“Where will this train take us?” asked Alano of his father.
“The next village is Comaro, but I do not know if the train will stop,” was the reply. “Two miles further on is Los Harmona, but we must not go there, for I understand there is a strong Spanish garrison stationed in the village. Let us get down between the cars and watch our chance to spring off. If we remain here some of the brakemen may come along and give the alarm.”
The lightning and thunder were decreasing in violence, and the rain had settled into a thin but steady downpour. The captain was nearest to the front end of the freight car, and led the way down the narrow ladder to the platform below. Once on this, and on the platform of the car ahead, we divided into pairs on either side and awaited a favorable opportunity to leave the train.
Comaro was reached and passed in the darkness, and the long freight began to pull out for Los Harmona at a steady rate of twenty-five miles or more an hour. No chance had been given us to jump off without great danger, and now it began to look as if we would be carried right into the fortified town, or further.
“Some distance below here is, unless I am greatly mistaken, a wide patch of meadow,” said Captain Guerez. “I do not believe a leap into the water and mud would hurt any of us very much, and, under the circumstances, I am in favor of taking the risk, in preference to being carried into Los Harmona.”
“If you go I will follow,” I said, and Alano said the same.
“Well, I don’t intend to be left alone,” smiled Burnham grimly. “But what will we do after we strike the meadow?”
“The meadow is not very broad,” answered the captain, “and beyond is a highway leading almost directly into Guantanamo. We will take to this highway and trust to luck to get on as originally intended. Of course the loss of our horses is a heavy one, but this cannot be helped. If we—— Ha!”
Captain Guerez stopped short, and not without good reason. From the interior of the freight car had come the unmistakable sounds of human voices. We heard first two men talking, then a dozen or more. The conversation was in Spanish, and I did not understand it. But Alano and his father did, and my Cuban chum turned to Burnham and me in high excitement.
“What do you think!” he whispered. “This car is filled with Spanish soldiers bound for Guantanamo! They heard us talking, and they are going to investigate and find out where we are and who we are!”