Down the southward slope of the hill, less than half the distance away of the dismounted cavalry was a sight that made the Cuban’s blood boil still hotter. Four pacificos, their hands bound and roped together, were slowly ascending the grade. Ahead of them rode three Spanish cavalrymen; behind the prisoners a like number of guards. “What do you say now?” quivered Hal. “The pacificos must be saved. They are to be taken to Havana or shot. The latter would be the most merciful fate.” Ramirez spoke jerkily, at the same time swinging his rifle into position. “Not yet,” commanded Hal. “Those fellows are coming this way. We can fire straighter when they are nearer. If they keep to their course, they will go by within fifty feet of here.” “You command,” grumbled Ramirez, “but it is hard to wait.” “It’s common sense,” declared the American. “If we were to fire now, and miss, the cavalry in the valley on the other side of the hill could reach here before the fight was over. We should be killed, and all to no purpose.” “You have a plan?” questioned Ramirez. “Thunder, yes!” “If it works as well as the other did my patience will be rewarded.” “Slip back to the horses. Get four more rifles--loaded ones.” Ramirez vanished, though it hardly seemed as if he had gone, before he was back again. “Here they are, senor, and loaded.” “Good. Now crouch down, after placing two of the rifles at my side and two by your own side. Whatever you do, don’t fire until I give the word.” Ramirez obeyed, though the suspense made him tremble. His eyes flashed like jewels as he saw the four Cubans and their guard come nearer. “Surely they are near enough now to open fire,” he whispered hoarsely. But Hal shook his head emphatically. “No, no, my comrade! When we fire, we must take no chance of missing. Now, not another word, but you will hear me whisper ‘fire’ when they are within a hundred feet. You take the fellow in the front rank on the extreme left.” Juan protruded the muzzle of one of his weapons through the bushes that screened them from sight. He shook so with impatience as to make the bushes rattle. “Steady,” whispered Hal. Ramirez, by a tremendous effort at patience, got a better grip on himself. Nearer, still nearer, came the six troopers and their captives. Hal himself found it hard to restrain the temptation to fire, though he held himself in check to the last. But at last the whispered word came: “Fire!” Two jets of flame shot out from the bushes; two troopers reeled from saddle and fell. Crack! crack! Two more were down. Crack! crack! A fifth trooper fell, all within the space of five seconds. Ramirez, firing with the deadly aim of hatred, had brought down all three of his men, but Hal missed at the third shot. “Car-r-r-r-r-rajo!” vented the solitary remaining trooper, wheeling and putting spurs to his horse. Crack! Ramirez fired again, bringing this fellow down, too.