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

We were descending a short hill, covered with a stunted growth of brush, which tripped us up more than once, when my companion suddenly uttered a howl and tumbled over me in his effort to retreat.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Spiders, or crabs, as big as your foot,” he cried. “Look! look!” He pointed to several holes in the sand, beside a small brook. At the entrance to each hole sat an enormous land crab, gray in color, with round, staring eyes, well calculated to give anyone a good scare.

“They are only crabs, and won’t hurt you, unless you try to catch hold of them,” I laughed. “Alano told me of them, and I’ve met them before.”

“More of the beauties of this delightful country,” said Burnham sarcastically.

I advanced and stamped my foot, and instantly each crab scampered for his hole, in the clumsy fashion all crabs have. I fancied some of them hissed at us, but I might have been mistaken.

The brook crossed, we ascended the next hill and entered a plantain grove where the fruit hung in profusion on all sides. We found some that was almost ripe, and made a refreshing meal.

“Hullo, Mark!”

The welcome voice rang out from a grove of oaks on the other side of the plantains. I started, then rushed ahead, to find myself, a minute later, in Alano’s arms, with Captain Guerez looking on, highly pleased.

“We thought you were killed!” ejaculated my Cuban chum, when our greeting was over. “Where on earth have you been?”

“Haven’t you seen Jorge?”

“No,” put in Alano’s father.

“It’s a long story. Let me introduce another American,” and I presented Gilbert Burnham.

Sitting down in as cool a spot as we could find, each related all he had to tell. My story is already known.

“When you did not show up in camp I was much worried,” said the captain, “and I sent men out at once to hunt up both you and Jorge. During this search one of the men, Circuso, met some of the Spanish troops, and fought desperately to escape them, but was shot and killed.”

“Poor chap!” I could not help but murmur. “Did he leave a family?”

“No; he was a bachelor, without kith or kin.”

“I think he might have escaped,” put in Alano, “but he was so fierce against the soldiers from Spain. He said they had no right to come over here and fight us, and he was in for killing every one of them.”

“While the hunt for you and Jorge was going on,” continued Alano’s father, "the rebel leader, Captain Conovas, arrived and said he had instructions to attack Cubineta and make an attempt to release the prisoners at the fort. I decided to join him in the attack, at the same time thinking you might be a prisoner with your father.

“We operated from the south and from across the river, and soon took possession of the fort, only to be repulsed with a heavy loss. Then our party withdrew to this quarter, and here we are.”

“And what of my father?” I asked anxiously. “He was not at the fort, nor have I been able to hear anything of him.”

“The Cuban forces captured several prisoners, and they are being held in a valley just below here. I was on the point of journeying hither to interview them on that point when Alano discovered you coming through the plantain grove,” answered Captain Guerez.

“Then let us go and question them now,” I cried.

The captain was willing, and off we hurried on horseback, Burnham and myself being provided with steeds which had belonged to the Spanish prisoners.

Riding was much more comfortable than walking, and the road being fairly level the distance to the valley mentioned was soon covered. Here it was found that four of the Spaniards had died of their wounds, but there were six others, and these Captain Guerez proceeded to examine carefully, taking each aside for that purpose.

“Your father is en route for Santiago,” he said, when the examination was over. “When he arrives there he is to be tried by court-martial for plotting against the life of a certain Spanish leader, General Gonza. If we wish to save him we must start after him without an instant’s delay.”

CHAPTER XXX.

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.