Four pacificos, their hands bound and roped together, were slowly ascending the grade.
Ahead of them rode three Spanish cavalrymen; behind the prisoners a like number of guards.
“What do you say now?” quivered Hal.
“The pacificos must be saved. They are to be taken to Havana or shot. The latter would be the most merciful fate.”
Ramirez spoke jerkily, at the same time swinging his rifle into position.
“Not yet,” commanded Hal. “Those fellows are coming this way. We can fire straighter when they are nearer. If they keep to their course, they will go by within fifty feet of here.”
“You command,” grumbled Ramirez, “but it is hard to wait.”
“It’s common sense,” declared the American. “If we were to fire now, and miss, the cavalry in the valley on the other side of the hill could reach here before the fight was over. We should be killed, and all to no purpose.”
“You have a plan?” questioned Ramirez.
“Thunder, yes!”