Soon white-trousered, bare-footed, dark, wiry fellows surrounded the strange vehicle of los Americanos. All the wealth of words in the Spanish tongue seemed insufficient to express their wonderment. Like a small army, guided and bullied by their natural leader, they carried stones, swung on the long poles, yelled and fussed until, one after another, the wheels were raised and set on an uncertain floor of rough rocks. Waldon jumped to his seat behind the wheel. The motor spit and steadied to the old familiar purr. The native audience stood tense and spellbound. The clutch engaged. With a mighty wrench, the big car tore itself free, scattering behind a wild volley of stones and mud, and jumped to the solid ground ahead. “El Toro!” cried a Cuban. “El Toro!” echoed the chorus. And thus was christened the car. It was nine o’clock, with headlights going for the first time on the precious store of gas, when we again set out to find Santa Clara. The hills were flat-crowned and in quick succession. We could see nothing but a narrow streak of yellow rock ahead. We seemed always to be rising, rising, rising, to the top of everything. Palestine must have looked like this on a still, dark night. We could almost imagine some Old Testament friend would steal out of the dark and bid us halt. Our entrance to Santa Clara was in sharp contrast to the last few hours of wandering in the solitude of the black night. We rambled noisily over its cobbled streets. We had knocked the muffler away from the exhaust pipe on some grass-hidden rock, and El Toro roared. The whole population ran to the iron-barred windows or into the streets to follow us in a curious, turbulent stream. The hotel landlord welcomed us at the door and, as it was now raining hard, hurried to help us find shelter for the car. Then we ate a cold and disappointing meal in a night owl street café. An excited little man with a big pad of paper, who said he was the reporter of the Santa Clara newspaper, persisted in getting an extensive interview through the now collapsed interpreter. None of us ever read that story, but, judging from the manner of the fervid scribe, it must have drained empty the possibilities of Cuban journalism. We retired in a hopeful mood. This had been our record day—sixty-three miles. We had gone to Matanzas, and they said we could not. We had crossed rivers and swamps, and they had said we could not. In five days we had gone 231 miles over country that was said to be impossible for any four-wheeled vehicle. We had yet to cross the mountains. They said we could not, but we thought we could. Macagua to Santa Clara—sixty-three miles. [Illustration: “_A river would be reached by following down a tortuous pass._” SEE PAGE 77.] [Illustration] CHAPTER VI