Chapter 16

A RESCUE UNDER DIFFICULTIES.

Mere words cannot express my astonishment and alarm when I saw who the prisoner tied to the tree was. As I gazed at Alano my heart leaped into my throat, and like lightning I remembered what Jorge had told me the Spaniards had said, that the prisoner was to be shot at sunrise.

Alano shot! I felt an icy chill creep over me. My own chum! No, no, it must not be! In my excitement I almost cried aloud. Noting how strangely I was affected, my guide placed his hand over my mouth and drew me back into a thicket.

“It is Alano Guerez!” I whispered, as soon as I was calm enough to speak—“Se�or Guerez' son!”

“Ah, yah!” ejaculated Jorge. “I see he is but a boy. Perros! [Dogs!]”

“We must save Alano,” I went on. “If he was shot, I—I would never forgive myself.”

Jorge shrugged his shoulders. “How?” he asked laconically. “Too many for us.”

“Perhaps we can do something when it grows darker.”

The guide drew down the corners of his mouth. Then, as he gazed at the river, his big black eyes brightened.

“Yeas, when it is darker we try. But must be careful.”

“Perhaps we can get to him by the way of the river.”

Jorge smiled grimly. Catching me by the arm he led me along the bank, overgrown with grass and rushes. Not far away was something that looked like a half-submerged log covered with mud. Taking a stone he threw it, and the “log” roused up and flopped angrily into the stream.

“Alligators!” I cried, with a shiver. “No, we won’t be able to get to him by way of the river. But we must do something.”

“We cross river, and I tell you what we do,” replied my guide.

Crossing was not an easy matter, as neither of us cared to attempt swimming or fording with alligators in the vicinity. But by passing along the bank we presently discovered a spot where half a dozen rocks afforded a footing, and over we went in the semi-darkness, for the sun was now setting.

As we hurried down the course of the stream again, Jorge cut several cedar and pine branches which appeared to be particularly dry. Then he handed me a number of matches, of which, fortunately, he had an entire box.

“We will put one pile of branches here,” he said, “and another further down, and one further yet. Den I go back to camp. You watch tree over there. When you see light wait few minutes, den light all dree fires.”

“But how will that help us?”

“Soldiers see fires, want to know who is dar—don’t watch Alano—me go in and help him. After you make fires you run back to where we cross on stones.”

Jorge’s plan was not particularly clear to me, yet I agreed to it, and off he sped in the gloom. Left to myself, I made my way cautiously to the water’s edge, there to await the signal he had mentioned.

It was a hot night and the air was filled with myriads of mosquitoes, gnats, flies, and other pests. From the woods behind me came the occasional cry of a night bird, otherwise all was silent. Frogs as big as one’s two hands sat on the rocks near by, on the watch for anything in the shape of a meal which might come their way.

But bad as the pests around me were, I gave them scant consideration. My whole mind was concentrated upon Alano and what Jorge proposed to do. Silently I prayed to Heaven that the guide might be successful in rescuing my chum.

About half an hour went by,—it seemed an extra long wait to me,—when suddenly I saw a flash of fire, in the very top of a tree growing behind the Spaniards' camp. The flash lasted but a second, then died out instantly.

Arising from my seat, I ran to the furthest pile of boughs and waited while I mentally counted off a hundred and eighty seconds, three minutes. Then I struck a match, ignited the heaped-up mass, and ran to the second pile.

In less than ten minutes the three fires, situated about three hundred feet apart, were burning fiercely, and then I ran at topmost speed for the spot where the river had been crossed. I had just reached the locality when I heard a shout ring out, followed by two musket shots.

A painful, anxious two minutes followed. Were Alano and Jorge safe? was the question I asked myself. I strained my eyes to pierce the gloom which hung like a pall over the water.

Footsteps on the rocks greeted my ears. Someone was coming, someone with a heavy burden on his back. Once or twice the approaching person slipped on the rocks and I heard a low cry of warning.

“Mark!”

It was the voice of Alano, and my heart gave a joyful bound. In another second my Cuban chum appeared in view, carrying on his manly back the form of Jorge.

“Alano,” I ejaculated excitedly, “what is the matter with him?”

“He has been shot in the leg,” was the reply. “Come on, help me carry him and get to cover. I am afraid they are on my track!”

“Run into the woods!” groaned Jorge. “Den we take to trees—dat’s best.”

As Alano was almost exhausted, I insisted that the guide be transferred to my back, and this was speedily done, and on we went, away from the river and directly into the forest. Of course, with such a burden I could not go far, and scarcely a hundred yards were traversed when I came to a halt, at the foot of a giant mahogany tree.

Not without a good deal of difficulty Jorge was raised up into the branches of the tree, and we followed.

“Still now and listen!” cried Jorge, with a half-suppressed groan.

With strained ears we sat in the mahogany tree for fully half an hour without speaking. We heard the Spaniards cross the river and move cautiously in the direction of the three fires, and presently they returned to their own camp.

“Thank fortune, we have outwitted them!” murmured Alano, the first to break the silence. “You poor fellow!” he went on to Jorge; “you saved my life.”

He asked about the wound which had been received, and was surprised, and so was I, to learn that it was but slight, and what had caused the guide’s inability to run had been a large thorn which had cut through his shoe into his heel. By the light of a match the thorn was forced out with the end of Jorge’s machete, and the foot was bound up in a bit of rag torn from my coat sleeve, for I must admit that rough usage had reduced my clothing to a decidedly dilapidated condition.

As we could not sleep very well in the tree without hammocks, we descended to the ground and made our way to a bit of upland, where there was a small clearing. Here we felt safe from discovery and lay down to rest. But before retiring Alano thanked Jorge warmly for what he had done, and thanked me also.

“I thought you were a goner,” he said to me. “How did you escape when the horse balked and threw you into the stream?”

I told him, and then asked him to relate his own adventures, which he did. After leaving me, he said, his horse had taken the bit in his teeth and gone on for fully a mile. When the animal had come to a halt he had found himself on a side trail, with no idea where he was.

His first thought was to return to the stream where the mishap had occurred, his second to find General Garcia. But Providence had willed otherwise, for he had become completely tangled up in the woods and had wandered around until nightfall. In the morning he had mounted his horse and struck a mountain path, only to fall into the hands of the Spanish soldiers two hours later. These soldiers were a most villainous lot, and, after robbing him of all he possessed, had decided to take his life, that he might not complain of them to their superior officer.

“From what I heard them say,” he concluded, “I imagine they have a very strict and good man for their leader—a man who believes in carrying on war in the right kind of a way, and not in such a guerrilla fashion as these chaps adopt.”

“I don’t want any war, guerrilla fashion or otherwise,” I said warmly. “I’ve seen quite enough of it already.”

“And so have I,” said my Cuban chum.

Of course he was greatly interested to learn that his father was on the way to place his mother and sisters in the old convent on the river. He said that he had seen the place several years before.

“It is a tumbled-down institution, and Father Anuncio lives there—a very old and a very pious man who is both a priest and a doctor. I shouldn’t wonder if the old building has been fitted up as a sort of fort. You see, the Spaniards couldn’t get any cannon to it very well, to batter it down, and if they didn’t have any cannon the Cubans could hold it against them with ease.”

“Unless they undermined it,” I said.

“Our people would be too sharp for that,” laughed my Cuban chum. “They are in this fight to win.”

Jorge now advised us to quit talking, that our enemies might not detect us, and we lay down to rest as previously mentioned. I was utterly worn out, and it did not take me long to reach the land of dreams, and my companions quickly followed suit.

In the morning our guide’s heel was rather sore, yet with true pluck he announced his readiness to go on. A rather slim and hasty breakfast was had, and we set off on a course which Jorge announced must bring us to the river by noon.