“We can hide there,” he whispered. “But we will be in danger of snakes. Yet it is the best we can do.”
I hesitated. To make the acquaintanceship of a serpent in that dense grass was not pleasant to contemplate. But what else was there to do? The footsteps of our pursuers sounded nearer.
Down went Alano, making leaps from rock to rock, so that no trail would be left. I followed at his heels, and, coming to a rock which was partly hollowed out at one side and thickly overgrown, we crouched under it and pulled the vines and creepers over us.
It was a damp, unwholesome spot, but there was no help for it, and when several enormous black beetles dropped down and crawled around my neck I shut my lips hard to keep from crying out. We must escape from the enemy, no matter what the cost, for even if they did not make us prisoners we knew they would take all we possessed and even strip the coats from our backs.
Peering from between the vines, we presently caught sight of three of the Spaniards standing at the top of the gully, pistols in hand, on the alert for a sight of us. They were dark, ugly-looking fellows, with heavy black mustaches and faces which had not had a thorough washing in months. They were dressed in the military uniform of Spain, and carried extra bags of canvas slung from their shoulders, evidently meant for booty. That they were tough customers Alano said one could tell by their vile manner of speech.
“Do you see them, Carlo?” demanded one of the number. “I thought they went down this hollow?”
“I see nothing,” was the answer, coupled with a vile exclamation. “They disappeared as if by magic.”
“They were but boys.”
“Never mind, they were rebels—that is enough,” put in the third guerrilla, as he chewed his mustache viciously. “I wish I could get a shot at them.”
At this Alano pulled out his pistol and motioned for me to do the same.