For my part, I thought it best to keep a watch to the right and the left. We went on slowly until the evening shadows began to fall. Then Jorge was about to speak, when I motioned him to be silent.
“There is something moving in yonder brush,” I said, pointing with my hand. “I think I saw a horse.”
We left the road and proceeded in the direction, moving along slowly and silently. I had been right; there was not one horse, but half a dozen, tethered to several stunted trees.
No human beings were present, but from a distance we presently heard the murmur of voices, and a minute later two Spanish soldiers came into view. Jorge drew his pistol, but I restrained him.
The soldiers had evidently come up to see if the horses were still safe. Satisfied on this point, one passed to the other a roll of tobacco for a bite, and both began to converse in a low but earnest tone.
Jorge listened; and, as the talk ran on, his face grew dark and full of hatred. The backs of the two Spaniards were toward us, and my guide drew his machete and motioned as if to stab them both.
I shook my head, horrified at the very thought. This did not suit Jorge, and he drew me back where we might talk without being overheard.
“What is the use of attacking them?” I said. “Let us be on our way.”
“Them men fight General Garcia’s men—maybe hurt my brudder,” grunted Jorge wrathfully. “They say they have prisoner—kill him soon.”