gla.s.s to his eyes and saw where the bullets threw up the dirt.

"Splendidly done, men!" he cried. "We'll send 'em another. Ready; load.

Aim--fire!"

Once more the volley crashed out splendidly. Then the men lay on their hot-barreled rifles.

No more shots came their way just then.

"We've silenced their fire for the time being," chuckled the officer. "I wonder if the enemy are retiring?"

In the silence Uncle Sam's men could hear a frantic cheer rise from the interior of the planter's house.

"Yes; I'll warrant they're glad," cried Prescott, his eyes shining mistily. "But we haven't reached them yet!"

It looked easy. All the detachment had to do was to run across a field and halt before the planter's house.

Yet how could the young commanding officer know that he would not lose half his men by ambushed fire while crossing that open s.p.a.ce?

CHAPTER XII

THE BROWN MEN AT BAY----FOR HOW LONG?

If Sergeant Hal, or any other soldier in that detachment of sixty men, had felt any nervousness before the fight started, everyone of them had forgotten it by this time.

So far, not a man had they lost, and none had been even lightly hit. The bravery of soldiers is usually founded on their confidence in their officers. Every man in the detachment now knew that Lieutenant Richard Prescott was an officer who would do all that lay before him to do, yet an officer who would not needlessly sacrifice the life or safety of any man in his command. That discovery by the men goes far to make an officer capable. Let the men once think their commander careless about slaughter, and they will not respond as quickly.

"Men," presently spoke the young officer, as coolly and slowly as though he were explaining a manoeuvre in his once favorite game of football, "we have now to reach the house yonder, and there's a likelihood of our being fired upon when we move forward. When I give the order you'll run slowly, at the gait set by Sergeant Overton, who will be ahead of you.

If you hear the command to lie down, drop in your tracks. But let no man lie down until he hears the word. We may have to employ half a dozen rushes in reaching the house. Rise! Sergeant Overton to the front.

Forward! Charge!"

Steadily and gallantly the little line swept forward. Hal Overton, who knew the pace exactly, went forward at a trot that did not vary by as much as a step to the minute.

In the distance half a dozen rifles popped out singly. Some of the bullets whistled by, others struck the ground near them, ploughing up the dirt.

If any soldier looked for Lieutenant Prescott to order them down, he was in error. Another hundred yards they covered. Then a volley rang out from the men hidden in the grove, and Private Danes dropped, though without a cry.

"Lie down!" shouted Prescott steadily, though he remained with his field gla.s.s to his eyes, searching the grove. "Sergeant Overton, see how badly Danes is hurt."

Hal strode over to where the wounded man lay.

"Oh, it ain't nothing, Sarge," growled Private Danes disgustedly. "Just enough to give me a toothache in the hip."

Yet the poor fellow pointed to a bloodstained spot right over the center of the hip bone. Danes's left leg would never again be sound enough to march with his comrades. Perhaps the man realized it, but he was a soldier, and therefore made no fuss.

"You'll have to lie quiet, Danes," returned Sergeant Hal. "We'll get you out of this."

Just then Private Kelly raised his head for a look at the adjacent grove.

As he did so a shot rang out over in the grove and Kelly uttered an exclamation of disgust.

"Hit, Kelly?" queried Sergeant Hal, stepping over to him.

Private Kelly spat out two loose front teeth and some blood.

"Ye see what happened, Sarge," retorted Kelly. "It's a good thing the fellow drew a bead on me profile. But I ain't kicking at getting a dentist's services for nothing. No, that ain't my kick."

"What is wrong, then?" laughed Hal.

"Why, that blamed bullet was hot, and the Moro made me swallow it! It was so hot that it burned all the way down! Got any ice, Sarge?"

A burst came from a dozen distant rifles at once. Bullets tore through the air around Lieutenant Prescott as he stood, still with his field gla.s.s to his eyes. Looking around, however, he saw Hal standing, and commanded severely:

"If you're through with your work, Sergeant Overton, lie down. Ready, men, for just one volley. Load; aim--at the front timber line of that grove. Fire!"

Hardly had the crashing volley ripped out when again the young officer's voice was heard:

"Rise, forward, charge!"

This time the line moved with a yell, the two men who carried Danes yelling as loudly as the rest.