“He seems mad,” observed Hal, quizzically. “If those soldiers were close at hand, unarmed though they are, they would make things hot for us.”
Ramirez nodded, his face darkening.
“Mi amigo,” he suggested, tremulously, “suppose we stop and give them fight.”
“With these horses and all these guns destined for the insurgents?” demanded Hal. “My friend—nit! We have no right to risk losing such splendid supplies.”
“At least,” begged Ramirez, “let us halt and fire a half a dozen shots into them.”
“Fire at unarmed men?” retorted Hal. “Not while I’m here to stop it.”
“Mi amigo, you are right,” replied Juan, with an air of self-reproach. “But do not blame me. We have so much reason to hate that uniform of Spain that we cannot resist the temptation to fire upon it wherever we see it.”
“I don’t blame you,” nodded Hal. “But my grievances against Spain are of such recent date that I can wait for fair fight.”
No attempt was made by the Spaniards to pursue the pair across the plain. Such a chase would have been futile, anyway, for jaded men are no match for galloping horses.
In another half hour the foe were left five miles to the rear.