A rattle of rifle-shots followed, and the battalion carried the middle of the embankment with a wild rush, planting Old Glory on the very top a minute later. Then the regiment pushed on for San Isidro proper. A hot skirmish was had on the main street of the town; but the Filipinos had had enough of it, and by nightfall were making for the mountains as rapidly as their demoralized condition would permit.
Señor Romano had told Ben where Benedicto Lupez and his brother José had been stopping in San Isidro, and as soon as the young captain could get the opportunity he hurried around to the place, which was a large private boarding-house.
“There is a man here by the name of Lupez, I believe,” he said, as he presented himself, followed by a detachment of half a dozen of his men.
The boarding-house keeper, who had just hung 311 out a white flag, eyed him suspiciously. “How do you know that Señor Lupez is here?” he questioned slowly.
“I know it, and I want to see him at once,” returned Ben, sharply.
“He is—is not here—he—he went away this morning,” came with much hesitation.
“Don’t ye believe him, captain,” put in Dan Casey, who was in the detachment.
“I will search the house,” said Ben, quietly.
The keeper of the boarding-place protested, but his protest was of no avail. The house was searched from top to bottom, and in a back wing they found Benedicto Lupez in bed, suffering from a badly injured leg, the result of trying to ride a half-broken horse which the insurgents had captured from the Americans. He greeted the visitors with a villanous scowl.
At first he tried to deny his identity, but the Americans had been furnished with his photograph, and a wart on his forehead proved a clew that was conclusive. At once his effects were searched, and under his pillow was found a leather bag containing fifty thousand dollars in gold and in American bank bills.