Is there a force near? Will they attack? All is silent.

In a few minutes an opening is reached. Horses are there. Forced to
mount, Maxime Valois rides away, a dozen guards around him. Grim
riders in scrapes and broad sombreros are his escort. The guns
on their shoulders and their jingling machetes prove them native
cavalry.

For half an hour Valois is busy keeping his seat in the saddle.
These are no amiable captors. The lad's heart is sad. He speaks
Spanish as fluently as his native French. Every word is familiar.

A camp-fire flickers in the live-oaks. He is bidden to dismount.
The lair of the guerillas is safe from view of the "pathfinders."

The east shows glimmers of dawn. The prisoner warms his chilled
bones at the fire. He sees a score of bronzed faces scowling
at him. Preparations for a meal are hastened. A swarthy soldier,
half-bandit, half-Cossack in bearing, tells him roughly to eat.
They must be off.

Maxime already realizes he has been designedly kidnapped. His
capture may provide information for Castro's flying columns. These
have paralleled their movements, from a distance, for several weeks.
Aware of the ferocity of these rancheros, he obeys instantly each
order. He feigns ignorance of the language. Tortillas, beans, some
venison, with water, make up the meal. It is now day. Valois eats.
He knows his ordeal. He throws himself down for a rest. He divines
the journey will be hurried. A score of horses are here tied to the
trees. In a half hour half of these are lazily saddled. Squatted