“They would have hard work to find us,” replied Alano. “Here, let us sample this eating I brought along, and then be on our way. Remember we have still many miles to go.”
We partook of some of the chicken pie and some buns, the latter so highly spiced they almost made me sneeze when I ate them, and then went on our way again.
Our run had warmed us up, and now the sun beat down upon our heads mercilessly as we stalked through a tangle where the luxurious vegetation was knee-high. We were glad enough when we reached another woods, through which there was a well-defined, although exceedingly poor, wagon trail. Indeed, let me add, nearly all of the wagon roads in Cuba, so I have since been told, are wretched affairs at the best.
“We ought to be in the neighborhood of Tiarriba,” said Alano about the middle of the afternoon.
“We won’t dare enter the town,” I replied. “Those soldiers were going there, you must remember.”
“Oh, the chances are we’ll find rebels enough—on the quiet,” he rejoined.
On we went, trudging through sand and shells and not infrequently through mire several inches to a foot deep. It was hard work, and I wished more than once that we were on horseback. There was also a brook to cross, but the bridge was gone and there was nothing left to do but to ford the stream.
“It’s not to our boot-tops,” said Alano, after an examination, “so we won’t have to take our boots and socks off. Come; I fancy there is a good road ahead.”
He started into the water, and I went after him. We had reached the middle of the stream when both of us let out a wild yell, and not without reason, for we had detected a movement from the opposite bank, and now saw a monstrous alligator bearing swiftly down upon us!