At last it was over. The Moro men had broken and fled, their yells dying out in the distance.
Fully two dozen of the soldiers started to pursue. Prescott turned, bawling an order to the bugler over the din. The notes of the bugle recalled the soldiers.
"Men," shouted Lieutenant Prescott, "the first duty is to get the wounded behind the trench and then into the house. Every man badly hurt must have prompt attention."
Then, indeed, came the time to take account of what had happened.
Three of the soldiers already lay dead, their heads and bodies frightfully gashed. Another, Bender, was dying from two knife thrusts through his lungs.
Four more men were too badly hurt to help themselves. A dozen others had wounds of varying degrees of seriousness but were able to reach shelter unaided.
Uncle Sam had won the victory for the moment, but he had paid dearly for it.
"I'm glad you gave me that word when you did, Sergeant," murmured Private Hunter. "It steadied me. If it hadn't been for that I guess I'd have been a goner by this time."
It was after three o'clock in the morning when Sergeant Overton felt that he finally had a moment for free breathing.
"Sergeant," said the lieutenant, "your watch tour is long past. Lie down and get some sleep."