“Twenty of our own brave Cuban fellows could stop that gayety forever,” growled Ramirez, savagely.
“But there are at least forty of the enemy,” observed Hal.
“It is no matter. Twenty of our men would do. But hush! There is the gleam of a soldier’s musket—a sentinel. Senor, do not make a sound that will betray us.”
Forward, a foot at a time, moved the pair, while not even a blade of grass rustled under their feet.
So quietly did they move, in fact, that, aided by the darkness and shadow of the grove, they gained a spot within less than thirty feet of the pacing sentinel.
Halting, Ramirez looked long and anxiously at this uniformed son of Spain.
When the Cuban placed his mouth close against our hero’s ear, it was to whisper:
“Senor, that soldier is one whom I know, for I have long had my eyes upon him. If all goes well, we shall soon have two guns. If I am deceived, our lives are not worth a peseta. If you hesitate, go back, and I will take the chance alone.”
“Go back?” whispered Hal. “Not when you go forward!”
Ramirez’s black eyes danced as he nodded.