“Can we pass him?” asked Alano.
“We can try, but——”
“If he sees us why can’t we make him a prisoner?” I broke in. “If we did that, we would have a chance to bring our horses up the bank and over the tracks.”
“I was thinking as much,” said the captain. “The horses must be gotten over; that is necessary.”
He deliberated for a minute, and then motioned us forward, warning us at the same time to keep perfectly silent. On we went, to where something of a trail led up over the railroad embankment. There were a few bushes growing in the vicinity, and we skulked beside these, almost crawling along the ground.
Several minutes passed, and the top of the embankment was reached and we stood on the glistening tracks. Down we plunged on the opposite side, and not over a dozen paces from where the Spanish sentry was standing.
“Halte!” came the unexpected cry, and the man rushed forward, pointing his gun as he ran. But for once fate was in our favor. A trailing vine tripped him up and he went headlong.
Before the Spanish soldier could collect his senses, or make a movement to rise, Captain Guerez and myself were on him. The captain sat down astride of the fellow’s back, while I secured his gun and clapped my hand over his mouth, to keep him from calling for assistance. A second later Alano and the newspaper man came up, and the Spaniard was our prisoner.
“Now bring the horses over, as quickly as possible!” said the captain to his son and Burnham. “Mark and I will guard this fellow.”