CHAPTER XI
INTO THE FORBIDDEN HILLS
Terry's two black pistols, canteen and packed saddle bags lay on the table. Without a word he snapped holster and canteen into his belt holes and the Sergeant picked up the bags and extra gun. As he blew out the light Terry first realized that dawn had come. They hurried silently to the cuartel, in front of which the sixteen impatient Macabebes were drawn up, each equipped for the field and holding saddled ponies. As he drank the coffee that the thoughtful Mercado had prepared for him Terry gestured questioningly toward the ponies.
"I knew you would want to travel fast, sir, so I borrowed these ponies from planters. They are very angry about the ladrones, sir, and were glad to help." He found ample reward for his foresight in Terry's unspoken commendation.
Several brown heads appeared at windows to stare after the little cavalcade that trotted down the side of the plaza at daylight and took the west trail into the brush. It was not a smart outfit, it lacked all of the flourish and the trappings of parade, but it did look eager to use the carbines that flapped from pommel straps. Terry's compact gray set the pace for the dauntless men who rode behind him, and the Sergeant brought up the rear snapping sharp-voiced invectives that withered three over-zealous riders.
A long trail lay before them. Terry maintained a steady trot that ate up the miles. The day grew hot, the brush thicker. Twice he halted the column to water the ponies at shallow fords: once he stopped to smooth saddle blankets and resaddle.
He felt the heat intensely. His skin seemed dry and hot, and he slanted his campaign hat low over his eyes to dim the glare of the sun and relieve the strain on his eyeballs, which ached fiercely. His pony, having worked off its excess of spirit, settled down into a tireless pace that tested the picked mounts the planters had selected as their best, and the miles passed in silence save for staccato pounding of hoofs on hard packed earth and the swish of underbrush that lined the narrow crooked trail.
At noon he drew up at Sears' plantation to freshen men and beasts. Sears tore out to meet them, greeted Terry enthusiastically and ran inside again to hurry his cook while Terry superintended the care of the ponies. When Sears' foreman bore the soldiers into the cookshack for a hot dinner of rice and fish Terry passed up the high stairway and into the cool house, there to sink into a big chair, faint.
Sears was energetically speeding his boy in the laying of his "company" linens and silver. He lumbered over to Terry and in his enthusiasm shook hands again. Feeling the hand hot to his touch, he glanced keenly down into the burning eyes.