“Where are the soldiers?” questioned Sydney anxiously. They placed the unconscious sailor on the soft earth and looked quickly about them. There was not a soldier in sight.
“Some of Juarez’s work, you can be sure of that,” replied Phil uneasily. “He took a desperate risk impersonating O’Neil, and probably told the soldiers they were no longer needed, and the lieutenant was glad enough to get back to the security of his camp.”
“I wish we had a half a dozen of our own men,” Sydney declared; “we’d have those guns safely out of that cellar in a jiffy.”
Phil dropped down on his knees beside the prostrate sailor.
“See,” he cried pointing to an ugly lump on his head, “they stunned him by a blow on the head. If we could get a doctor we’d soon have him back to his senses.”
Sydney had walked over to the brow of the hill and peered below at the soldiers’ camp. He rushed back and caught Phil’s arm.
“See, Phil, there he goes toward that group of trees. He will reach the automobile and once in it he can run the government lines. Ruiz will attack immediately and the guns will fall into his hands without a struggle. How can we stop him?”
Phil had been too engrossed with the injuries to O’Neil to think about the consequences of Juarez’s escape. The ominous meaning in his companion’s words brought him back with a start to their dangerous position.
Casting an anxious glance at the unfortunate sailor he started down the hill, then compassion for O’Neil made him return quickly to his side.
“We must not abandon him here,” he cried. “Go, Syd, quick. You must get down there and prevent Juarez’s escape.”