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Page 39
"This is the Se�or Americano whom you are to guide to Jiguani, and
afterwards, if he requires it, to Santiago," said del Concha,
Dionysio looked keenly at Ridge, but uttered no word.
"He is ready to start."
The negro stood up, to signify that he was also ready.
"You will not let the Spaniards kill him," Dionysio tapped his machete
significantly.
"Well, my friend, adios," said del Concha, "and may you come safely to
your journey's end!"
Accepting this farewell as a signal to move, the black giant set forth
at a swinging pace, and, in order not to lose sight of him, Ridge was
obliged instantly to follow. In another minute, therefore, they had
crossed the clearing, plunged again into the forest, and the refugee
camp was as lost to their view as though it had not existed.
The silent guide bore on his shoulders a burden of yams rolled in a
hammock, but it in no way interfered with the freedom of his movements.
For miles he maintained, up hill and down, the same speed with which he
had set out, and which so taxed Se�orita's endurance that Ridge was
finally forced to call a halt. The heat of the sun was by this time
intense, while the forest steamed from a succession of brief but
drenching showers that had swept over it since they started.
As Dionysio comprehended what was wanted he proceeded, without a word,
to construct a small bower of branches and palm leaves, beneath which
he slung Ridge's hammock. The young trooper's eyes were so leaden with
sleep that he had no sooner slipped into this than he was lost in a
dreamless slumber.
When he next awoke, greatly refreshed by his long nap, the great heat
of the day was past, and the shadows of coming evening produced a
pleasant coolness. For a few minutes Ridge lay in a state of lazy
content, gazing with languid interest at his surroundings. The sky, so
far as he could see it, was cloudless, the crisp leaves of a tall palm
close at hand rustled in a light breeze like the patter of rain, gayly
plumaged paroquets and nonpareils flitted across his line of vision,
and the air was filled with the pleasant odor of burning wood, mingled
with the fragrance of a cigarette that Dionysio smoked while squatted
on his heels before a small fire. A little beyond, Se�orita, tethered
to a tree, cropped at a small patch of coarse grass, and--but Ridge
could not credit his senses until he had rubbed his eyes vigorously to
make sure that they were doing their duty--another horse was sharing
the grass-plot with her. As he assured himself of this, Ridge sat up,
and was about to demand an explanation of the negro, when his question
was checked by another sight still more amazing.
A human figure staring fixedly at him with glaring eyes was rigidly
bound to the trunk of a near-by tree. It was that of a young man in
the uniform of a Spanish officer. His face was covered with blood,
upon which a swarm of flies had settled, and he was so securely
fastened that he could not move hand nor foot. He was also gagged so
that he could make no sound beyond an inarticulate groan, which he
uttered when he saw that Ridge was awake and looking at him.
With an exclamation of dismay the young American leaped from his
hammock. At the same moment Dionysio rose to his feet with a broad
grin on his black face, and spoke for the first time since Ridge had
made his acquaintance.
"Him Holguin Spaniard," he said, pointing to the prisoner. "Me catch
him. Keep him for Americano to kill. Now you shoot him."
[Illustration: "'Him Holguin Spaniard. Now you shoot him,' said the
Cuban."]
Thus saying, the negro handed Ridge a loaded pistol that he had taken
from the Spaniard, and then stepped aside with an air of ferocious
expectancy to note with what skill the latter would fire at the human
target thus provided.
Mechanically Ridge accepted the weapon, and with blazing eyes strode
towards the hapless Spaniard, who uttered a groan of agony, evidently
believing that his last moment had arrived. As the young trooper
passed the place where Dionysio had squatted, he snatched the negro's
big machete from the ground.
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