The plunge into the wet meadow had completed the work of the rain in soaking us to the skin, but as the night was warm we did not mind this. Keeping our eyes on the alert for more Spanish sentries, we hurried along the railroad embankment for a distance of several hundred yards. Then we left the tracks and took a trail leading southward.
Our various adventures for the past few hours had completely exhausted Burnham, while the others of the party were greatly fatigued. The newspaper man was in favor of stopping under a clump of palm trees and resting, but Captain Guerez demurred.
“We’ll reach a hut or a house ere long,” he said. “And there the accommodations will be much better.”
“Well, we can’t reach a resting-place too soon,” grumbled Burnham. “I can scarcely drag one foot after the other, and it’s so close my clothing is fairly steaming.”
“You are no worse off than any of us,” I made answer, as cheerfully as I could.
The highway was a stony one, and the rains had washed away what little dirt there was, making walking difficult. However, we had not very far to go. A turn brought us in sight of a long, low house built of logs and thatched with palm; and Captain Guerez called a halt.
“I’ll go forward and investigate,” he said. “In the meantime be on guard against anybody following us from the railroad.”
He was gone less than quarter of an hour, and on returning said it was all right. A very old man named Murillo was in sole charge of the house, and he was a strong Cuban sympathizer.
The place reached, we lost no time in divesting ourselves of a portion of our clothing and making ourselves comfortable in some grass hammocks spread between the house posts.