Between these
fortinas were sentry stations of logs or railroad ties. The jungle
on either side of the right-of-way had been cleared, and from the
remaining stumps and posts and fallen tree-trunks hung a maze of
barbed wire through which a man could scarcely crawl, even in
daylight. Eyes were keen, rifles were ready, challenges were
sharp, and countersigns were quickly given on the Jucaro-Moron
trocha.
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. Both guides, having crossed the trocha more
than once, affected to scorn its terrors, and their easy
confidence reassured O'Reilly in spite of Esteban's parting
admonition.
The American had not dreamed of taking Jacket along, but when he
came to announce his departure the boy had flatly refused to be
left behind. Jacket, in fact, had taken the matter entirely into
his own hands and had appealed directly to General Gomez. To his
general the boy had explained tearfully that patriotism was a rare
and an admirable quality, but that his love of country was not
half so strong or so sacred as his affection for Johnnie O'Reilly.
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