"We'll lick 'em yet!" cried Clif, with enthusiasm. "Keep it up, boys!"
But the Spaniards advanced steadily in spite of their losses. They, too, were fully aroused at the thought that they had been so roughly handled by such a small number of men.
Clif and his gallant band were compelled to drop back from tree to tree. It began to look as though the Spaniards would in the end become victorious.
But with the Americans it was do or die. There was no hope of help or succor from any source. No reinforcements were at hand, and none could be sent in time from the flagship, even did those on board suspect the plight in which that boat's crew found itself.
But desperate cases require desperate measures, and Clif was equal to the emergency. When it became evident that the Spaniards would indeed fight, Clif's busy brain thought of a means to turn the tide of conflict.
It was a slight hope, to be sure, but the only one that presented itself. He smiled in spite of himself, in view of his meagre forces at the thought that the only way to achieve victory was by a flank movement.
"I'll take two men," he said hurriedly, "and slip around behind those fellows. The rest of you keep up your fire here, and if our lungs hold out we'll make them think we have reinforcements."
It was a very risky move, but with two companions Clif put it into execution at once. They hurried through the woods so as to flank the enemy, an easy task, as the latter were now well up to the little grove.
As they reached the edge of the woods which would bring them in the enemy's rear, they set up a mighty shout.
"At them, boys!" Clif yelled at his imaginary forces. "Come on! we've got 'em!"