ith cold steel!"

This is one of the first lessons that the soldier must learn on the
firing line. Every cartridge that he fires needlessly means one less
shot with which to defend himself. Every man he hits is one less to be
reckoned with later.

"Don't fire heavily until the rascals get nearer," was Sergeant Hal's
next warning. "Those fellows are not very dangerous until they get
close. Then we'll have need of cool gun barrels and plenty of
cartridges. Steady!"

"That boy has the making of a commander in him," thought Lieutenant
Prescott approvingly. "He's cool and all business. The only thing in the
world that he's thinking of is how to make the squad work count. He
isn't losing his head."

Night firing is always uncertain. It is too dark to see the end sight on
the rifle and advancing figures show uncertainly, like wavering
shadows.

"Don't fire so fast," called Hal, as the rifle work of the troops became
more brisk. "Fire just enough to annoy the rascals. Save your real work
until the enemy are within a hundred and fifty yards."

"Whee! When the goo-goos get that close they'll jump in and scalp us!"
muttered a young soldier nervously.

Hal crouched beside the young soldier, resting a hand on his shoulder.

"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 cl