“What are you scared about?” he cried loudly. “All you got to do is to put your black fingers on the triggers; the guns will do the rest. If you fire when you get the order the rebels will not stop running until they strike the next republic.”
“Commence firing,” Phil ordered. The Colt guns spit flame, sending countless messengers of death into the rebel ranks.
On came the rebel hosts. Their ranks broke sorely, but with determination born of despair they closed in the gaps and charged onward.
The enemy’s artillery fire opened with redoubled energy. Shell and shrapnel burst with telling effect about the handful of men. The trenches could not protect them. One after another, the gun’s crews were depleted by bursting shrapnel. Yet the little guns spitefully ground out bullets from their heated muzzles into the unprotected mass of humanity now but a short distance from their goal.
The ominous sounds of jammed and overheated guns sent a thrill of dread through the hearts of the Americans. What they feared would happen was now taking place: the guns were thickly coated with a grease to preserve them in transit; there had been time to remove but a small part of it before the guns were fired; now this grease had become mixed with the residue of burnt powder and had formed a thick paste which clung to the delicately fitting parts of the mechanism, thus causing the guns to jam. Absolutely powerless to remedy this fatal defect, the lads stood, fear clutching at their hearts, hearing one gun after another cease its fire. But a handful of guns remained in action. The horrified soldiers were deserting, running away from the avalanche sweeping upon them.
A few of the guns were still pumping a leaden stream into the ranks of the rebels, now but a hundred feet away, firing their rifles as they came to keep up their fleeting courage.
The Colt guns were stilled, the last soldier had deserted; the Americans were alone in the trench except for the dead and those too badly wounded to escape from the terrifying sound of the advancing army.
The silence of their enemy behind the intrenchments on La Mesa sent a thrill of terror through the advancing hundreds. Their dead and dying behind them told them only too plainly the power of these concealed guns. They imagined the silence was but a trick to draw them nearer, then hurl on them a stream of bullets that would mow them down like chaff before the reaper. Fifty yards from the top of the hill they stood still, their contorted faces white with a terrible fear. Phil saw Juarez rush ahead of his demoralized men, urging them to advance. The glad rattle of a Colt gun rang in the lad’s ears. He saw O’Neil beside it; he had wiped out the hard obstructing substance. The gun again played its death-dealing stream on the doubting enemy. The rebels, impelled from behind, advanced slowly. Phil saw Juarez sink to the ground; the tide of soldiers streamed over his lifeless body; again they wavered, then came on more determinedly than ever. O’Neil’s gun jammed again with an ominous click. The enemy were now only a stone’s throw away from the trench; a few seconds more and they would be pouring over its top and butchering those who dared remain. Phil grasped his revolver, and leaned against the wall of earth behind him.
CHAPTER XVII
THE ACCUSATION
“Down for your lives,” cried O’Neil, grasping the benumbed lads, and dragging them to the bottom of the trench.