Chapter 17

A TREACHEROUS STREAM TO CROSS.

I must mention that now that we had gained the high ground of the mountains the air was much cooler and clearer than it was in the valleys, and, consequently, traveling was less fatiguing.

Jorge went ahead, limping rather painfully at times, but never uttering a word of complaint. Next to him came Alano, while I brought up in the rear. It is needless to state that all of us had our eyes and ears wide open for a sight or sound of friend or enemy.

The road was a hard one for the most part, although here and there would be found a hollow in which the mud was from a few inches to several feet deep. Jorge always warned us of these spots, but on several occasions I stepped into the innocent-looking mud only to find that it was all I could do to get clear of the dark, glue-like paste.

It was but eleven o’clock when we came in sight of the river, which at this point was from thirty to forty feet wide. Looking up and down the water-course, we saw that it wound its way in and out among the hills in serpentine fashion. The bottom was mostly of rough stones, and the stream was barely three to four feet deep.

“How will we get over?—by swimming?” I questioned, as we came to a halt on a bank that was twenty feet above the current.

“Find good place by de rocks,” said Jorge. “Must be careful. Water werry swift.”

I could see that he was right by the way the water dashed against the rocks. Our guide led the way along the bank for a distance of several hundred feet and began to climb down by the aid of the brush and roots.

“That doesn’t look pleasant,” remarked Alano, as he hesitated. “Just look at that stream!”

Picking up a dry bit of wood he threw it into the water. In a few seconds it was hurried along out of our sight.

Nevertheless, we followed Jorge down to the water’s edge. Before us was a series of rocks, which, had the stream been a bit lower, would have afforded an excellent fording-place.

“De river higher dan I think,” said our guide. “You take off boots, hey?”

“That we will,” I answered, and soon had my boots slung around my neck. Alano followed my example, and with extreme caution we waded down and out to the first rock.

“Any alligators?” I cried, coming to a pause.

“No 'gators here,” answered Jorge. “Water too swift—'gators no like dat.”

This was comforting news, and on I went again, until I was up to my knees. The water felt very refreshing, and I proposed to Alano that we take advantage of our situation and have a bath.

“I feel tremendously dirty, and it will brace us up. We needn’t lose more than ten minutes.”

My Cuban chum was willing, and we decided to take our bath from the opposite shore. Jorge declined to go swimming and said he would try his luck at fishing, declaring that the river held some excellent specimens of the finny tribe.

We had now reached the middle of the stream. I was two yards behind Alano, while Jorge was some distance ahead. We were crossing in a diagonal fashion, as the fording rocks ran in that direction.

Suddenly Alano muttered an exclamation in Spanish. “It’s mighty swift out here!” he cried. “Look out, Mark, or——”

He did not finish. I saw him slip and go down, and the next instant his body was rolling over and over as it was being carried along by the rushing current.

“Jorge, Alano is gone!” I yelled, and took a hasty step to catch hold of my chum’s coat. The movement was a fatal one for me, and down I went precisely as Alano had done. The water entered my eyes and mouth, and for the moment I was blinded and bewildered. I felt my feet touch bottom, but in the deeper water to obtain a footing was out of the question.

When my head came up I found myself at Alano’s side. I saw he had a slight cut on the forehead and was completely dazed. I caught him by the arm until he opened his eyes and instinctively struck out.

“We’re lost, Mark!” he spluttered.

“Not yet,” I returned. “Strike out for the shore.”

With all the strength at our command we struck out. To make any headway against that boiling current was well-nigh impossible, and on and on we went, until I was almost exhausted. Alano was about to sink when he gave a cry.

“The bottom!” he announced, and I put down both feet, to find the stream less than three feet deep. With our feet down, we were now able to turn shoreward; and five minutes later Jorge had us both by the hands and was helping us out.

“Well, we wanted a bath and we got it,” were Alano’s first words. “Have you had enough, Mark?”

“More than sufficient,” I replied, with a shudder. “Ugh, but that is a treacherous stream, and no mistake!”

“You lucky boys,” said Jorge. “Horse get in and roll over, he lose his life.”

We stopped long enough to wring out our clothing and put on our boots, and then followed our guide again. Half an hour later we reached a sheltered spot and here took dinner. By the time the repast was ended our light summer suits were almost dried. Luckily, through it all each of us had retained his hat.

“We haven’t had the fish Jorge promised us,” said Alano, as we were preparing to resume our journey. “A bit of something baked wouldn’t go bad.”

“Fish to-night,” said the guide.

“Have you a line and hook, Jorge?” I asked.

“Yes, always carry him,” he answered; and, upon further questioning, I learned that to carry a fishing outfit was as common among the rebels as to carry a pistol or the ever-ready machete. They had to supply themselves with food, and it was often easier and safer to fish in the mountain streams than to shoot game or cattle.

We made a camp that night under the shelter of a clump of grenadillo trees; and, as Jorge had promised, he tried his luck at fishing in a little pool under some rocks. He remained at his lines, two in number, for nearly an hour, and in that time caught four fish—three of an eel-like nature and a perch. These were cooked for supper, and tasted delicious.

“When will we reach the old convent?” I asked, as we were about to turn in.

“Reach him by to-morrow afternoon maybe, if no storm come,” said Jorge.

“Do you think there will be a storm?”

The guide shrugged his shoulders.

“Maybe—time for storm now.”

The fire had been put out as soon as the fish were baked, that it might not attract the attention of any Spaniards who might be in the neighborhood. At eight o’clock we turned in, making our beds on a number of cedar boughs, which were easy to obtain in this mountainous locality. We had no coverings but our coats, but found these sufficient under the shelter of the grenadillos.

How long I slept I did not know. I awoke with a start and raised up. All was silent. I gazed around in the gloom, and saw that Alano and our guide slumbered soundly.

“I must have been dreaming,” I muttered to myself, when a rustle in the brush behind me caused me to leap to my feet. There was another rustle, and then came what I imagined was a half-subdued growl of rage.

Fearful that we were on the point of being attacked by some wild animal, I bent over my companions and shook them.

“Wake up! Wake up!” I cried. “There are wild beasts about! Quick, and get your pistols ready!”

And then I looked toward the bushes again, to see an ugly, hairy head thrust forward and a pair of glaring eyes fastened full upon me!