“Seventeen rounds, captain.”
“And how about you, Casey?”
“Fifteen rounds,” returned the Irish volunteer, after counting up the contents of his belt.
“I have twelve rounds, captain,” came from Sorrel. “But I reckon you know how I shoot, an’ Jeming’s jest as good, mebbe better.”
“I think the supply is sufficient,” said Ben, “so don’t run any chances. If you think that is an enemy give him a shot. But don’t hit one of our fellows by mistake,” he added, by way of caution.
“It’s a Tagal!” cried Jeming, while the young 139 captain was yet beside him. The gun was levelled like a flash, a report followed, and the Filipino fell behind the bushes and was seen no more.
“Thet will teach ’em to keep their distance,” was Sorrel’s comment. “Perhaps they’ll clear out soon, bein’ afeered some more o’ our troops will come this way.”
But the natives were “game,” as Ben expressed it; and instead of withdrawing, they began to come closer, using every bush, tree, and outbuilding to the best advantage. Some of their fellows had joined them, so that the attacking party now numbered fifteen, and each well armed. They had seen that Ben wore the uniform of a captain, and felt that the capture of such an officer would be much to their credit.
Sergeant Kaser was now groaning so that he could be heard even outside of the building, and as the rebels had fired through the windows several times, they concluded that they had wounded one of the four men they knew to be inside. If this was so, but three Americanos were now left, and they felt that victory would soon be within their grasp.
“Surrendor, or we kill eferyboddy!” cried one 140 of the number, in English that could scarcely be understood. “We haf dreety mens outside.”