The sound of his sturdy blows
betrayed the party's whereabouts so clearly that finally the older
man could restrain himself no longer.
"Give it to them, compadres; it is a game that we can play."
O'Reilly had been gripping his rifle tensely, his heart in his
throat, his pulses pounding. As near a panic as he had ever been,
he found, oddly enough, that the mere act of throwing his weapon
to his shoulder and firing it calmed him. The kick of the gun
subdued his excitement and cleared his brain. He surprised himself
by directing Jacket in a cool, authoritative voice, to shoot low.
When he had emptied the magazine he led two of the horses forward.
Then, grasping his own machete, he joined in clearing a pathway.
It seemed an interminable time ere they extricated themselves from
the trap, but finally they succeeded and gained the welcome
shelter of the woods, pausing inside its shelter to cut the
muffles from their horses' feet. By this time the defenders of the
trocha were pouring volley after volley at random into the night.
Hilario sucked the cuts in his horny palms and spat forth the
blood.
"If Gomez had the ammunition these fools are wasting he would free
Cuba in no time."
Now that the skirmish was over, Jacket began to boast of his part
in it.
"Ha! Perhaps they'll know better than to show themselves the next
time I come this way," said he.
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