The raid was over, "retreat" was sounding, when Judson and
O'Reilly ran out of the prison, remounted, and joined their
comrades, who were streaming back toward the plaza.
"Whew!" Judson wiped the sweat out of his eyes. "No chance to ask
these fellows what they were in for."
"No need to ask them," said Johnnie. "A month in there would be
too much for a murderer."
"The druggist said most of 'em are just patriots, and every
holiday the Spaniards shoot one or two. There's no cock-fighting,
so it's the only Sunday amusement they have. Did you notice that
sick guy?"
"Yes."
"He looked to me like he was plain starved. Our fellows had to
carry him."
Colonel Lopez galloped up to inquire, anxiously, "Did you find
those eatables, eh?"
"Yes, sir, and a lot more."
"Good! But I failed. Pickles? Caramba! Nobody here ever heard of
one!"
"Did we lose any men?" Judson asked.
"Not one. But Ramos was badly cut."
"So? Then he got to close quarters with some Spaniard?"
"Oh no!" The colonel grinned. "He was in too great a hurry and
broke open a show-case with his fist."
The retreating Cubans still maintained their uproar, discharging
their rifles into the air, shrieking defiance at their invisible
foes, and voicing insulting invitations to combat. This ferocity,
however, served only to terrify further the civil population and
to close the shutters of San Antonio the tighter.
Pages:
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293