ONCE MORE AMONG THE HILLS.
Fortunately the road leading to the northern shore of Santiago Bay was well known to Captain Guerez, who at one time had been a commissioner of highways in that district.
“I do not know how we will fare on this trip,” he remarked, as we rode off only four strong—the captain, Alano, Burnham, and myself. “At one spot we will have to pass the railroad, and I understand that is now under strict Spanish surveillance.”
“We’ll have to take matters as they come,” I returned. “We must save my father at any cost—at least, I shall attempt to do so.”
“I am with you, Mark,” said the captain earnestly. “Next to my family, there is no one to whom I am more attached.”
“And I go in for helping any American,” put in Burnham.
Alano simply smiled at me. But that smile was enough. I felt that my Cuban chum could be depended upon to stick to me through thick and thin.
Nightfall found us in the midst of a long range of hills, covered with a heavy growth of oaks, cedars, and mahogany. The vines which I mentioned before were here as thick as ever, and in the darkness Gilbert Burnham suddenly gave a yell and slid from the back of his horse to the ground.
“What’s the matter?” we cried in chorus.
“Matter!” he growled. “Nothing, only a vine caught me under the chin, and I thought I was about to be hung.”