“If my father will permit me, I’ll join you and him in the search for your father,” he answered. “But it may be that he will wish me to remain here with my mother and my sisters.”
“Yes, somebody ought to remain with them, Alano.”
“My father is expecting Señor Noenti, a relative of mine. If he comes he will look after my mother and sisters. He is a very brave and powerful man.”
Alano and I slept together that night, just as we had often done at Broxville Academy. It was a good deal to me to have my chum by me again. We had missed each other more than mere words can tell.
We had just finished breakfast the next day, and Captain Guerez was trying to walk around a bit on his wounded leg, when several newcomers were announced. Among them was Señor Noenti, who was warmly received by the Guerez family.
During the morning it was arranged that he should remain at the old convent during Captain Guerez' absence, and by hard pleading Alano obtained permission to join us in our hunt for my father. Jorge and three other trusty men were to go along also. Alano’s father pronounced himself quite able to ride, and each of us was fitted out with a good horse, a brace of pistols, and a quantity of ammunition sufficient to last for several engagements. We also carried with us two days' rations. When they were gone we would have to depend upon what we found for our meals. But armed as we were, and in a country where everything grew in profusion, it was not likely that such a small body would lack for something to eat. Starvation was common in the regular Cuban army, but only when the troops remained in one mountainous region for a long while and ate up everything in sight.
Captain Guerez had a well-formed idea concerning the highways and trails the party having my father a prisoner would take; and, after an affectionate farewell to his wife and daughters, he led our little party up past the bluff the Spaniards had occupied and along a path skirting the mountain which had caused me so much trouble. Our horses were fresh, and we made good time until sunset, when we reached a small village called Molino. Here there were a number of blacks and the poorer class of whites. All, however, made us welcome, and here it was decided to remain for the night.
The principal man living in the place was a Spaniard named Curilos, a fellow who years before had been a sailor. He was a comical fellow in the extreme and a good singer, accompanying himself in singing on a home-made guitar, a rough-looking instrument, but one very sweet in tone. How a sailor had ever settled there was a mystery to me, but there he was and apparently more than content.
Curilos' home was of long tree branches, fastened together with tough vines, which grow everywhere in profusion. The branches were twined and intertwined and lashed to four corner-posts. The roof of this abode was covered with dried palm leaves, and was quite water-proof. In one corner was a rude fireplace of stone, and the smoke curled up through a hole in a corner of the building.