"D'ye know what I'm thinking about?" demanded Private Kelly, as he turned to look out southward from Fort Benjamin Franklin.
"Not being a mind reader—no," replied Hal.
"I'm thinking this country is a fine place to dream about."
"It's worth it," declared Sergeant Overton, with unsullied boyish enthusiasm.
"Worth it—huh!" retorted Kelly, who had served longer in the Army. "Mind ye, I said this was a good country to dream about. But to live in—give me 'God's country.'"
The United States soldier on foreign service, invariably alludes to home in this way.
Send him to the fairest spot on which the human eye ever rested, and the soldier will still longingly speak of home as "God's country."
"Then I'll be polite," retorted Sergeant Hal, "and say that I wish, Kelly, that you could be at home. But as for me, I'm glad I'm here."
"Wait until you are in your third enlistment, and have put in another two years in the islands, after this time," growled Kelly.
"Why, where can you find a more beautiful spot than this?" demanded Hal Overton, gazing across the fields toward the town of Bantoc. "I never saw a more beautiful spot. I wonder if there are many like it in the tropics?"
"Beautiful?" rumbled Kelly. "Sure! But ye can't eat beauty. 'Tis a long way from anywhere, this spot, and that's what I've got against it."
"Grumbling again, Kelly?" asked Sergeant Noll Terry, joining them.
"Not grumbling," retorted Kelly. "Just giving my opinion. But this boy sergeant is trying to make me think this swamp on northern Mindanao is an earthly paradise."
"Well, isn't it?" challenged Noll. "I know what ails you, Kelly. When all is peace and comfort, with three 'squares' a day, and not a heap to do, your old soldier is always kicking. But just send you and the rest, Kelly, hiking up through those mountains yonder, give you twenty miles a day of rough climbing, drown you out with rain and let you use up your shoes chasing a lot of ugly brown men, and never a kick will we hear coming from you."
"Sure, no," replied Kelly philosophically. "'Tis then we'd be doing a soldier's work, and a kicker on a hike is as useless as a coffee-cooler at an afternoon tea."
"In other words," laughed Hal, "a real soldier of the Regular Army is as patient as a camel when things are all going wrong. The only time when your real soldier kicks is when he's having it easy and is too comfortable to be patient. Curious, isn't it?"
"Oh, well, 'tis no use talking to you two," retorted Private Kelly, shaking his head and strolling away. "Ye've not seen much of service yet."
"That's another joke," laughed Hal in a low voice, as soon as Kelly had stepped out of hearing. "Here's a man like Kelly, with fairly long service to his credit, but he's a private still, and probably always will be. If the colonel made him a corporal, Kelly wouldn't rest until he had the chevrons taken from his sleeve so that he could be a private soldier again. Now you and I, Noll, work like blazes all the time, and win our promotion, yet Kelly considers us only boys, and boys who don't know much, either. Either one of us can take Kelly out in a squad and work him until he runs rivers of perspiration, and he can't talk back without danger of being disciplined. Yet all the time, Kelly, under our orders, is thinking of us, half contemptuously, as boys who don't really know anything about soldiering."
"That's because we're young," laughed Noll.
"And because we're also boyish enough to have a little enthusiasm left in our make-ups. Noll, how do you really like our new station?"
"I wouldn't be anywhere else," retorted Sergeant Terry, "except some where else in the Philippines, possibly. One of the prospects that caught me for the service was the chance of seeing some of our foreign possessions."
"It's what catches half the young fellows who enlist to-day," went on Hal. "I've been looking forward to the Philippines from the day I first took the oath in the recruiting station."
"Well, we're here," replied Noll, breathing in the warm air with lazy satisfaction. "And I'm mighty glad that we're in for two years of it."
The Thirty-fourth had come out to the islands as a complete regiment. They had reëmbarked at Manila also as a regiment, but now the time had come when "Ours" was well scattered through the southern islands of the archipelago.
The second battalion and headquarters, with the band, had disembarked at Iloilo; two companies had been left on the island of Negros, and two more on Cebu. B and C Companies had been left at Fort Franklin, in the Misamis district on northern Mindanao, and the remaining two companies had been carried on to Zamboanga.
On its return trip the "Warren" had picked up the scattered military commands which the Thirty-fourth had relieved. Two companies of the Thirty-second infantry had gone from Bantoc the day before.
Mindanao is the second largest and the most fertile island in the Philippine group. The natural beauty is as great as the fertility. If it were not for the occasional ferocity of some of the tribes this island could be turned into one vast net-work of plantations as rich as any that the world can show.
Bantoc was a sleepy, sunlit little town, half Spanish and half Moro. Thanks to American rule, the streets were clean and order reigned. There were about forty stores and other mercantile establishments in Bantoc, for this town was headquarters for a large country district. The people of Bantoc, outside of the small white population, were more than half Moros, the other islanders belonging to the Tagalo and other allied tribes. Almost without exception these people were lazy and good-natured. A newcomer would have difficulty in believing that such men as he met in Bantoc could ever give the soldiers trouble. It was to this town that the few planters and many small native farmers sent rich stores of rice, cocoa, hemp, cotton, indigo and costly woods.
There was also the port of Bantoc, through which these products were sent out to do their part in the world's commerce.
The native leaders of the population of Bantoc were wealthy little brown men. There was much money in circulation, the leading Moros and Tagalos having handsome homes and entertaining lavishly. There was a native fashionable set, just as exclusive and autocratic as any that exists in a white man's country.
Fort Franklin overlooked the bay at the opposite end from the port. Yet it was a "fort" only in being a military station. There was no artillery here, and the only fortifications were semi-permanent earthworks, fronted by ditches, thrown up around the officers' quarters and the barracks and other buildings. The parade ground and recreation spaces were outside these very ordinary fortifications.
"The whole scene looks too peacefully lazy to match with the yarns we hear of trouble breeding among the Moros in those mountains yonder," remarked Hal musingly.
"If trouble is coming, I hope it will come soon," returned Sergeant Noll. "The only one thing that I have against our life out here is that it threatens to become too lazy an existence. If there's going to be any active service for us, I want to see it happen soon, for active service is what I came to the Philippines for, anyway, as far as I had any interest in the trip."
"From the gossip of the town and barracks, I think we'll have our trouble soon enough," Hal replied. "You have fatigue duty this afternoon, haven't you, Noll?"
"Yes; thanks to your detail," replied Noll.
"But I couldn't help the detail, old fellow. Fatigue was for you in your turn. I'm sorry it came to you to-day, though, for I've a pass and I'm going to run over into Bantoc. I want to see more of that queer little town."
"Going to be back for parade?"
"Yes; my pass extends only to parade. I never want to miss that when I can help it."
Hal glanced at his watch, then back at barracks, where hardly a soldier showed himself, for all had caught the spirit of indolence in this hot, moist climate of Mindanao.
"Well, I must be going, Noll. Don't work your fatigue party too hard until the men get used to this heat."
"Small danger of my working 'em too hard," laughed Noll. "It's only as a sort of special favor that the fellows will work at all."
Hal, with a nod to his chum, stepped out on to the hard, level, white road that led from Fort Franklin to Bantoc.
It was a pretty road, shaded at points by beautiful palms; yet the shade was not sufficient to protect the young soldier all the way into town. Ere he had gone far he found it necessary to carry his damp handkerchief in one hand, prepared to mop his steaming face.
"Mindanao is certainly some hot," he muttered. "It keeps a fellow steaming all the time."
Yet there was plenty to divert one's thoughts from himself, for along this road lay some of the prettiest small farms to be found on northern Mindanao. Instead of farms they really looked more like well-kept gardens.
"It's the finest spot in the world to be lazy in," thought the young sergeant, as he glanced here and there over the charming scene. "If I settled down here for life I'd want money enough to pay other fellows to do all the work for me."
Though Hal did not know it, from the window of one room in a house that he passed a pair of unusually bright, keen eyes glared out at him.
"That is he, thesergente, Overton," growled Vicente Tomba to himself. "Since we have Señor Draney's orders that thesergenteis to leave this life as soon as possible, why not to-day? He is going to Bantoc, where it will be easy to snare him. And his friend Terry is not with him. That pair, back to back, might put up a hard fight—but one alone should be easy for ourbravos. Then, another day, we can plan to get theSergenteTerry."
Hal was not quite in Bantoc when a Tagalo on a pony rode by him at a gallop. Hal glanced at the fellow indolently, but did not recognize him, as it was not Tomba, but one of that worthy's messengers.
Up and down the principal street Sergeant Overton wandered. He glanced into shops, though only idly, for to-day he was not on a buying mission.
At last the cool-looking interior of a little restaurant attracted him. He entered, ordering an ice cream. When this was finished he ate another. It was so restful, sitting here, that when he had disposed of the second order, he paid his account but did not rise at once.
"Thesergenteis newly arrived here?" asked a white-clad Filipino, rising from another table and joining Overton.
"Yes."
"Then you have not seen much of Bantoc?" asked the Filipino, speaking in Spanish.
"Not as much as I mean to see of the town," Hal answered in the same tongue.
"Then possibly, Señor Sergente, you have not yet seen the collection of ancient Moro weapons in the shop of Juan Cerverra."
"I haven't," Hal admitted.
"Then you have missed much, señor, but you will no doubt go to see the collection one of these days."
"I'd like to. Where is the shop?"
"Four doors below here. If you have time, Señor Sergente, I am walking that way and will show you the place."
"Thank you; I'll be glad to go," answered Hal, rising promptly. His was the profession of arms, and a display of any unfamiliar weapons was sure to attract the young sergeant.
Juan Cerverra, despite his Spanish-sounding name, proved to be a full-blooded Moro. He wore his Moro costume, with its tight-fitting trousers and short, embroidered blouse. There were no customers in the shop when Hal and his Tagalo acquaintance entered.
In another moment Sergeant Hal was deeply absorbed in several wall cases of swords and knives, all of them of old-time patterns. It was a sight that would have bewildered a lover and collector of curios of past ages.
One case was filled entirely with fine specimens of that once-dreaded weapon, the Moro "campilan." This is a straight sword, usually, with a very heavy blade, which gradually widens towards the end. This is a heavy cutting sword, and one that was placed in Sergeant Hal's hands, though Cerverra claimed that it was two hundred years old, had an edge like a razor.
"How much is such a sword as this?" Hal inquired.
"Forty dollars," replied Cerverra.
"Gold!"
"No; Mex."
Hal felt almost staggered with the cheapness of things here, as compared with the curio stores in Manila. Forty dollars "Mex" meant but about twenty dollars in United States currency.
"I have some cheaper ones," went on Cerverra. "Here is one at eighteen dollars."
"I'm going to have one of these campilan," Hal told himself.
In his interest he did not note that the Tagalo who had brought him to the shop had left him and was standing on the sidewalk outside.
"Are you interested in these creeses?" inquired Cerverra, passing down the shop and pointing to another wall case.
The creese is an ancient Malay knife, with a waved, snaky blade—a weapon with which the Malay pirates of the past used to do fearful execution.
Hal stepped before the wall case. "They are very interesting looking," he replied. "What does a good creese cost?"
The young sergeant did not wait for an answer.
Click! A spring bolt on the under side of a trap door on which he was standing shot out of place.
Down dropped the trap door with such suddenness that Hal Overton did not have even time to clutch at anything.
Then the trap door, relieved of his weight, flew back into place.
Sergeant Hal shot down a steep incline, too smooth for him to be able to stay his downward progress.
Bump!
Sergeant Hal landed at least twenty feet below with a suddenness that jarred all the breath out of him for a moment.
Ere he could recover his half-scattered senses he felt himself seized. Nor had the Army boy fallen into one pair of hands. Four or five men, as nearly as he could judge, seized hold of different parts of his body.
There was little use in a prostrate youth fighting against such odds. Hal was swiftly rolled over on to his face, in the dark, and two of his captors threw themselves upon him, holding him down.
At the same time another thrust an armful of hemp under his face, holding it close against his mouth.
Then the light of a dark lantern was flashed on the scene. With the speed of skilled hands at the game these brown-skinned captors bound the young sergeant hand and foot.
"Quit this!" Sergeant Overton tried to shout angrily, but the wad of hemp was forced between his teeth and only a faint sound came forth.
"Help!" he tried to shout, but the sound came hardly louder than a sigh.
Now he was whirled over on his back, helpless, and two of the brown rascals finished their work by thrusting the hemp far enough into his mouth to shut off all speech. Then the gag was bound into place.
Hal could form little idea of his prison, save that it was an oblong, cellar-like place, perhaps a dozen feet wide by twenty feet long.
As nearly as the Army boy could guess, this cellar must be located under the street itself.
"They've got me for fair," thought the young soldier in a rage that included himself as well as his captors. "What's their game, I wonder? Robbery? If it is, they'll feel sold when they find how little money they are going to get."
By the light of the dark lantern, as he lay on his back on the damp ground, Hal made out the fact that his captors numbered eight. Five men had the look and wore the costumes of Moros; the other three rascals looked as though they might be Tagalos.
One after another the wretches looked down at the young soldier and grinned, though not one of them spoke.
Of a sudden the light went out. Hal, his ears unusually acute now, heard their moving footsteps. Then all became intensely still.
"I wonder whether I'm a tremendously big fool, or whether I'm merely unfortunate?" thought Hal bitterly. "However, how was I to guess? In this Moro country must it be considered unsafe even to step into a store and look at the merchandise?"
There was no answer to this. By degrees Hal began to feel decidedly uncomfortable as to the fate that he might expect.
"If they meant only to rob me," he reflected, "then why didn't they proceed at once? But not a single brown rascal of the lot took the trouble to thrust an exploring hand into my pockets. What, then? Do they want an Army prisoner, and if so, for what?"
The longer the young soldier thought it over, the greater the puzzle became. Nor did it escape his imagination that possibly he was not to be allowed ever to see his comrades again. That thought, of course, sent a chill of horror chasing up and down young Overton's spine. He was not afraid to die in battle, if need be—but to be treated like a rat in a trap—that was different.
"Well, they've got me, and I don't see any likelihood of getting away," decided Hal at last, after fully an hour devoted largely to futile efforts to wriggle out of the bonds that held his wrists secure behind his back. "These knots have been tied by masters. I don't believe I could get out of them in hours. If they had only tied my hands in front of me, so that I could work them loose. Confound the pirates!"
After what seemed like the passage of hours, the boy heard a slight sound. Listening intently, he heard it repeated.
Next a light was turned on—from the same dark lantern.
Behind the light Hal's dazzled eyes could make out the figure of a man.
Toward him the light came, Hal blinking in the glare until the newcomer halted beside him.
"Ah, Señor Sergente!" cried a mocking voice.
Then the new comer bent over the Army boy, and Overton knew him in an instant—Vicente Tomba.
"That hemp in your mouth looks as though it might give you discomfort—a thousand pardons," observed Tomba mockingly, as he removed the cord that held the hemp in place.
Tomba now squatted on the ground beside the young soldier's head and drew out the wad of hemp.
"So you are in this, Tomba?" inquired the Army boy coldly. "What's the game, anyway?"
"Possibly," sneered the Filipino, "when you know more, you'll feel like making a noise. Let me assure you that no friend will hear if you do call. But any great amount of noise on your part might provoke me, and that would not be wise under the circumstances."
Showing his white, even teeth in an evil smile, Tomba took out of the breast of his blouse a small, bright-bladed creese that might have been borrowed from one of the wall cases in Cerverra's shop.
"Why has this trick been played on me?" demanded Sergeant Hal angrily.
"A trick?" laughed Tomba softly. "Is that what you think it is? My friend, you will find that it is much more than a trick—it is a decree!"
"A decree?" raged Sergeant Overton. "What do you mean?"
"It is a decree from Señor Draney," went on Tomba coldly, maliciously. "It can do no harm to mention that name since you can never repeat it to anyone but me, for Señor Draney's decree is that, when you go forth from here—to-night—you will know nothing afterwards, for you will bepast knowing."
"You are talking like a madman," sneered Hal.
"And next you will be begging like one," returned Tomba, with that same easy but deadly laugh.
Hal, despite his grit, felt a start of terror. Cold sweat was now gathering on his forehead.
"You refused my friendship some days ago," continued Tomba. "You did not know how valuable it might be."
"Can the friendship of a scoundrel like you ever be valuable?" asked Overton.
"In the present case it would be worth a little to you—your life!"
"What did you want of me, when you sought my acquaintance?" demanded Hal.
He had suddenly become seized with a desire to prolong the talk with this little brown monster—to gain time!
"There was something that you could have done for me," replied Vicente Tomba.
The Tagalo, like others of his race, was not averse to talking, either. The little Filipino knew that he had the whole situation in his hands. With the cruelty of a cat, Tomba delighted in the feline pastime of playing with a victim that could not escape him.
"What did you want me to do?" Hal asked almost blandly.
"I wanted your services."
"Yes, but what kind of services?"
"What is the use of telling you—now?"
"Tell me one thing, though, Tomba."
"Why?"
"Just to gratify my curiosity," explained Sergeant Hal, and he spoke slowly while his eyes watched those of the Filipino. "Did you want me to betray my Flag?"
"Not the Flag itself."
"But, in some way, you wanted me to turn against my comrades—to serve you and your friends at the expense of the United States Government."
"Yes," assented Tomba. "But do not think to deceive me. It is too late now to save yourself by promising what I would have wanted of you."
"I don't intend to serve you and your rascal friends at any price—at least, I haven't yet come to that decision," Hal added, in a more conciliatory tone. "However, I am curious."
"Curiosity can do you no good now," retorted Tomba softly, with a shrug of his shoulders.
"What part is Draney playing with you brown-skinned men?"
Tomba again shrugged his shoulders, this time more mockingly.
"Señor Draney serves the same cause that I do," laughed the Filipino.
"And what cause is that?"
"His purse."
"Then, in other words, Tomba, you are not even a Filipino patriot. You are merely a twentieth-century type of pirate."
"If you like the word," replied Tomba, in a tone of indifference.
Then he yawned—next placed the creese on the ground beside him, while his right hand explored his pockets. He soon brought to light a package of Manila cigarettes. Tomba's left hand produced a box of matches.
"Do you care for one last smoke, Señor Sergente?" inquired the Filipino with mocking politeness, as he held out the package.
"Thank you; I never picked up the vice," Sergeant Hal answered, but he said it good-naturedly, for he had an object now in not provoking the enemy.
"So? You call smoking a vice?"
"The vice of pigs," declared Hal, but again he laughed good-humoredly.
"Oh, I do not mind your insolence," replied Tomba, striking a match and holding it to the end of the cigarette in his mouth. "Abuse me all you please, Señor Sergente."
"Thank you!"
Hal had had a desperate motive in gaining time by prolonging the talk. As he lay on his side before the Filipino the young soldier had at last employed his fingers in a way that he hoped would lead to his being able to free his hands. And now the instant had come! His hands were free!
As he uttered that "thank you," Sergeant Overton suddenly summoned all the muscles in his body to obey him in one frantic effort for safety and freedom.
Like a flash he rolled, both of his bound feet kicking Vicente Tomba and bowling over that astounded little brown man.
Like lightning the Army boy reached for the creese, and the finish of that general movement found Sergeant Hal Overton sitting up and aiming a desperate slash at the cord about his ankles.
It needed a second slash, and in that fleeting interval Vicente Tomba, uttering a wild cry of rage, hurled himself upon the Army boy.
Hal Overton had now, however, entire control of his body. He engaged with the little brown man in a desperate struggle. Over and over they rolled, the Army boy controlling the battle and carrying them both further from the creese that he had dropped on the ground.
Then, all in an instant, Hal freed his right hand, clenched his fist and struck Tomba a staggering blow between the eyes.
When Tomba came to himself again, after a few moments, he found the youth in Uncle Sam's Army uniform leaning over him.
"I have the creese, Tomba," warned Overton. "You can guess what a sound or a move that is not permitted will mean to you!"
To do his courage full justice, Tomba showed himself no coward.
"You have the upper hand, Señor Sergente. But it will do you no good."
"No?" questioned Uncle Sam's young soldier. "Why not?"
"There is but one way out of here."
"And then?"
"To pass out that way you must go by a dozen of my men, and you can judge for yourself what that will mean."
"Yes; I have an idea," nodded Hal thoughtfully.
"Then you see the folly of thinking you can escape?"
"No; I am thinking that your men will be able to get me."
"To be sure."
"Yet I am quick, Tomba, and before they can finish me, I shall have settled my score with you for good and all."
"And thrown away your own life?"
"You forget that I am a soldier, Tomba. I am inclined to feel that it will be worth even my own life to make sure that you are where you can no longer plot against the American Government."
"But your own life, Señor Sergente?"
"My own life is less than worthless to me if I may be permitted to lose it in doing one last valuable act for the Flag of my country."
"You are boasting now!"
"As to that, Tomba, you will soon be in a position to know. And I warn you that the slightest sign of treachery on your part will be my excuse for ridding these islands of the disgrace of your presence."
"You are attempting too much," jeered the little brown man. "I see and I admit that you are brave, yet you are bound to lose."
"The time for talking is past, Tomba, and now we come to action," returned the Army boy, speaking slowly and easily. "Come, get upon your feet and obey every order of mine the instant that you receive it. In another minute or two you and I will be in the sunlight again—or else you and I have both already had our last glimpse of the light of day.
Tomba smiled, though he felt the mastery of this young wearer of Uncle Sam's uniform.
"Get up on your feet," ordered Hal. "Stand right before me, your back to me. Do you feel the point of the creese?"
"Yes," answered Tomba in a low voice, though the brown man spoke steadily.
"You will walk before me, very slowly. If you attempt to turn, or to disobey, I shall know what to do with this wavy-bladed creese. If you make a move to spring away from me, I shall show you how good a jumper I am—and then the creese! Now, walk, very slowly, toward the exit from this place."
As they started Hal held the lantern with his left hand so that the rays of light flashed ahead of them.
Vicente Tomba walked to the far end of this underground room. As far as young Overton's eyes could see they were moving toward a blank wall.
"Halt!" commanded the young sergeant easily.
Tomba obeyed.
"You are taking me to a secret door?"
"It is so, señor."
"And you know how to open it?"
"Yes; it is simple."
"Then step to the door. But, Tomba!"
"Si, señor."
"Do not let any wild plan run through your mind that you will open the door suddenly, bolt through it and close it in my face. Do you still feel the creese? Well, I am on the alert!"
In truth that had been Vicente Tomba's very plan. Now he gave up the idea, for Sergeant Hal's tone and manner made it very plain that treachery would prove but another name for suicide.
"Then look out, Señor Sergente, that when I open the door there is no rush on the part of my brave ones."
"Whether you or they plan the rush, it will be the end of the world for you, Tomba," Overton warned him steadily.
"I will do my best, señor," replied Tomba in a voice well nigh as steady as the Army boy's.
Then he bent forward, pressing until he found a hidden spring. In the seemingly solid stone wall a large block of stone swung around on a pivot, disclosing a larger cellar room beyond.
"Steady, now, Tomba!"
Sergeant Overton flashed the lantern's rays over the Filipino's left shoulder.
Nor was it a reassuring sight that the light of the lantern revealed to the young soldier.
Instead of a dozen brown-skinned men in the next room, there were eight, if Hal's hurried count was correct. Moreover, he believed them to be the same eight who had first received and bound him.
The most disquieting fact, however, was that five of the men wore revolvers at their belts, and a pistol usually has a knife at a disadvantage.
"Explain to them, Tomba," muttered the young soldier in English, "that any move of your own, or any move of theirs to help you, will be expensive for you. Warn them, for I am watching all the rascals at once and I shall not endure an instant's treachery or disobedience of my orders."
Tomba spoke to them rapidly, partly in the Tagalo and partly in the Moro dialect. Sergeant Hal listened, watched, waited in keen anxiety, for life and death hung on the issue.
Every one of the eight sullen fellows stood as though rooted in his tracks.
While Tomba spoke none answered, but many baleful glances were cast at Sergeant Hal Overton of the Thirty-fourth Infantry.
When Tomba had ceased speaking two or three of the rascals spoke, slowly, briefly.
"What do the scoundrels say?" demanded the Army boy.
"They do not like the situation, señor."
"Can you blame them? Or can they help the situation in the new turn that it has taken?"
The Filipino shrugged his shoulders.
"Well, ask the brown pirates what they intend to do?"
Tomba spoke as though translating the question into the two tongues that these surly fellows understood.
"They say that they do not know," replied Vicente Tomba presently.
"Can't make up their minds, eh?" jeered Hal. "Then I'll form their decisions for them. There's a further way out of this place?"
Vicente Tomba hesitated, muttering.
"Now, don't you try my old trick of trying to gain time," warned the boyish sergeant crisply. "I know all about that little trick and I don't intend to put up with it in the enemy. Tomba, tell your fellows to open the way out of here, and to get out as quickly as they know how. Tell them that, as soon as you stop talking, I'm going to begin to count ten in English, and that the instant I count ten I shall drive this creese deep into the back of your neck. Tell them that I know how to handle a weapon like this, and that I'll finish you with one blow."
As he spoke, Sergeant Hal dropped the lantern that he had been holding with his left hand. It fell with a crash, and the light went out, but he needed it no longer, for there were two other lighted lanterns in the room.
"Go on, Tomba! Tell them just what I told you to say. Be sure you get it straight, too. Remember how much hangs in the balance for you!"
Tomba began speaking, his voice wonderfully steady. Sergeant Hal could not help admiring the evident courage of this little Filipino, who knew well enough that his life was hanging on a thread from second to second.
Hal's left hand now rested tightly on the little brown man's shoulder. Tomba's body was no slight protection against the pistols of these surly fellows in case they evidenced a disposition to shoot. And the Army boy did not intend to let this human bulwark get away from him.
"You have told them, Tomba?" queried Hal Overton, as soon as the Filipino's voice ceased.
"Even so, señor."
"They understand?"
"If they do not, then they are idiots, Señor Sergente."
"Then tell them I am going to begin to count."
Again Tomba spoke, this time briefly.
The grip of young Overton's hand on the Filipino's shoulder tightened. A slight shudder ran through the brown man's frame, but otherwise he showed no fear.
"One!" began Hal.
From the surly ones beyond an angry babel of protest went up.
But Hal coolly disregarding the clamor, merely raised his own voice enough to make it heard:
"Two!"
Sergeant Overton now let go of the Filipino's shoulder, but only to throw his arm around the fellow's neck. Tomba's head was drawn back, almost chokingly, against the boyish sergeant's shoulder.
"Three!"
Still no motion among the dark-skinned eight.
"Four!"
And then:
"Five! Tomba, your friends are cheerful about your fate, aren't they? Six!"
Vicente Tomba spoke, sharply, hissingly. Now some stir was noticeable among the wretches, though whether they meant to obey or to try to rush the lone soldier was more than Overton could guess.
"Seven!"
Hal's voice, as steady as ever, must have carried conviction with it. Certainly Tomba's shuddering had increased, though the little brown man, no match in muscle for the white soldier, made not the least effort to wrest himself away from that dangerous grip.
"Eight!" announced Hal Overton, his voice on the verge of absolute cheeriness.
Again Tomba spoke, this time still more angrily.
There was a shuffling of feet, as the men moved further away. Then one of the wretches stepped forward and threw open a door, just as Hal came calmly out with:
"Nine!"
"Stop counting, señor," urged Vicente Tomba quite coolly. "These men have yielded and are going. They will open the other door, pass through it hurriedly, and leave the way open for you."
"Lucky for you, if they do, my Tagalo friend! I will suspend the count for an instant only."
Another stone door was suddenly swung open, by one of the surly fellows, revealing a passage beyond. Into this the eight fairly raced.
"Do not follow too quickly, señor, or one of the rascals may forget himself and turn to fight," declared Tomba.
"It will be bad for you if it happens!"
"It is of myself that I am thinking, señor!" returned the Filipino dryly. Then, after a pause:
"Come, señor. Surely we can pass out safely now."
"Then we'll do so," agreed Sergeant Hal, "and your life be upon our success! Don't try to go more quickly than I move, or I shall suspect you, and with me to suspect is to——"
"Say no more, señor," interrupted the little Filipino. "I understand you better than I did, and I am taking no chances."
Sergeant Overton still retained his left-handed hold on Tomba as the pair passed out to what might mean safety.
Through this second doorway they passed, to find themselves ascending a slope paved only with tightly packed dirt. Glancing up the slope Sergeant Hal made out three or four stars low down in the sky beyond.
"Night time?" he queried in mild astonishment.
"Yes, señor, and you will even believe that it is the night of another day," laughed Vicente Tomba, "for you must have lived ages in the last few hours."
"It wasn't quite as bad as that," the Army boy returned graciously. "In your way, Tomba, you helped excellently to pass the time for me."
At the top of this interior slope the pair passed out through a doorway ordinarily closed by means of a stout wooden door. The pair found themselves in the yard back of Cerverra's house. At one side was an alley way leading to the street.
"I will leave you here, señor, with your gracious permission."
"Oh, no, no, Tomba! You will go with me, and still held by me, at least as far as the middle of the street."
With sullen assent the Filipino consented to this. On their way through the alley they encountered no one.
But, just as they reached the sidewalk, they were met with a sharp hail of:
"Halt!"
That command, however, in a good, strong American voice, had very far from the effect of startling Hal Overton.
Down the street, barely a hundred feet away, a squad of a dozen soldiers of B Company had just halted in column of twos.
At the head of the squad stood Sergeant Terry and Corporal Hyman.
"Sergeant Terry," called the self-rescued Army boy briskly, "march your men here and halt them again."
"Very good, Sergeant Overton," answered Noll's voice, precise and formal as though on parade, but there was a note of joy, none the less, in Terry's voice.
"I will go now, señor," suggested Vicente Tomba, struggling slightly to free himself as the squad again halted close to the Army boy.
"You will do nothing of the sort, Tomba," retorted Overton dryly. "You are going to Fort Franklin as a military prisoner."
"This is ingratitude!" snarled the little brown man, looking decidedly crestfallen.
"No; it is not. I owe you nothing for my freedom. Corporal Hyman, you will take charge of the prisoner. See that he does not escape."
"Very good, Sergeant," replied Hyman, motioning to two of the men to place themselves on either side of the prisoner.
"Now, Sergeant Terry, inform me how you came to be here with this detachment?"
"I was sent into town, Sergeant Overton, under orders from Captain Cortland. You were missed from parade, and the captain knew that could not happen with you, unless there was something decidedly wrong. So, at seven this evening, the captain directed me to take this detachment and scour the town for you. If we did not find you by half-past nine I was to report back to the post by messenger, and a larger detachment, under an officer, was to be sent in."
"What time is it now?"
"About nine o'clock."
"We shall be back, then," nodded Hal, "within the time mentioned in your orders. But I shall leave some of the detachment here until Captain Cortland has acted upon the report that I shall make."
At that moment Sergeant Hal, glancing into Cerverra's store, caught sight of the bright, eager eyes of the proprietor.
"Corporal Hyman, arrest that man, also," commanded young Overton sharply, pointing into the shop. "The fellow's name is Cerverra, and he had a part in the plot against me."
With two other soldiers Hyman darted into the shop, from which they soon came out with Cerverra, who protested strongly.
Meanwhile Vicente Tomba had discovered a cause of discomfort.
"Señor Sergente," he complained, "during our struggle in the cellar you knocked my cigarettes from my hand. I beg that you let one of your soldiers take this piece of money into a shop and buy me more cigarettes."
"Shall I do it, Sergeant?" inquired Hyman.
"Tomba," laughed Hal, "after all the trouble that that last cigarette cost you I should think you'd feel like cutting out the habit forever. I know I would drop any habit that had gotten me into such a mess. Had you not wanted to smoke underground I would not have had such a fine chance to upset you. Very likely you would have won, instead of me."
"But I want cigarettes, now," retorted Tomba almost fiercely. "It is ungenerous to deprive me of them."
"Shall I let a man get them for him?" asked Hyman.
"Yes; if he insists," nodded Hal. "What an idiot a man is to allow cigarettes to make such a slave of him that he can't pass an hour without one."
A soldier was accordingly dispatched to the nearest tobacconist on Tomba's errand. While this was taking place Hal hurriedly told his chum and Corporal Hyman what had happened to him, and how he had escaped.
In all this time perhaps two score of curious natives had gathered in the street, though all of them kept at a respectful distance. Sergeant Hal examined these people keenly, though he failed to see any of the eight from whom he had had such difficulty in escaping.
"Captain Cortland told me," Noll broke in at last, "that the former military commander here informed him that he had had about a dozen of his men disappear most unaccountably, and that not one of them had ever been heard from afterward. So, when you failed to return, Hal, the captain declared that he was going to sift this business to the bottom before he stopped."
"I guess, then, that all of our poor comrades in the other regiment who have disappeared in this miserable town of Bantoc have gone, as I did, through visiting Cerverra's store. Now, Noll, I am going to leave you here, with eight of the men, to take possession of Cerverra's store and premises until you receive further orders from the post commander. Hyman and I, and the other four men, will take the prisoners out to Fort Franklin. I would leave you a couple more men, Noll, only I do not forget that it is possible that there may be some attempt made to rescue our prisoners."
"If the natives try that——" broke in Corporal Hyman.
"In the event of an attempted rescue, Corporal, direct your men that they are to shoot the two prisoners at the first sign of an attempt at rescue."
Tomba heard Hyman give the order, and spoke in a low tone to Cerverra. Both rascals thereupon looked disconcerted.
"You have your instructions, Sergeant Terry," continued Hal Overton. "March the guard, Corporal Hyman."
As the guard started, Hal fell in beside Corporal Hyman, telling him more of what had happened in the cellar under the Moro curio shop.
"I reckon, Sarge, you've made the biggest discovery of the year in this point of the woods," was Hyman's terse comment. "I reckon, too, the captain will see it that way."
It was cooler by night, though this was due mainly to the absence of the sun. The air was full of sticky moisture, and mosquitoes buzzed about and bit viciously.
"I was born and reared in New Jersey," laughed Hal, striking at the winged pests, "and I have had to stand a lot of guying about the mosquitoes of my state. But Jersey has been libeled. Compared with these Philippine pests the Jersey mosquito is mild enough to be a source of delight."
There was no moon up, but the starlight was bright—and how big and glowing the stars are in the tropics!
Marching at an easy route step over the firm, white road, it did not take the returning detachment more than twenty minutes to cover the distance to Fort Franklin.
"Halt your prisoners here, Corporal, and watch 'em until Captain Cortland gives his orders about them," directed Hal. Then the young sergeant turned down the street leading to officers' quarters, for the administrative office of the post had been closed for hours.
Two minutes later Sergeant Hal Overton was detailing what had happened him to the post commander.
"But wait before you go any further, Sergeant," cried Captain Cortland, interrupting his tale. "I want the other officers to hear the whole of this villainous business."
By the use of the telephone the other five commissioned officers on duty at Fort Franklin were soon summoned.
"Now, begin again, Sergeant Overton," ordered Cortland, when all the officers had gathered in his parlor.
The Army boy retold the entire story, leaving out nothing—not even, the reader may be sure, what Vicente Tomba had said to Hal about Draney's connection with the natives.
"Ray, you're officer of the day," broke in the post commander suddenly. "Go out to Corporal Hyman and see that he turns Tomba and Cerverra over at the guard house. Instruct the sergeant of the guard to make absolutely certain that the prisoners have no chance to escape. Also, Ray, you will send Corporal Hyman and his four men back to Sergeant Terry. Direct the sergeant to keep his whole detachment on the ground to-night, setting a regular guard. Hampton, as you're in charge of the commissary and quartermaster details at this post, the first thing in the morning you will make sure that Sergeant Terry's detachment is supplied with rations enough for breakfast. Early in the morning I shall look further into that plague spot of Cerverra's. Now, Sergeant Overton, continue your story."
When it was finished the officers sat in silence for a few moments.
"Well, gentlemen," inquired Captain Cortland at last, "have you anything to offer?"
"Are you going to arrest the man, Draney?" inquired Captain Freeman, of C Company.
"Frankly," replied Cortland, "that is what is puzzling me. What do you think, Freeman?"
"We cannot doubt Sergeant Overton, and he tells us that Tomba boasted that Draney is in league with the natives in some conspiracy here."
"It is a matter of evidence," replied Captain Cortland musingly. "Not one of you gentlemen would doubt Sergeant Overton's word on any question of fact on which he has knowledge. But his report is based only on what Vicente Tomba told him. Now, at the test, not one of you gentlemen doubts that Tomba would deny it all point blank. I believe that Draney is a scoundrel. I never liked the looks of the man from the first moment, but I can't arrest him on account of my bad opinion of him. Nor would any military or civil court hold him on account of what Sergeant Overton says Tomba told him. That evidence would not satisfy the requirements of any court of trial."
"Sir, is Draney really an American or an Englishman?" inquired Lieutenant Hampton.
"I don't know, Hampton, nor do I believe any one else knows for certain. Englishman or American, it is equally bad either way. If he's an American, then I am sorry to say that there are multitudes of people back in our own country who would welcome only too gladly a chance to attack the government for locking an American up on what they would call a flimsy charge. On the other hand, if Draney is an Englishman, and we arrest him on anything but the most satisfactory evidence, then the British government would be sure to make a noise about the affair. Hang it all, I wish we had just a shade more evidence, and I'd have Draney behind steel curtains in the guard house before daybreak, for his plantation is only eight miles out from here. Personally, I haven't a doubt that Draney is behind all the trouble of which we're hearing rumors."
"What can be Draney's object?" asked Captain Freeman.
"Perhaps he hasn't really a sane object," responded Cortland. "Whatever his motive for standing in with the worst of the Moros, and plotting against the government that we represent, there is sure to be something that he regards as being in line with his own advantage."
"Everything connected with this fellow, Draney, seems to be a puzzle," muttered Lieutenant Hampton.
During this discussion the two youngest officers of all, Lieutenants Prescott and Holmes, sat listening intently, and looking from face to face, though neither ventured any opinions. As "youngsters" it was their place to wait until they were asked to speak.
So notable, in fact, did their silence become that at last Captain Cortland remarked:
"Mr. Prescott, Mr. Holmes, you know that you are not forbidden to speak in the presence of your elders."
"I was listening, sir," replied Lieutenant Prescott, with a smile. "I haven't anything to offer sir, but whatever orders I may receive, I'll follow them all the way across the island of Mindanao and out into the ocean as far as I can swim or float."
"That's my answer, too, sir," supplemented Lieutenant Greg Holmes.
"Spoken like soldiers and officers," said Captain Cortland heartily.
And, indeed, these two young officers were soldiers! Young as they were, they commanded the respect of the men in their companies. B and C Companies could be depended upon to follow Prescott and Holmes wherever these two young West Pointers cared to lead them.
"Gentlemen," announced Captain Cortland at last, "we have the two prisoners in the guard house, and we have a guard over Cerverra's place. We'll take counsel of the night and of sleep. In the morning, at eight o'clock, we'll meet here to deliberate further on this puzzling matter. By the morning our whole duty may be extremely clear to us."
The visiting officers arose, saluted and took their leave.
"That is all for to-night, Sergeant Overton," announced the captain. "But on one point I want to caution you. You have heard the discussion here to-night. Do not repeat it to any of the enlisted men."
"No, sir."
"That is all, Sergeant. One of these days I may have the time to tell you what a fine piece of work you have done for us to-day. Good night, Sergeant."
"Good night, sir."
The Army boy saluted, receiving his superior's acknowledgment. Then Hal stepped outside and made his way down the white roadway of ground shell and went to his own squad room in barracks.
"One point, anyway, is highly satisfactory," mused Sergeant Hal, as he crawled in under the mosquito netting that hung over his cot. "Vicente Tomba, the fellow with a dislike for seeing me alive, is safe behind bars in a guard-house cell!"
But was he?
Five officers of the garrison at Fort Franklin had assembled in the post commander's office, at eight o'clock the next morning, and awaited the arrival of Lieutenant Ray, who was still, for a matter of another hour, to be officer of the day.
Nor did Ray keep his brother officers waiting more than a moment. Then his brisk step was heard on the shell road outside, followed by his sudden entrance into the office.
But behind him came two soldiers of the guard, dragging between them an insignificant-looking little Filipino who seemed thoroughly terror stricken.
"How's Tomba this morning, Ray?" inquired Captain Cortland, wheeling about. "And who is this prisoner?"
"This, sir," declared Ray, in a tone that quivered with disgust, "is all that is left to us of Tomba!"
"But this isn't Vicente Tomba at all."
"I know it, sir."
"Explain yourself, Ray."
"Why, Captain, I have just made an inspection of prisoners at the guard house. Huddled in the back of the cell where I personally put Tomba last night crouched this shivery little object, looking as if he expected to be called upon to face a firing squad."
Captain Cortland had leaped to his feet, looking mightily concerned.
"But, Mr. Ray, where is Tomba?"
"I wish with all my heart that I knew, sir," replied the officer of the day, even more disturbed than his superior. "Last night I put Tomba in the cell and turned the key in the lock myself. Then I turned the key over to the sergeant of the guard. When I found Tomba missing, and this worthless object in his place, I made an investigation. The sergeant of the guard declared that the key had not been out of his pocket since I gave it to him."
"Who is sergeant of the guard?"
"Sergeant Jones, C Company, sir."
"And Jones is as honest, capable and energetic a man as we have in C Company," spoke up Captain Freeman, in defense of his sergeant.
"Have there been any visitors at the guard house this morning, Ray?" demanded Captain Cortland. "Especially, any native visitors?"
"Yes, sir; so Sergeant Jones informs me. You know, sir, it has been permitted that native prisoners be allowed to have their friends come and bring them their native food and coffee."
"I know," nodded Captain Cortland. "But that rule, gentlemen, is revoked from this minute. Thanks to that rule Tomba has gotten away from us."
"I hope you don't suspect Sergeant Jones, Cortland," interposed Captain Freeman. "Because, if you do, I'm satisfied that you're doing the sergeant an injustice."
"I don't suspect your sergeant, Freeman. I am more to blame than any one else, for having allowed the old rule of my predecessor here to remain in force. Quite a group of natives came, eh, Ray?"
"Seven or eight of them, sir."
"Exactly," nodded Cortland, "and this wretched little half-price native was one of them. He was brought along on purpose. Probably he was threatened with having his throat cut if he didn't do what he was told by the scoundrels. Then, while some of the natives were passing food and drink through the bars to Tomba and the prisoners, Jones must have had his attention attracted."
"Sergeant Jones remembers that he was called to the guard-house door for an instant," interjected Lieutenant Ray.
"Exactly, Ray, and at the same time a light-fingered native slipped a cunning brown hand into the sergeant's pocket and the key was taken. The cell door was swiftly unlocked, this native stole in, and Vicente Tomba stole out. Friends swiftly slipped Tomba one or two articles of clothing with which to help disguise himself. Then the whole party filed quickly out, and by this time Vicente Tomba is headed for the mountains and going fast."
"But Sergeant Jones found the key in his pocket, sir, when I asked him for it."
"Certainly, Ray. The little brown man who was clever enough to pick the pocket of the sergeant of the guard found it even less trouble to return the key."
"Cerverra didn't get away, anyway," muttered Lieutenant Ray, who had grown suddenly tired and careworn in appearance.
"Undoubtedly that's because Tomba is of more importance to the Moro plotters than Cerverra. Besides, Cerverra owns property here, and he can't well afford to be a fugitive from justice."
"What shall I do with this little wretch of a substitute, sir?" queried the officer of the day.
"Have you questioned this prisoner?"
"Yes, sir, and not a word will he say. He only shakes his head and pretends that he cannot understand a word of English or Spanish."
"Then take him back and lock him in the same cell," instructed the post commander. "Keep him there until he does talk."
"Very good, sir."
Barely had Lieutenant Ray reëntered the guard house when two shots sounded on the road toward Bantoc.
"What's that? Trouble starting?" demanded Captain Freeman, darting to the door and listening.
"It may be only a shooting affray, but we must soon know," replied Captain Cortland.
All of the officers save Ray were now out on the veranda of the building.
Two more shots sounded, close together. Then came a light volley, sounding lighter still.
"It may be that Sergeant Terry is having trouble in town," muttered Captain Cortland, wholly alert in a second. "In any case we must let these Moros see a show of military force. Freeman, detail thirty of your men and let Lieutenant Holmes march them into Bantoc in quick time. Each man to carry fifty rounds of ammunition."
"Very good, sir.
"Lieutenant Holmes, you will go first of all to Cerverra's shop, unless the firing seems to be in another direction. But remember that if trouble breaks loose we will take care of it from here, and that your essential orders are not changed until you receive them from me, or from your company commander."
"Very good, sir," replied young Holmes, saluting.
Freeman and his second lieutenant hurried away to execute the orders without loss of time.
At the sound of the shots many of the men from barracks had run out into the street to see if they could find any explanation of the hostile sounds.
"Second platoon, C Company, fall in!" rang the order, repeated three or four times.
That caught several of the curious ones in the street, calling them to the parade ground.
Acting First Sergeant Hal Overton, B Company, was among those in the street. And he was the first to catch sight of a horse coming up the road at a wavering gallop.
"We'll soon know," the Army boy called to those nearest him. "This looks like a messenger coming."
The man who was astride the horse, and who was attired in white duck blouse and trousers, was bending forward over the neck of the animal.
"Second platoon, fall in!" rang Greg Holmes's command on the parade ground, showing how quickly military orders may be carried out.
"The messenger is bleeding," cried Hal. "I can see the stains on his white clothing. And the horse has been hit, too!"
"Trouble with a big 'T,'" muttered Private Kelly.
Sergeant Hal said no more. He walked quickly down the road as horse and rider drew nearer. The mount was running more feebly now. Fifty feet away from the young sergeant the animal pitched suddenly, staggered, then fell.
For an instant it looked as though the rider would also be stretched in the dust. Then he recovered, leaped painfully away from the horse—and just then Hal Overton reached and caught him.
"Shall I carry you, friend?" demanded the Army boy, for the stranger was a white man, doubtless an American.
At the stranger's belt hung a holster, the flap unbuttoned. He was wild-eyed and breathing hard, but there was no sign of cowardice in the man's sternly set face.
Bloodstains showed over three wounds in the trunk of his body. The right shoulder, also, had been touched.
"I can walk—but give me your arm," gasped the wounded man. "Take me to your commanding officer!"
Hal started, but had not far to go, for Captain Cortland was coming forward on the run.
"Take that man to the porch of barracks," called the captain, whose eye, practised in wounds, saw much. "Don't make him walk far."
Kelly sprang to Hal's aid. Between them they lifted the wounded stranger to a seat on their arms. The man put his arms about their necks, and thus they conveyed him to a broad armchair on the porch.
"My man, there, run for a hospital steward," shouted Captain Cortland. Then the post commander came to the wounded stranger.
Now that he found himself at the end of his journey the stranger appeared to lose rapidly the strength of his voice. He lay back in the chair, his eyes half closed.
"Where do you come from, friend?" asked Captain Cortland.
"The Seaforth Plantation."
"I know where the place is—twelve miles from here, in the interior," answered the captain.
"Right," murmured the wounded one.
"Your name?"
"Edwards. I'm bookkeeper and correspondent for Mr. Seaforth."
"Platoon fours right, march!" sounded from the parade ground.
Edwards heard the command, then the steady whump-whump of the feet of marching men. The wounded man turned in his chair and gazed at the detachment marching away in quick time behind Lieutenant Holmes.
"You act quickly, Captain," murmured Edwards gratefully.
"Those men are marching to Bantoc to keep order in the town," replied Captain Cortland. "Tell me, as quickly as you can, what is wrong at Seaforth's."
"We were attacked just before daylight this morning," Edwards replied weakly.
"In force?" pressed the post commander.
"Just at a guess there must have been two or three hundred of the Malay fiends."
"Any of the defending party killed?"
"Not when I left, Captain. But four of our native Moro laborers were shot dead before they could reach the main house. The main house was being defended by Seaforth when I left."
"How many white men there?"
"Seaforth, his son, his superintendent and a blacksmith."
"They all escaped into the house at the attack?"
"Yes."
"Any natives helping Seaforth in the defense?"
"Yes; eight of the most trusted Moro workmen. But, Captain, you never can tell when you can trust any of these natives."
"I know," murmured Cortland, nodding his head.
At this moment the hospital steward arrived on the run, carrying a case of instruments, bottles and bandages. There was no surgeon-officer at Fort Franklin, the post commander being compelled to rely, at need, on a German physician in Bantoc.
"Get right to work, steward," ordered Captain Cortland. "And I must question this man while you work over him. Edwards, are there any American women at Seaforth's?"
"Three."
"Good heavens!" uttered the captain, paling.
"Mrs. Seaforth, the superintendent's wife, and Miss Daly, the school teacher."
"How did you get away?"
"The Moros didn't appear to be in force on the side toward the stable, and I wriggled through in the dark, traveling flat on my stomach. I reached a horse at the stable, saddled fast, and then galloped away just as the Moros turned loose a volley that covered the noise of the horse's hoofs."
Edwards's voice was becoming much weaker. He paused frequently between words. The hospital steward, standing behind the wounded man, glanced up at Captain Cortland, shaking his head.
"Was the road infested with roving parties of guerillas?" inquired Captain Cortland.
"No, sir," replied the bookkeeper. "I didn't run into any trouble until I reached Bantoc. The natives here must have known that the trouble was coming, for concealed rascals fired on me just as I got alongside the town. They wounded me and my horse."
The other officers, with the exception of the absent Lieutenant Holmes, were now at the porch, listening quietly.
"Freeman, I must keep the rest of your company here," explained Captain Cortland. "And Hampton, your duties here are such that I can't very well spare you from post. So I shall have to send Lieutenant Prescott to Seaforth's. Lieutenant Prescott, assemble the company without an instant's delay."
There was little need to speak of delay. Every soldier left on the post and not engaged in actual duty was as near to the spot as he could be, for all were interested in this latest news.
"Mr. Prescott, don't take the time to march your men to the parade ground. Assemble B Company right here. Pick out the sixty men you want. Sergeant Overton will help you. Take sixty men, two days' rations and a hundred and fifty rounds of cartridges per man. Take blankets, ponchos and shelter tents. Detail your men and be ready to march at the earliest possible moment."
As the call for formation sounded Edwards uttered a fervent:
"Thank heaven!"
The hospital steward forced a draught of medicine down the wounded man's throat.
Quickly the sixty men were detailed, those who had been on sick report lately, or those who for any other reason were unfitted for a long, swift march being rejected.
"Detachment, fall out," ordered Lieutenant Prescott. "Sergeant Overton, see to the equipping of the men for this hike. Don't let any man idle any time away. I'll soon be with you in barracks, for minutes may be invaluable."
Edwards had fallen back once more, lying with his eyes closed. The hospital steward, one hand on the wounded one's pulse, looked at Captain Cortland and shook his head.
"Mr. Edwards," called the captain.
There was no answer.
"Is he dead?" asked the post commander in a low voice.
"No, sir, but he is unconscious and there's only a feeble flutter at the pulse."
As if to prove that he was still conscious, Edwards's lips tried to frame the words:
"Thank heav——"