Twice they wavered, under the blistering fire of the regulars, though
each time their leaders succeeded in driving the brown men forward
again.

When the fight opened there were at least six hundred yelling Moros in
sight, but they were now dropping by scores.

Then, with a wild yell, three hundred more rushed around the base of a
low hill, joining the assailants.

"Are the Moros cowards?" demanded the deep, penetrating voice of one of
the leaders. "Are the Moros women, that they would live forever? Has
heaven no joys for the faithful that you would remain so long away?"

That stirred the fanatical blood of the brown men. They were equal to
anything, now! On they dashed, though the Gatling and the steady
infantry fire withered the ranks in advance.

On they came, disdaining, now, to return rifle fire with rifle fire.
Over their own dead and wounded stepped the brown men, and rushed on.

"Cease firing there, Sergeant Terry. Give 'em the steel!" bellowed
Lieutenant Prescott hoarsely, using his hands for a trumpet, though he
stood barely twelve feet from young Terry.

"Cease firing," Noll repeated squarely in the bugler's ear. Then the
notes of the bugle arose, clear and loud. The firing died out.

"It's cold steel, men! Fix bayonets!" shouted Sergeant Noll.

But Sergeant Hal and two men had dragged the Gatling, momentarily
silenced, to one side of the road, where they could still employ this
machine of destruction.

Another belt of cartridges Sergeant Overton fed in. Then he started the
machine again.

R-r-r-r-rip! The Gatling was performing at hand-to-hand quarters now.
Noll sent a dozen men to stand by the gun, defending it from capture
with their lives.

Clash! Zing! Slash! Slash! Thrust--cut! It was steel against steel now.
On more open ground the Moros might have had a slight advantage, for
they are skilled users of the sword and creese, and when their blood is
up they know little in the way of terror.

R-r-r-r-r-rip! It was the Gatling, at such close quarters, that now
dismayed the brown men. With no mean quality of heroism, they threw
themselves against the gun's defenders. They would seize that demon of
machinery and hurl it over into the gully below. But the doughboys, with
bayonets stationed on the sides of the gun, thrust or stabbed them back.
No native approached the muzzle of the Gatling and lived to cause
further trouble. In as wide an arc as possible Sergeant Hal swung the
nose of the piec