“Mark!”
It was the voice of Alano, and my heart gave a joyful bound. In another second my Cuban chum appeared in view, carrying on his manly back the form of Jorge.
“Alano,” I ejaculated excitedly, “what is the matter with him?”
“He has been shot in the leg,” was the reply. “Come on, help me carry him and get to cover. I am afraid they are on my track!”
“Run into the woods!” groaned Jorge. “Den we take to trees—dat’s best.”
As Alano was almost exhausted, I insisted that the guide be transferred to my back, and this was speedily done, and on we went, away from the river and directly into the forest. Of course, with such a burden I could not go far, and scarcely a hundred yards were traversed when I came to a halt, at the foot of a giant mahogany tree.
Not without a good deal of difficulty Jorge was raised up into the branches of the tree, and we followed.
“Still now and listen!” cried Jorge, with a half-suppressed groan.
With strained ears we sat in the mahogany tree for fully half an hour without speaking. We heard the Spaniards cross the river and move cautiously in the direction of the three fires, and presently they returned to their own camp.