About a dozen of the rascals tried to return the fire of the soldiers, but fired too high. None of the khaki-clad men were hit.
"Cease firing!" shouted Lieutenant Prescott, but he addressed his order to the bugler who stood beside him. No voice could carry over such a din of firing.
Ta-rar-ta-ra-ta! rang the bugle. As the men obeyed the command to cease firing one would again have been reminded of exploding packs of fire crackers, for the fire died down sputteringly, with here and there another report or two from soldiers who felt that they had a fine bead drawn and ached to "get" another enemy or two.
Fully twenty-five of the Moros had fallen, either in the trench at the first crash of fire, or else while running to cover.
These, however, were not the only enemies at hand, for, from a grove off to the left of the planter's house a heavy fire now crashed out, and bullets began to clip twigs from the trees among which the soldiers lay.
Other bullets whizzed by over the heads of Uncle Sam's men as they lay there. There was a peculiarly spiteful sound to the passage of these bullets. "Whew-ew-ew!" they sang, for most of the Moros were using the .43 Remington, with the brass-jacketed, heavy bullet, this being a favorite arm in the islands among the natives. There are always adventurers at Hong Kong who, for a price, will land any number of Remingtons and any amount of ammunition at lonely spots along the coast of the islands.
Shading his eyes with his left hand Lieutenant Prescott tried to locate this other firing party of Moros. Smokeless powder gives no clue to the hiding places of an enemy, and even if there be any kind of echo it is a confusing guide.
But at last Prescott was sure he had located the second Moro fighting party and he pointed out the place to his men.
"Send them a volley over there, all together," ordered the young officer. "Ready; load! At six hundred and fifty yards, aim. Fire!"
Prescott's face beamed with satisfaction as he held his field glass to his eyes and saw where the bullets threw up the dirt.
"Splendidly done, men!" he cried. "We'll send 'em another. Ready; load. Aim--fire!"
Once more the volley crashed out splendidly. Then the men lay on their hot-barreled rifles.