"Don't get nervous, Hunter," urged the young sergeant kindly. "Leave all emotion and quivers for the volunteers and for civilians. The regulars have smaller losses in battle because they depend upon their leaders and do just what they're told. Remember it, lad."

Then Hal was gone, but Hunter found himself flushing a little, yet wonderfully steady in his nerves. He shot carefully, sighting as best he could for every shot.

After another rush, during which they yelled like fiends, the Moros dropped to earth and began firing more heavily.

During that brief rush, however, the Moros lost several men, dropped by Yankee bullets.

"Cease firing and cool your rifles!" shouted Lieutenant Prescott. "Load your magazines, and be ready to drop 'em when they try another rush."

A minute later Datto Hakkut's followers discovered that the American fire had ceased. Yelling, the brown men rose and charged like a cyclone.

"Begin firing! Give it to 'em--_hot_!" shouted the young officer, leading the firing coolly with his revolver.

Again the Moros dropped to earth, though not until they had lost a score of men. For a few moments they lay there, not attempting to keep up much of a fire, for now that they were close to Uncle Sam's regulars, who were firing steadily, it would have been suicide for a brown man to raise his head at all.

"Ta-ra-ta-ra-ta!" The bugler, sticking close to the officer, had to sound the order this time, for the cessation of firing.

"Every man lay his bayonet in front of him, ready to fix!" called Lieutenant Prescott, as the pop-pop-popping began to cease.

That meant cold steel--the final rush in which the regulars must meet several times their own number in deadly hand-to-hand conflict.

CHAPTER XV

IN A CLINCH WITH COLD STEEL

Then came the Moro rush!

All soldiers cheer in the charge, but these brown men had their own kind of battle-cry--a deafening, blood-curdling din.

Yet the regulars made a noise that was heard even over the Moro yelling.

There was a smart sound of firing as the magazines of the soldiers'

rifles were once more emptied.

The slaughter by men coolly firing at this close range, even in the darkness, was a heavy one. It testified to the courage of these Moros that they could take such punishment and not run.

True, many of the brown-skinned foe did waver, yet through their lines rushed groups of yelling fanatics, armed now only with straight or curved swords and knives. These men of cold steel rushed valiantly into close quarters.

To the soldiers the order to fix bayonets was never given; the men fixed their bayonets by instinct as they emptied their magazines.

Now steel met steel, in a cold, ringing, deadly clash. Occasionally the cry of a stricken man rent the air, though the majority bore their hurts with grunts or in stoical silence.

The greater part of the regulars leaped to the top of the trench wall to meet the shock. That move, however, soon carried them beyond the entrenchments.

Some of the regulars found themselves fighting three or more of the enemy at once. Lieutenant Prescott shot one Moro dead, but as he did so Sergeant Hal saw another Moro, armed with a sword, rush at the lieutenant from behind.

Overton leaped forward, cracking the fellow's head with the b.u.t.t of his clubbed gun. Just as he did so Prescott fired squarely over Hal's left shoulder, knocking over a Moro bent on stabbing the sergeant from behind. The noise of that explosion, so close to his ear, deafened the young sergeant temporarily.

Both officer and sergeant realized that each in turn had saved the other's life, but there was no time for acknowledgments. The foe had yet to be met and worsted in that furious conflict.

At last it was over. The Moro men had broken and fled, their yells dying out in the distance.

Fully two dozen of the soldiers started to pursue. Prescott turned, bawling an order to the bugler over the din. The notes of the bugle recalled the soldiers.

"Men," shouted Lieutenant Prescott, "the first duty is to get the wounded behind the trench and then into the house. Every man badly hurt must have prompt attention."

Then, indeed, came the time to take account of what had happened.

Three of the soldiers already lay dead, their heads and bodies frightfully gashed. Another, Bender, was dying from two knife thrusts through his lungs.

Four more men were too badly hurt to help themselves. A dozen others had wounds of varying degrees of seriousness but were able to reach shelter unaided.

Uncle Sam had won the victory for the moment, but he had paid dearly for it.

"I'm glad you gave me that word when you did, Sergeant," murmured Private Hunter. "It steadied me. If it hadn't been for that I guess I'd have been a goner by this time."

It was after three o'clock in the morning when Sergeant Overton felt that he finally had a moment for free breathing.

"Sergeant," said the lieutenant, "your watch tour is long past. Lie down and get some sleep."

"You're sure that I can be spared, sir?"

"Certainly; you can be called if you're needed."

To one not accustomed to war it might seem strange, but thirty seconds after Hal had wrapped himself in his blanket he was deep in dreamless slumber. He slept until the sun was fairly high. Then Prescott awoke him.

"Kelly--Slosson--are they back, sir?" were Hal's first words, as he threw aside his blanket.

"Back nearly three hours ago, Sergeant," smiled the officer. "It's half-past eight. I've been occupied, and have missed my breakfast. Come into the house and breakfast with me, Sergeant Overton. Sergeant Dinsmore will look after things outdoors."

"Did--have you buried the Moros who fell?" questioned Hal, looking out beyond the trench.

"The rascals sent over men with two lanterns, and asked permission to carry off their casualties," explained the officer. "I let them do it."

"It must have given them a lot of work to do," muttered Hal.

"It did. I estimate their dead at thirty, and their badly hurt at forty or more. We made it an expensive night for them."

"We paid a big price on our own part, sir," returned the young sergeant, "for we paid in good Americans."

"We can't have war without death, can we?" half sighed the West Pointer.

Once inside the house Hal's first care was to visit the wounded men.

"Bender's gone, sir?" asked Hal.