os, shooting and brandishing creeses.

From the wooded, inaccessible ledge to the left came a sudden, rapid
firing that made the air hot with bullets directed at Uncle Sam's men.

CHAPTER XIX

HAL TURNS THE GATLING GUN LOOSE

"Gatling gun to the head of the line! Lie down, men!"

Two men dropped even before the order had been given, for Moro bullets
had found them.

After firing volleys, the "point" and advance guard fell back on the
run.

"Take the infantry fire at this point, Sergeant Overton!" commanded
Lieutenant Prescott briskly.

"Open magazines! Load magazines!" shouted Sergeant Hal to the men in
the swiftly formed front rank. "Ready, aim! At will, point-blank
range--fire!"

Prettily enough the American fire opened on the Moros rushing down the
narrow path.

The centre of the American column, at Lieutenant Holmes's order, opened
fire across the gully at the wooded ambush on the left.

Captain Freeman took up his stand a little forward of the centre, where
he could watch the fire in both directions.

"Hurry up that Gatling gun, Prescott."

"Yes, sir."

Prescott and two privates were working at lightning speed to get the
Gatling placed. Then the lieutenant fed in a belt of ammunition.

"Sergeant Terry, relieve Sergeant Overton in charge of the advancing
firing line. Overton, come here."

"Yes, sir," responded Hal, running up and saluting.

Lieutenant Prescott was just finishing the sighting of the Gatling.

"Attend to the firing of this piece, Sergeant. Fire steadily, though not
at fullest speed. Keep it going continuously until it becomes too hot,
or until I give the word to stop."

"Very good, sir."

"Begin firing, Sergeant."

Hal's answer was to turn the firing mechanism loose.

R-r-r-r-rip! rang out the exploding cartridges too rapidly for count.
Hal swung the nose of the piece slightly from side to side, and the
storm of Gatling bullets raked thoroughly the road ahead.

At first the on-rushing Moros had been almost stopped by the sudden,
low, accurate infantry fire. They were to be seen ahead in great force,
and the cries of their leaders drove them on with greater steadiness.

Now, as the crackling of the Gatling rose on the air, and its
projectiles swept the road ahead, constantly supported by brisk infantry
fire from at least forty men, the natives were forced to halt. Then they
wavered. The hoarse, taunting cries of their leaders, however, drove
them forward again.