"Walking—yes," grumbled Noll. "I'm afraid that's about all we're going to get out of this hike."
"Never pray for a fight, Noll. It's all right when it has to be, but any real fight always means the last hour for some good fellows."
"I'm no hog for a fight," grunted Terry, "but I'd like to have just a little real practice, after the long, long time I've had to put in preparing for it."
"Hm!" smiled Sergeant Hal. "I could almost qualify as a member of a peace society. I don't care how long it is before the next fight. I'd hate to see it come along this stretch of road."
"Why?"
"Well, look over at our left, Noll. Below us is a deep gully, with a swift stream flowing. Beyond it is that wooded ledge. Any number of Moros could conceal themselves there and fire at us, and we couldn't reach 'em with the bayonet. Ahead——"
Sergeant Hal may have finished, but, if he did, his voice was drowned out by the savage clamor of yells ahead. Barely a hundred yards beyond the point came a rushing mob of Moros, shooting and brandishing creeses.
From the wooded, inaccessible ledge to the left came a sudden, rapid firing that made the air hot with bullets directed at Uncle Sam's men.