The road aimed for the tall chimney.
The grizzly chief could see his advance galloping on ahead, and his rank and file came swinging on behind. The cane-field changed from green to brown and black. It had been burned. Beneath the tall chimney could be discerned rootless walls, charred riblike rafters, and broken sheds grinning between dark green mango-trees.
Suddenly, where the road seemed to end between the mango-trees and a gray wall, appeared two horsemen. The gallop of the advance changed to a walk. It moved cautiously. Two little puffs of smoke and the crack of distant rifles told that the enemy was there. The rebel band halted, and the advance-guard came swinging back down the road.
A Lieutenant touched his hat and said, "Orders, my chief?"
"Tell them to spread out and reconnoitre! Maceo has crossed the Trocha, and we must advance to meet him."
The Lieutenant spurred ahead and met the flying guard. It stopped. The men looked over their shoulders worriedly as the Lieutenant delivered his message.
"Maceo has crossed the Trocha." The words were like magic, and the men turned and urged their horses into the burned field. The charred and rotten cane broke beneath the horses' hoofs as they made a wide circle, with the tall chimney for a centre. The horsemen at the end of the road disappeared.
The rebel band advanced. Again the horsemen appeared at the top of the road—two, four, six, eight, dozens of them. In rapid succession they rode out from the gray walls and dark mango-trees. There was another crack of rifles and puffs of blue smoke.
"Remingtons!" exclaimed the chief, as the advance-guard cautiously halted in the wide circle which it had mapped out for itself. "A local guerilla force!" And raising himself in his stirrups, the grizzly chief turned to his men, and flourishing his long blade, shouted: "Scatter out! Advance, and let them have it!"
To the sound of thumping hoofs and snapping canes the rank and file of the rebel band went plunging through the field.