Chapter 15

A PRISONER OF WAR.

By instinct more than reason, I put out both hands as I fell, and this movement saved me from a severe blow on the head. My hands crashed through the branches of a tree, bumped up against the trunk, and then I bounced off into the midst of a clump of brush and wild peppers.

“Hi, yah!” I heard Jorge cry out, but from my present position I could not see him. “Is you killed?” he went on.

“No, but I’m pretty well shook up and scratched up,” I answered.

“Take care—somebody shoot,” he went on.

I concluded I was pretty well out of sight, and I kept quiet and tried to get back the breath which had been completely knocked out of me. A few minutes later I heard a crashing through the brush, and my guide stood beside me.

“Lucky you no killed,” he observed. “Bad spot dat.”

He searched around and soon found a hollow containing some water, with which I bathed the scratches on my face and hands. In the meantime he gazed around anxiously in the direction from which he imagined the shot had come.

“Maybe no shoot at us,” he said, quarter of an hour later. “Me find out.”

With his ever-ready machete he cut down a young tree and trimmed the top branches off, leaving the stumps sticking out about six inches on every side. On the top of the tree he stuck his hat, and then, having no coat, asked me for mine, which he buttoned about the tree a short distance under the hat, placing a fluttering handkerchief between the two.

With this rude dummy, or scarecrow, he crawled up the side of the gully until almost on a level with the trail. Then he hoisted the figure up cautiously and moved it forward.

No shot was fired, and after waiting a bit Jorge grew bolder and climbed up to the trail himself. Here he spent a long time in viewing the surroundings, and finally called to me.

“Him no shoot at us. Maybe only hunter. Come up.”

Not without some misgivings, I followed directions. To gain the trail again was no easy matter, but he helped me by lowering the end of the tree and pulling me up. Once more we proceeded on our way, but with eyes and ears on guard in case anybody in the shape of an enemy should appear.

By noon Jorge calculated we had covered eight miles, which was considered a good distance through the mountains, and I was glad enough to sit down in a convenient hollow and rest. He had brought along a good stock of provisions, with which the rebel camp had happened to be liberally provided, and we made a meal of bread, crackers, and cold meat, washed down with black coffee, cooked over a fire of dead and dried grass.

“We past the worst of the road now,” remarked Jorge, as we again moved on. “Easy walkin' by sundown.”

He was right, for about four o’clock we struck an opening among the mountains where there was a broad and well-defined road leading past several plantations. The plantations were occupied by a number of Cubans and blacks, who eyed me curiously and called out queries to Jorge, who answered them cheerfully.

The plantations left behind, we crossed a brook which my guide said ran into the river, and took to a path running along a belt of oak and ebony trees, with here and there a clump of plantains. We had gone but a short distance when we crossed another trail, and Jorge called a halt and pointed to the soft ground.

The hoofprints of half a dozen horses were plainly visible, and as they were still fresh we concluded they had been made that very day, and perhaps that afternoon.

“Who do you think the horsemen are, Jorge?” I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Can’t say—maybe soon tell—me see,” and on he went, with his eyes bent on the ground.

For my part, I thought it best to keep a watch to the right and the left. We went on slowly until the evening shadows began to fall. Then Jorge was about to speak, when I motioned him to be silent.

“There is something moving in yonder brush,” I said, pointing with my hand. “I think I saw a horse.”

We left the road and proceeded in the direction, moving along slowly and silently. I had been right; there was not one horse, but half a dozen, tethered to several stunted trees.

No human beings were present, but from a distance we presently heard the murmur of voices, and a minute later two Spanish soldiers came into view. Jorge drew his pistol, but I restrained him.

The soldiers had evidently come up to see if the horses were still safe. Satisfied on this point, one passed to the other a roll of tobacco for a bite, and both began to converse in a low but earnest tone.

Jorge listened; and, as the talk ran on, his face grew dark and full of hatred. The backs of the two Spaniards were toward us, and my guide drew his machete and motioned as if to stab them both.

I shook my head, horrified at the very thought. This did not suit Jorge, and he drew me back where we might talk without being overheard.

“What is the use of attacking them?” I said. “Let us be on our way.”

“Them men fight General Garcia’s men—maybe hurt my brudder,” grunted Jorge wrathfully. “They say they have prisoner—kill him soon.”

“A prisoner?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“At camp down by river. They kill udder prisoner, now rob dis one an' kill too. Bad men—no good soldiers.”

I agreed with him on this point. Yet I was not satisfied that he should go back and attack the pair while they were off their guard.

“It would not be fair,” I said, “and, besides, the noise may bring more soldiers down upon us. I wish we could do something for their prisoner, whoever he is.”

We talked the matter over, and, seeing the soldiers depart, concluded to follow them. We proceeded as silently as two shadows, and during the walk Jorge overheard one soldier tell the other that the prisoner was to be shot at sunrise.

A turn in the path brought us to a broad and roughly flowing stream. Here a temporary camp had been pitched. Half a dozen dirty-looking Spaniards were lolling on the ground, smoking and playing cards. From their talk Jorge said they were waiting for some of their former comrades to join them, when all were to travel back to where the Spanish commander, Captain Campona, had been left.

“There ees the prisoner,” said Jorge, in a whisper, and pointed along the river shore to where rested a decaying tree, half in and half out of the water. The prisoner was strapped with rawhides to one of the tree branches, and it was—my chum Alano!