I speedily found that my enemies were five in number; and, as they were all tall and powerful men, to struggle against them would have been foolhardy.

“Don’t choke me – I give in,” I gasped, and then the pressure on my neck was relieved.

“Americano,” I heard one of the fellows mutter. “No talk, you!” he hissed into my ear, and flourished a knife before my eyes to emphasize his words.

I shut my mouth, to signify that I agreed, and then I was allowed to rise, and in a twinkle my hands were tied behind my back. Two of the men conducted me away from the spot, while a third followed us. The other two men remained on guard at the highway.

I wondered if Alano had been captured, but just then did not give the subject much thought. There was no telling whether the men were Spanish or Cuban sympathizers; but, no matter to what side they belonged, I noted with a shudder that they were a decidedly tough class of citizens.

Leaving the highway, we made our way along a rocky course leading to a small clearing at the top of a plateau. Back of the clearing was a rude hut, set in a grove of sapodilla trees. Around the hut half a dozen dirty soldiers were lying, who leaped up at our approach. An earnest conversation in a Spanish patois followed, and then one of the men spoke to me in Spanish.

“No speak Spanish, eh?” he growled, in return to my assertion to that effect. “Who you be? Where you go to?”

“I am on my way to Guantanamo, to join my father,” I said, and made as much of an explanation as I deemed necessary.

The soldiers glared suspiciously at me when my words were translated to them. Then, without ceremony, they began to search me, taking all I had of value from me.

“You are not going to rob me, I trust,” I said, and the man who could speak English laughed coarsely.

“We take all we get,” he replied. “All right in war, amigo.”

I was not his amigo, or friend, but I was forced to submit; and, even as it was, I was thankful my life had been spared, for they were a cruel-looking band, with less of the soldier than the bandit about them.

When I saw a chance, I started in to question them concerning Alano, but the nearest fellow, with a flat blow from his dirty hand, stopped me.

“No talk!” growled he who could speak English.

After this I said no more, but from where I had been placed, at the rear of the hot and ill-ventilated hut, I watched the men narrowly and tried to understand what they were talking about. I heard General Garcia mentioned and also the word “machete,” the name of the long, deadly knives most of the Cuban soldiers carried.

At last the men around the hut began to grow sleepy, and one after another sought a suitable spot and threw himself down to rest. The youngest of the party, a fellow not over twenty, was left on guard.

With his pistol in his lap, this guard sat on a flat rock, rolling cigarette after cigarette and smoking them. From my position in the hut I could just catch his outline, and I watched him eagerly. I pretended to go to sleep, but I was very wide awake.

It must have been well past midnight, and I was giving up in despair, when the last of the cigarettes went out and the guard’s head fell forward on his breast. In the meantime I had been silently working at the rawhide which bound my hands. In my efforts my wrists were cut not a little, but at last my hands were free.

Feeling that the guard and the others were all asleep, I arose as silently as a shadow. Several of my captors lay between me and the entrance of the hut, and it was with extreme caution that I stepped over them. The last man sighed heavily and turned over just as I went by, and with my heart in my throat I leaped out into the open.

But he did not awaken, nor did the guard notice my appearance. As I passed the latter I saw something shining on the ground. It was the pistol, which had slipped from the guard’s lap. I hesitated only an instant, then picked it up and glided onward to the end of the plateau.

“Halte!” The command, coming so suddenly, was enough to startle anybody, and I leaped back several feet. A man had appeared before me, one of the fellows left to guard the highway below. Following the command came an alarm in Spanish.

On the instant the camp was in commotion. The guard was the first to awaken, and his anger when he found his pistol gone was very great. While he was searching for his weapon, the others poured from the hut and ran toward me, leveling their weapons as they came.

I was caught between two fires, for the man before me also had his pistol raised, and I did not know what to do. Then, to avoid being struck, and not wishing to shed blood, I leaped toward some near-by bushes.

Bang! crack! A musket and a pistol went off almost simultaneously, and I heard a clipping sound through the trees. Just as my former captors turned to follow me into the thicket, there came another shot from down in the hollow of the highway.

“Cuba libre!” I heard echo upon several sides, and a rattle of musketry followed. From a dozen spots in the hollow I saw the long flashes of fire, and I at once knew that a portion of the Cuban army was at hand and had surprised the Spanish sympathizers who were attempting to hold the highway.

The moment the battle started below the plateau those who had held me captive gave up pursuing me, and rushed back to the hut to obtain their entire belongings – feeling, doubtless, that the region would soon get too hot to hold them. I watched them turn away with keen satisfaction, and remained where I was, the guard’s pistol still in my possession.

For fully half an hour the firing kept up, and then came a rush along the highway and again I heard the cry of “Cuba libre!” raised, showing that the rebels were getting the best of the encounter and had driven the Spanish soldiers from their hiding-places. On went one body of men after the other down the road, until the sounds of their voices and firearms were almost lost in the distance.

Certain that the plateau was now absolutely deserted, I ran back to the hut and found my valise, which had been thrown in a corner. My pistol was gone, but as I had another, fully loaded and just as good, I did not mind this. With my satchel over my shoulder, I crawled cautiously down to the highway and hurried in the direction I had before been pursuing.

I had just reached the opposite side of the hollow, where all was pitch dark, on account of the shade, when a feeble moan came to my ears. Moving silently in the direction, I found a negro lying on his back, a fearful wound in his shoulder.

The man could speak nothing but a Cuban patois, yet I understood that he was in pain and desired his shoulder bound up. Wetting my handkerchief in the water at the hollow, I washed the wound as best I could and tied it up with strips of muslin torn from the sleeve of his ragged shirt and my own shirt sleeve. For this, I could note by his manner, that he was extremely grateful.

“Americano?” he said.

“Yes,” I replied.

Then he asked me several other questions, from which I made out that he wanted to know which side I was on. Feeling certain I was safe, I said “Cuba,” and he smiled faintly.

“I want to find General Garcia,” I continued, emphasizing the name. Then I tapped my breast, said General Garcia again, and pointed off with my finger.

He nodded and attempted to sit up. With his bony finger he pointed up the highway, and circled his finger to the northwest to signify I was to turn off in that direction. Then he caught me by the arm and whispered “Maysi” into my ear – the password.

Feeling I could do no more for him at present, I went on, and at the distance of an eighth of a mile came to a side road, which was the one he had described to me. It was narrow and rocky, and I had not proceeded over two hundred feet in the direction when a soldier leaped out from behind a banana tree and presented his gun.

“Halte!” he cried.

“Maysi!” I called promptly.

The gun was lowered, and, seeing I was but a boy, the guard smiled and murmured “Americano?” to which I nodded.

“General Garcia,” I said, and tapped my breast to signify I wished to see the great Cuban leader.

Without a word the guard led me on a distance of a hundred feet and called another soldier. A short talk ensued, and the second man motioned me to follow him through a trail in the brush. We went on for ten minutes, then came to a clearing hemmed in by a cliff and several high rocks.

Here were over a hundred soldiers on foot and twice as many on horseback. In the midst of the latter was the Cuban general I had asked to see – the gallant soldier who had fought so hard in the cause of Cuban liberty.

CHAPTER XIV.
GENERAL CALIXTO GARCIA

My first view of General Calixto Garcia was a disappointing one. For some reason, probably from the reports I had heard concerning his bravery, I had expected to see a man of great proportions and commanding aspect. Instead, I saw an elderly gentleman of fair figure, with mild eyes and almost white mustache and beard, the latter trimmed close. But the eyes, though mild, were searching, and as he turned them upon me I felt he was reading me through and through.

He was evidently surprised to see a boy, and an American at that. He spoke but little English, but an interpreter was close at hand, who immediately demanded to know who I was, where I had come from, and what I wanted.

“My name is Mark Carter, and I have journeyed all the way from Santiago de Cuba,” I replied. “I heard that my father and his friend, Señor Guerez, had joined General Garcia’s forces.”

“You are Señor Carter’s son!” exclaimed the Cuban officer, and turned quickly to General Garcia. The two conversed for several minutes, and then the under-officer turned again to me.

“General Garcia bids you welcome,” he said, and at the same time the great Cuban leader smiled and extended his hand, which I found as hard and horny as that of any tiller of the soil. “He knows your father and Señor Guerez well.”

“And where are they now?” I asked quickly.

“They were with the army two days ago, but both went off to escort the ladies of Señor Guerez' family to a place of safety. The señor was going to take his wife and daughters to an old convent up a river some miles from here.”

This was rather disheartening news, yet I had to be content. I asked if my father was well.

“Very well, although hardly able to walk, on account of a leg he broke some time ago.”

“And have you seen Alano Guerez? He is about my own age, and was with me up to this morning,” I went on, and briefly related my adventures on the road, to which the officer listened with much interest.

“We have seen nothing of him,” was the reply I received. “But he may be somewhere around here.”

The officer wished to know about the Spanish detachment we had met, and I told him all I knew, which was not much, as I had not understood the Spanish spoken and Alano had not interpreted it for me. But even the little I had to say seemed to be highly important, and the officer immediately reported the condition of affairs to General Garcia.

By this time some of the soldiers who had taken part in the fight at the foot of the plateau came back, bringing with them several wounded men, including the negro whose wound I had bound up. The disabled ones were placed in a temporary hospital, which already sheltered a dozen others, and General Garcia rode off with his horsemen, leaving the foot soldiers to spread out along the southeastern slope of the mountain.

Left to myself, I hardly knew what to do. A black, who could speak a few words of “Englis',” told me I could go where I wanted, but must look out for a shot from the enemy; and I wandered over to the hospital and to the side of the fellow I had formerly assisted.

The hospital, so called, consisted of nothing more than a square of canvas stretched over the tops of a number of stunted trees. From one tree to another hammocks, made of native grass, were slung, and in these, and on piles of brush on the ground, rested the wounded ones. Only one regular doctor was in attendance, and as his surgical skill and instruments were both limited, the sufferings of the poor fellows were indeed great.

“Him brudder me – you help him,” said the black who spoke “Englis',” as he pointed to the fellow whose wound I had dressed. “Jorge Nullus no forget you – verra good you.”

“Is your name Jorge Nullus?”

“Yeas, señor – him brudder Christoval.”

“Where did you learn English?”

“Me in Florida once – dree year ago – stay seex months – no like him there – too hard work,” and Jorge Nullus shrugged his shoulders. “You verra nice leetle man, señor,” and he smiled broadly at his open compliment.

“Do you know Señor Guerez?” I questioned quickly.

“Me hear of him – dat’s all.”

“Do you know where the old convent on the river is?” I continued.

The Cuban nodded. “Yeas – been dare many times – bring 'taters, onions, to Father Anuncio.”

“Could you take me there – if General Garcia would let you go?”

“Yeas, señor. But Spaniards all around – maybe shoot – bang! – dead,” and he pointed to his wounded brother. The brother demanded to know what we were talking about, and the two conversed for several minutes. Then Jorge turned again to me.

“Christoval say me take you; you verra good leetle man, señor. We go now, you say go.”

“Will you be allowed to go?”

“Yeas – General Garcia no stop me – he know me all right,” and the negro grinned and showed his teeth.

I was tempted to start at once, but decided to wait until morning, in the hope of finding Alano. In spite of the fact that I knew my chum would be doubly cautious, now we were separated, I felt decidedly anxious about him. The Spanish troops were on every side, and the soldiers would not hesitate to shoot him down should they learn who he was.

The night passed in comparative quietness. Toward morning we heard distant firing to the northwest, and at five o’clock a messenger dashed into camp with the order to move on to the next mountain, a distance of two miles. Through Jorge I learned that the Spaniards had been outwitted and driven back to the place from whence they had come.

There now seemed nothing for me to do but to push on to the convent on the river, in the hope of there joining my father. We were, so I was told, but a few miles from Guantanamo, but the route to the convent would not take us near the town.

Jorge’s brother felt much better, so the negro went off with a light heart, especially after I had made it plain to him that my father would reward him for any trouble he took on my account. I told him about Alano, and before leaving camp we walked around among the sentries in the hope of gaining some information concerning him. But it was all useless.

“Maybe he went on to Father Anuncio’s,” said my negro guide, and this gave me a grain of comfort.

The soldiers and Jorge and myself left the camp at about the same time, but we did not take the same road, and soon my guide and I found ourselves on a lonely mountain trail overlooking a valley thick with brush and trees. The sun shone brightly, but the air was clear and there was a fine breeze blowing, and this made it much cooler than it would otherwise have been.

I missed the horse, and wondered if Alano still had the animal he had captured. It might be possible he had ridden straight on to Guantanamo, and was now bound from there up the river. If that was so, we might meet on the river road.

“Werry bad road now,” said Jorge, as we came to a halt on the mountain side. “Be careful how you step, Señor Mark.”

He pointed ahead, to where a narrow trail led around a sharp turn. Here the way was rocky and sloped dangerously toward the valley. He went on ahead, and I followed close at his heels.

“No horse come dis way,” observed Jorge, as he came to another turn. “Give me your hand – dis way. Now den, jump!”

We had reached a spot where a tiny mountain stream had washed away a portion of the trail. I took his hand, and we prepared to take the leap.

Just then the near-by crack of a rifle rang out on the morning air. Whether or not the shot was intended for us I cannot say, but the sound startled me greatly and I stumbled and fell. Jorge tried to grab me, but failed, and down I shot head first into the trees and bushes growing twenty feet below the trail!

CHAPTER XV.
A PRISONER OF WAR

By instinct more than reason, I put out both hands as I fell, and this movement saved me from a severe blow on the head. My hands crashed through the branches of a tree, bumped up against the trunk, and then I bounced off into the midst of a clump of brush and wild peppers.

“Hi, yah!” I heard Jorge cry out, but from my present position I could not see him. “Is you killed?” he went on.

“No, but I’m pretty well shook up and scratched up,” I answered.

“Take care – somebody shoot,” he went on.

I concluded I was pretty well out of sight, and I kept quiet and tried to get back the breath which had been completely knocked out of me. A few minutes later I heard a crashing through the brush, and my guide stood beside me.

“Lucky you no killed,” he observed. “Bad spot dat.”

He searched around and soon found a hollow containing some water, with which I bathed the scratches on my face and hands. In the meantime he gazed around anxiously in the direction from which he imagined the shot had come.

“Maybe no shoot at us,” he said, quarter of an hour later. “Me find out.”

With his ever-ready machete he cut down a young tree and trimmed the top branches off, leaving the stumps sticking out about six inches on every side. On the top of the tree he stuck his hat, and then, having no coat, asked me for mine, which he buttoned about the tree a short distance under the hat, placing a fluttering handkerchief between the two.

With this rude dummy, or scarecrow, he crawled up the side of the gully until almost on a level with the trail. Then he hoisted the figure up cautiously and moved it forward.

No shot was fired, and after waiting a bit Jorge grew bolder and climbed up to the trail himself. Here he spent a long time in viewing the surroundings, and finally called to me.

“Him no shoot at us. Maybe only hunter. Come up.”

Not without some misgivings, I followed directions. To gain the trail again was no easy matter, but he helped me by lowering the end of the tree and pulling me up. Once more we proceeded on our way, but with eyes and ears on guard in case anybody in the shape of an enemy should appear.

By noon Jorge calculated we had covered eight miles, which was considered a good distance through the mountains, and I was glad enough to sit down in a convenient hollow and rest. He had brought along a good stock of provisions, with which the rebel camp had happened to be liberally provided, and we made a meal of bread, crackers, and cold meat, washed down with black coffee, cooked over a fire of dead and dried grass.

“We past the worst of the road now,” remarked Jorge, as we again moved on. “Easy walkin' by sundown.”

He was right, for about four o’clock we struck an opening among the mountains where there was a broad and well-defined road leading past several plantations. The plantations were occupied by a number of Cubans and blacks, who eyed me curiously and called out queries to Jorge, who answered them cheerfully.

The plantations left behind, we crossed a brook which my guide said ran into the river, and took to a path running along a belt of oak and ebony trees, with here and there a clump of plantains. We had gone but a short distance when we crossed another trail, and Jorge called a halt and pointed to the soft ground.

The hoofprints of half a dozen horses were plainly visible, and as they were still fresh we concluded they had been made that very day, and perhaps that afternoon.

“Who do you think the horsemen are, Jorge?” I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders.

“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!