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Page 48
At the same moment his own thoughts were of a most conflicting nature.
One of the men was covered by his rifle, and his finger was on its
ready trigger, but he hesitated to pull it. They had killed his horse
and sought to take his life. Even now they would shoot him down
without mercy, and as a pastime, if the opportunity offered. Knowing
this, and realizing his danger if those men should discover him, the
young American still hesitated to fire from ambush and take human life
in cold blood.
That others did not feel as he did about such things was shown while he
hesitated, for the two beef-riders had been in sight but a few seconds
when there came a flash and a roar of guns from the opposite side of
the road, a little beyond where Ridge was hiding. Both the guerillas
fell as though struck by a thunder-bolt, and their blue-clad forms lay
motionless across Se�orita's body. Her death was amply avenged.
At this startling demonstration in his behalf, Ridge sprang to his feet
in full view of half a dozen men, ragged and swarthy, who were running
down the road with yells of delight. They halted at sight of the
stranger, and some raised their weapons; but he, recognizing them as
Cubans, called out: "I am Americano, and those Spaniards whom you have
so bravely killed sought my life. Viva Cuba libre!"
Upon this they again advanced with shouts and eager questions. They
belonged to a detachment of the Cuban army on its way to join General
Garcia, and had been attracted by the sound of firing. Coming to
discover its cause, they had seen the dead horse, and were stealing
cautiously towards it when halted by the familiar cuckoo call of their
enemies.
That Ridge had suffered at the hands of the Spaniards, and fought with
them, was a sufficient passport to their favor. Thus when he explained
his desire to meet their general they consented to guide him to the
Cuban rendezvous, which they said was high up in the mountains.
With a heavy heart and tear-dimmed eyes the young American turned from
a last look at his beloved horse, and set forth with these new
acquaintances on their toilsome march. He carried only his arms, but
the Cubans had stripped the dead--both men and horses--of everything
valuable, and were thus well laden with trophies.
A short distance from the spot where Se�orita had given her own life in
saving that of her master, they turned into a barely discernible trail
that soon brought them to the foot-hills, where they camped for the
night. All the next day they pushed on, with infrequent halts, ever
climbing higher over trails so rough and obscure that only experienced
eyes could follow them. Here and there they passed food-stations
guarded by old men, poorly clad women, and naked children. Each of
these consisted of a thatched hut, an open fire, and a sweet-potato
patch, and to the marching Cubans they supplied roasted potatoes,
sugar-cane, and occasionally a few ripe mangoes.
Ridge and a guide, to whom he had promised money, outstripped the
others, and shortly before sunset of the second day reached the summit
of a pass lying between the great bulk of El Cobre on the east and Pico
Turquino, the tallest mountain in Cuba. From this point was outspread
a superb view of densely wooded mountain slopes tumbling steeply down
to the boundless blue of the Caribbean Sea. Here the guide departed,
promising shortly to return, leaving Ridge to gaze upon the wonderful
panorama unfolded on all sides, and thrilled with the thought that he
had crossed Cuba.
While he stood thus, forgetful of everything save the marvellous beauty
of his surroundings, he was puzzled by a sound as of distant thunder
coming from a direction in which no cloud was visible. As he
speculated concerning this phenomenon, he was startled by a voice close
at hand saying, in English: "That is a welcome sound to Cuban ears,
se�or, since it is the thunder of American war-ships bombarding the
defences of Santiago."
CHAPTER XIX
CALIXTO GARCIA THE CUBAN
"The thunder of American war-ships!" Instantly, as Ridge learned its
nature, the mighty sound took on a new significance, and seemed like
the voice of his own glorious country demanding freedom for an
oppressed people. Filled with this thought, he turned to the man who
had suggested it, and found himself in the presence of one wearing the
uniform of a Cuban officer. The latter had taken off his hat, and the
young American noted a livid bullet scar in the centre of his broad
white forehead. The man was elderly, fine-looking, and smooth-shaven
except for a heavy white mustache. His picture had been published in
every illustrated paper and magazine in the United States.
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