“Hullo, that’s a new wrinkle!” exclaimed Ben. “They are going to try burning us out.”
“Sure, an’ thim haythins is up to all sorts av dodges,” cried Dan Casey. “It’s meself as would like to git a squint at th’ feller that threw that.”
“I’ve got him, I reckon,” whispered Sorrel, taking a ready aim at a thin hedge to the left of the house. The report of his gun was followed by a shriek of pain, and a Filipino fell into view, the blood flowing freely from a wound in his neck. Soon his companions caught him by the legs and dragged him back into cover.
After this brief exchange of “compliments,” as the tall Tennesseean called it, there came a lull. Evidently the natives were disconcerted by the unexpected fall of the man who had thrown the fire-ball and knew not what to do.
“Do you suppose they have quitted the vicinity?” 142 questioned Jeming, after listening vainly for some sound from without. From a distance came a scattering fire, but around the native house was the silence of death, for the man who had been shot by Sorrel had fainted from loss of blood.
“They are up to something, you can be certain of that,” answered Ben. “The Filipino is at his worst when he is silent.”
“Right ye air, cap’n,” put in Sorrel. “Yere she comes agin—an’ a scorcher, too!”
From over the bushes came a huge fire-ball, blazing brightly. It struck the thatch of the cottage close to the edge of the roof, and before it fell to the ground had set fire to the abode, which began to burn as though no shower had wet it for a month.
“That settles it!” came from Jeming. “We’ve got to get out, or we’ll be burnt up like rats in a corn-crib.”
“But the sergeant—” began Sorrel, when a low moan issued from the corner.