“What is it?” cried Alano, as he scrambled to his feet.
“I don’t know!” I yelled. “Look! look!”
As I spoke I pulled out my pistol. By this time Jorge was also aroused.
“Que ha dicho V.? [What did you say?]” he demanded, leaping up and catching at his machete.
“An animal—a bear, or something!” I went on. “There he is!”
I raised my pistol, and at the same time our guide looked as I had directed. I was about to pull the trigger of my weapon when he stopped me.
“No shoot! Puerco!” he cried, and gave a laugh. Leaping forward, he made after the animal, which turned to run away. But Jorge was too quick for him. Presently there was a grunt and a prolonged squeal, and then I understood what my wild beast was—nothing but a wild pig! In a couple of minutes Jorge came back to camp dragging the tough little porker by the hind legs. He had killed the animal in true butcher’s style.
“We have pork to-morrow,” he grinned, for Cuban negroes are as fond of pig meat as their Northern brothers. Taking a short rope from one of his pockets, he attached it to the pig’s hind legs and hung the body up on a convenient tree branch.
The incident had upset my nerves, and for the balance of the night I slept only by fits and starts, and I was glad when dawn came and the rising sun began to gild the tops of the surrounding hills. The sight was a beautiful one, and I gazed at it for some time, while Jorge prepared some pork chops over a tiny fire he had kindled.
“We carry what pork we can,” he said. “No use to leave it behind. Father Anuncio very glad to get pig, so sweet!” and once again Jorge grinned. After breakfast the guide cut up the balance of the animal, wrapped the parts in wet palm leaves, and gave us each our share to carry.