The climb to the top of the bank was not difficult, and, once over it, the road he had mentioned lay almost at our feet. We ran down to it with lighter hearts than we had had for some time, and struck out boldly, eating a light breakfast as we trudged along.
“I hope we strike no more adventures until the vicinity of Guantanamo is reached,” I observed.
“We can hardly hope for that, Mark,” smiled my chum. “Remember we are journeying through a country where war is raging. Let us be thankful if we escape the battles and skirmishes.”
“And shooting down by some ambitious sharpshooter,” I added. “By the way, I wonder if our folks are looking for us?”
“It may be they sent word not to come, when they saw how matters were going, Mark. I am sure your father would not want you to run the risk that——Look! look! We must hide!”
Alano stopped short, caught me by the arm, and pointed ahead. Around a turn in the road a dozen horsemen had swept, riding directly toward us. A glance showed that they were Spanish guerrillas!
[CHAPTER VII.]
FOOLING THE SPANISH GUERRILLAS.