"Halt! Lie down!"

They were within two hundred yards of the Seaforth house now. The front door of that building had been thrown open, though no one appeared as yet in the doorway.

It began to look as though the Moros had withdrawn, or else were waiting for something, for no shots came from the enemy.

Again, at command, the detachment rose and rushed forward, this time without cheering.

"Lie down!"

Uncle Sam's men dropped in their tracks, close to the house.

Now, Seaforth, the planter, appeared in the doorway.

"Captain, I hope I needn't tell you that you and your men are welcome,"

came Seaforth's greeting. He was hardly a middle-aged man, but three years of planter's life in Mindanao had brought deep gray streaks into his hair.

"I've a wounded man to bring inside," announced young Prescott.

"Bring him right in, sir; we'll make him as comfortable as we can."

Private Danes fainted while being lifted and carried into the house. He was soon after revived, however. The two men who had brought him in now used a first-aid package in dressing the wound, after they had washed it.

In the meantime Lieutenant Prescott discovered that none of the whites in the house had been hit, though one of the loyal Moro defenders of the house had been killed and two others wounded.

Then the lieutenant told of Edwards's death. A young woman in the room promptly fainted.

"That's Miss Daly, the school teacher," explained Mr. Seaforth. "She and Edwards were engaged to be married."

Outside more shots sounded. Lieutenant Prescott ran to the door.

Sergeant Hal, however, had detailed twenty of his men to answer the fire, whenever they saw anything to shoot at, while the others had been ordered to get to work with their intrenching tools.

This tool, in appearance, is about half way between a bayonet and a trowel. With it a soldier can lie on the ground, digging and throwing up dirt before him, while he opens a shallow trench in which to lie and conceal himself from the enemy's fire.

"Don't waste any ammunition, Sergeant. Have your men shoot to hit,"

directed the officer. "I'm going back into the house, but send for me if you see any suspicious move on the part of the Moros."

"Yes, sir," and Sergeant Overton turned his face towards the enemy.

Though he made his men remain prostrate on the ground, Hal Overton stood up. He was using the lieutenant's field gla.s.s.

The walls of the planter's house were riddled with bullets, for this house had not been constructed as a fort. Along the outer walls, however, bags of earth had been piled in such a way as to afford comparative safety to the defenders.

"Those of us who weren't fighting," explained Mr. Seaforth, "have been engaged for hours in digging dirt in the cellar and bringing it up in the sacks. But it was a fearful morning until you arrived. Now, our only danger is from a stray bullet. The Moros won't come any closer--they won't dare to charge the house with such a force of troops here to defend the place."

[Ill.u.s.tration: Lieutenant Prescott Climbed One of the Wooden Porch Columns.]

"Not unless the rascals are reinforced," replied Prescott. "There is no telling how many of the natives are concerned in this uprising.

h.e.l.lo--pardon me a moment."

Through the open doorway Prescott had caught sight of something moving down the highway. He ran speedily outside, got his gla.s.ses from Sergeant Hal and returned to the porch, where he climbed one of the wooden columns. Now he brought the gla.s.s to his eyes.

"What do you see?" asked Mr. Seaforth.

"I see," chuckled the lieutenant quietly, "that it was well for us that we left the road and came through the forest. Yonder are at least two hundred Moros marching along. There, they are debouching into the forest and will soon be added to the attacking party here. Those fellows went down the road to ambush us on the way, for they received a signal that we were on the road. We fooled them, but we shall have to reckon with them here, and within fifteen minutes. Mr. Seaforth, send all your people down into the cellar of the house. There they will be safe. This is a job for the Army alone!"

"But----"

"I am in command here, sir, and I direct you to send all of your own people to the cellar at once. That will free our minds of any dread for the safety of your people, and will leave us open to handle the problem that is coming to us."

Then, quite regardless of the fine mark that he presented to possible sharpshooters over in the grove, Lieutenant Prescott stepped outside.

"Sergeant Overton!"

"Sir?"

Hal stepped beside his officer. Thereupon the enemy's riflemen took heart and drove in a score of bullets. Lieutenant Prescott's hat was shot from his head. Two bullets pa.s.sed through the edge of the sergeant's right trousers' leg, one hole showing just above the other.

The back of Hal's left hand was grazed just enough to show the blood.

The stick that the lieutenant carried was cut in two by a bullet and half of the stick carried away from him.

"Sergeant," chuckled the lieutenant, "you've heard the expression, 'observed of all observers.' Now you know just how it feels."

"Yes, sir."

"Now, we've got to be quick, Sergeant. We must throw our men all around the house, and dig trenches as fast as we can. Unless I miss my guess, the enemy will--well, what?"

"The Moros will try to overwhelm us with a reckless charge, sir,"

answered the young sergeant.

CHAPTER XIII

A TALE OF MORO BLACKMAIL

"That's what they will do--if anything," nodded Lieutenant Prescott. "A charge is the wisest thing for the brown rascals, if they are bent on winning here. They know now about how many men I have, and they know that my men are regulars. The Moros have plenty of rifles, and I judge that they're well off in ammunition, but they can't shoot as well as American regulars. On a charge, however--in close, hand-to-hand fighting--these Malays are not to be despised. They always fought hand-to-hand in the old days, and it's in their blood."

With that expression of his views, Prescott, aided by his acting first sergeant, began to hustle the soldiers into line around the house, forming the men in a rectangle at about fifteen yards distant from the walls of the building.

The soldier of to-day must often fight lying on his stomach. These men of B Company crawled to their stations, dragging their rifles after them.

Pop! pop! pop! The Moros were watching, and fired from time to time, irregularly. A prostrate man is hard to hit at a few hundred yards.

These pot-shots serve to bother and irritate soldiers getting into position.

As soon as each soldier was in place he began burrowing with his intrenching tool. It is surprising how quickly a man lying down can dig a little ditch and throw up the dirt on the outside.

First, each man dug his own ditch. As soon as he had this completed he connected his ditch with that of the men next to him. Within thirty minutes the men of B Company, without having a man hit by the pot-shots of the enemy, were well intrenched. From time to time some of the soldiers, under orders, ceased their digging to take a few shots themselves, just to keep the Moros from growing too bold.