ose 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 butt 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 ye