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That Spaniard would spit me out quick enough." This Camagueyan boy was a character. He was perhaps sixteen, and small for his age a mere child, in fact. Nevertheless, he was a seasoned veteran, and his American camp-mates had grown exceedingly fond of him.
Having won his point, Jacket regained his composure with suspicious suddenness and raced away to triumph over his beloved O'Reilly. Fifty miles of hard riding brought the party to the trocha; they neared it on the second morning after leaving Cubitas, and sought a secluded camping-spot. Later in the day Hilario, the old Camagueyan, slipped away to reconnoiter.
Jacket interrupted with a sibilant: "Psst! Look! Yonder!" A lantern-like illumination had leaped out of the blackness and now approached swiftly down the railroad grade. O'Reilly laid a heavy hand upon the old Camagueyan and inquired in sharp suspicion, "What does that mean an alarm?" There was a breathless moment during which the four men followed the erratic course of the spark.
Other eyes than his, too, had noted Miss Evans's reappearance after her siesta, for Major Ramos, Norine's escort from headquarters, soon joined the group, and he was followed by two Camagueyan lieutenants. These latter were youths of some family standing.
In O'Reilly's party there were three men besides himself the ever-faithful Jacket, a wrinkled old Camagueyan who knew the bridle trails of his province as a fox knows the tracks to its lair, and a silent guajiro from farther west, detailed to accompany the expedition because of his wide acquaintance with the devastated districts.
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