prisoners soon gave way to his own discomforts, and he gave them no more attention.
Presently Walter felt a hand steal over his shoulder. "What you think—we run for it, maybe?" whispered Carlos.
"I'd like to run, but we may get shot," whispered Walter in return.
At this Carlos shrugged his shoulders. With two Mauser bullets in him the tall negro rebel was still "game." It was such men as he who had kept this unequal warfare in Cuba going for three long years despite Spain's utmost endeavors to end the conflict.
"Raise up a bit and I untie rope," he said, as the guard made another round and walked from them. "Maybe we can go when big thunder and lightning come—not so?"
"All right—I'll go you," cried Walter, lowly, and in a bit of Western slang. "A fellow can't die but once, and I have no desire to be taken to the dungeon of Morro Castle, or to any other Spanish lockup."
He raised up, and in a trice Carlos had the cords about his wrists unloosened. Captain Coleo still sat writing. But now the taper went out again and he paused to relight it.
