"Yes! Until I send for you, or you see that you are needed," called back Dutton. "I guess I can get along without you."
Louder roared the cannon; and the cracks of the rifles of the infantry, and the carbines of the cavalry, was like the explosion of pack after pack of giant firecrackers.
Then something happened. As the three field pieces rumbled across the bridge, there was an ominous cracking and splintering sound. Dutton heard it and turned back from his rush, which he had started on to be in readiness to lead the charge of his artillery. He saw the bridge swaying.
"Come on! Come on!" he cried, waving his sword. "Come on!"
But it was too late. The middle supporting ropes had slipped, and the bridge collapsed at the centre, letting horses, cannon and cadets down into the stream, which, fortunately, was not deep.
Dutton had, at one blow, lost all his artillery, while Hale's was advancing to annihilate him and his force. The boom of the defenders' field pieces sounded nearer and nearer, while their rifle fire became hotter than ever.
Dutton saw himself defeated by the inopportune collapse of the bridge, which had been insecurely lashed together. But he would not give up.
"Forward! Forward!" he cried. "Split up and attack 'em on both sides."
His cavalry and infantry rushed forward, firing as they ran. Dick Hamilton, left with his little body of troops on the other side of the stream, saw his opportunity.
"Quick!" he cried to his lads. "We'll go back and get the guns at the fake bridge. Then we'll pull it across and we'll see if we can execute a flank movement."