When Santiago Fell: or, The War Adventures of Two Chums

“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!

CHAPTER XVI.

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 – “Señor 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?”