CHAPTER XXXI
THE FALL OF SAN ISIDRO—CONCLUSION
Luke Striker was right; a large force of Filipinos were sweeping down the road at a rapid rate, bringing with them two old field-pieces and a rapid-firing gun. They were commanded by several officers on horseback, and presented a formidable appearance to the worn-out Americans.
“Out of sight, quick!” The cry came from Ben. “It’s our only chance to escape.”
The words had scarcely left his lips when the pop-pop of several Mausers was heard, as the Filipino sharpshooters, who were in advance of the main body, opened fire upon them. Their aim was excellent, and both Striker and Boxer were hit, although neither seriously.
“They’ve caught me!” ejaculated the old sailor, and staggered up against Ben. At the same time Boxer pitched headlong.
“Oh, Luke!” The call came from Larry, who 306 was limping painfully. “Where did they hit you? This is the worst of all!”
“I’m struck in the shoulder. But come, Ben is right. To the jungle!” And Striker clutched Larry’s hand in a death-like grip, bound to live or die with his closest friend, as the case might be.
The pair started forward. Ben hesitated and looked at Boxer, and saw the latter try to stagger up once more. “He’s not dead,” thought the young captain, and picked the sharpshooter up. In a few seconds more the whole party were in the jungle again.