Chapter 30

ONCE MORE AMONG THE HILLS.

Fortunately the road leading to the northern shore of Santiago Bay was well known to Captain Guerez, who at one time had been a commissioner of highways in that district.

“I do not know how we will fare on this trip,” he remarked, as we rode off only four strong—the captain, Alano, Burnham, and myself. “At one spot we will have to pass the railroad, and I understand that is now under strict Spanish surveillance.”

“We’ll have to take matters as they come,” I returned. “We must save my father at any cost—at least, I shall attempt to do so.”

“I am with you, Mark,” said the captain earnestly. “Next to my family, there is no one to whom I am more attached.”

“And I go in for helping any American,” put in Burnham.

Alano simply smiled at me. But that smile was enough. I felt that my Cuban chum could be depended upon to stick to me through thick and thin.

Nightfall found us in the midst of a long range of hills, covered with a heavy growth of oaks, cedars, and mahogany. The vines which I mentioned before were here as thick as ever, and in the darkness Gilbert Burnham suddenly gave a yell and slid from the back of his horse to the ground.

“What’s the matter?” we cried in chorus.

“Matter!” he growled. “Nothing, only a vine caught me under the chin, and I thought I was about to be hung.”

We laughed at this, but my humor was soon short, as another vine slipped over my forehead, taking my Panama hat with it.

After this we were more careful, fearful that some of us might be seriously injured, and a little later we went into camp in the midst of a tiny clearing.

We were just finishing our supper when a most doleful howl arose on the air, coming from the rear and to the right of us. I leaped up and drew my pistol, expecting to be attacked by some wild animal.

“Here’s excitement!” ejaculated the newspaper correspondent. “What can it be—a bear?”

He had hardly finished when a perfect chorus of howls arose, coming closer. I gazed in alarm at Captain Guerez and Alano. My chum laughed outright.

“Don’t get scared, Mark; they are only wild dogs.”

“Wild dogs!” put in Burnham. “Well that is the worst yet! And they are not dangerous?”

“If you met a large number of them alone they might be,” replied Captain Guerez. “But they won’t think of attacking such a party as ours. They’ll hang around until we leave and then search the camp for stray food.”

In spite of this explanation, however, Burnham insisted that a guard be kept during the night, and we each took two hours at the task. Before the sun had struck us from over the treetops, we had breakfast and were off. Sure enough, the wild dogs rushed in the moment we had left the opening. They were a lean and ugly-looking set of curs.

“It’s a terrible thing when these wild dogs and a bloodhound on the trail meet,” observed Captain Guerez. “Of course one wild dog cannot do much, but the whole pack will fall on the bloodhound, and in the end the larger dog will be killed and literally torn to shreds.”

A storm was approaching, but this did not discourage us, although Burnham growled as usual. In fact, we soon found that he was a chronic fault-finder, but then he seldom meant half that he said, and, taken all in all, he was good company.

“If the storm grows heavy it will give us a good chance to cross the railroad tracks,” remarked the captain. “The sentries will relax their vigilance and more than likely seek shelter under the trees.”

“Won’t we strike some settlement before that?” I asked.

“Oh, yes; we are on the outskirts of Los Hanios now.”

Five minutes later we rode into a small village occupied principally by half a hundred cattlemen, for we were now coming to the meadows and valleys in which immense herds of cows and sheep are pastured. The people of Los Hanios took but little interest in the revolution, and as a consequence had been but little molested either by the Spaniards or Cubans, although a portion of their cattle had been confiscated.

From one of the head cattlemen Captain Guerez learned that a body of Spaniards had passed through the village the afternoon before bound for Santiago. They had several prisoners, who were tied hands and feet, and fast to the mules which carried them. At least one of the prisoners had been un Americano.

At Los Hanios we procured dinner, a splendid meal—the best I had eaten since leaving the steamer, for it consisted of prime roast beef done to a turn, potatoes and beans and coffee. Burnham attended to the cooking, saying he had cooked many a meal for himself during his Bohemian life at the “Hub,” and consequently all the dishes were turned out in true American style, garlic and such stuff being for once tabooed.

Yet I hurried matters, wishing to catch up with my father as soon as possible. I wondered if he knew I was after him, and how he was faring. I felt certain that to be bound to the back of a mule over these rough trails could be anything but a pleasant sensation.

While we were still in sight of Los Hanios it began to rain, and we had not made over a mile when the downpour became very heavy. Burnham wished to take shelter under some trees, but I would not hear of it, and Alano and his father backed me up in my idea.

“We can rest a-plenty when Mr. Carter is once more safe,” said the captain, and that ended the discussion.

On and on we went, until, looking ahead, we espied a turn in the road. Beyond this was a bank six or eight feet in height, and this was where the railroad tracks were located.

“We had best dismount and go ahead on foot,” said the captain. “A sentry could easily see our animals if he had his eyes about him.”

“If he wasn’t asleep,” put in Burnham. "I fancy these Spaniards and Cubans do a lot of sleeping whenever they get the chance."

“Not in war-times,” said Alano, who did not fancy this slur upon his countrymen. “Of course we are not so nervous and impatient as some of the Americans,” he added pointedly, and Burnham took the hint and said no more on the subject.

A fierce rattle of thunder stopped all talking soon after. The lightning became almost incessant, and glared and flared along the railroad tracks as far as eye could see. We came together close to a clump of berry bushes.

“Wait a moment,” whispered Captain Guerez. “I think I saw a sentry not over fifty feet away!”

At this announcement all of us crouched down, and each looked to his weapons, feeling that a crisis might be at hand. Alano’s father moved like a shadow up to the railroad bank.

“I was right,” he announced, after a particularly bright flash of lightning; “I saw his gun-barrel plainly.”

“Can we pass him?” asked Alano.

“We can try, but——”

“If he sees us why can’t we make him a prisoner?” I broke in. “If we did that, we would have a chance to bring our horses up the bank and over the tracks.”

“I was thinking as much,” said the captain. “The horses must be gotten over; that is necessary.”

He deliberated for a minute, and then motioned us forward, warning us at the same time to keep perfectly silent. On we went, to where something of a trail led up over the railroad embankment. There were a few bushes growing in the vicinity, and we skulked beside these, almost crawling along the ground.

Several minutes passed, and the top of the embankment was reached and we stood on the glistening tracks. Down we plunged on the opposite side, and not over a dozen paces from where the Spanish sentry was standing.

“Halte!” came the unexpected cry, and the man rushed forward, pointing his gun as he ran. But for once fate was in our favor. A trailing vine tripped him up and he went headlong.

Before the Spanish soldier could collect his senses, or make a movement to rise, Captain Guerez and myself were on him. The captain sat down astride of the fellow’s back, while I secured his gun and clapped my hand over his mouth, to keep him from calling for assistance. A second later Alano and the newspaper man came up, and the Spaniard was our prisoner.

“Now bring the horses over, as quickly as possible!” said the captain to his son and Burnham. “Mark and I will guard this fellow.”

At once Alano and Burnham departed. The prisoner struggled wildly to escape, but we held him fast, and presently Captain Guerez pulled out his sword and pointed it at the fellow’s throat.

“Not a sound, on your life!” he commanded in Spanish, and the prisoner became mute instantly.

The sharpness of the lightning and the deafening thunder had frightened our animals a good deal, and Alano and the newspaper man had all they could do to bring them up the embankment, which in one spot was quite steep. Just as the railroad tracks were reached one of the horses broke away, and with a loud snort ran down the road, his hoofs clattering loudly on the ties and the iron rails. Alano endeavored to catch him, with the result that another broke loose and went up the road in the same fashion.

“Halte!” came from half a dozen different directions, and as if by magic as many Spanish sentries showed themselves along the embankment. A flash of lightning revealed Alano and Burnham, and crack! crack! crack! went three carbines almost simultaneously. The alarm was taken up on several sides, and soon we found the best part of a company of Spanish soldiery swooping down upon us.