Trooper Tales — page 162: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

150 The Voice in the Fourth Cell. the world, and they quivered in the thrall of a mighty thought. When it was no longer a thought but a con- summated action, these dark little men were deserters, in- festing the great white cliffs. And the Porto Rican women were awed by deeds of such daring, and at night, behind bolted doors, they whispered words of praise for such heroes. And they also taught their naked babies to say, when Uncle Sam’s soldiers passed by: “Mericano mucho wano!”’ And so well did the tiny, dark-skinned youngsters learn the lesson that in a few days the words grew to be a meaningless, wearying sound to the boys from the States. Meanwhile the deserters made midnight sallies upon the plantations where they once slaved. Yes, and they burned the haciendas. The very dignified name of “guer- rillas” became theirs, and the cavalrymen from the States received orders to bring them in dead or alive. And all these things resulted in Silk Redmond and I meeting Juan Tosta, the sweet singer on the Great White Cliffs. “We don’t want to cart around any prisoners,” the ser- geant of the detachment said. “The San Juan prison is crowded now. We want to sleep nights, instead of stand- ing guard. All I got to say is don’t monkey with the © greasers.” The sergeant was an old man. He had soldiered in Texas. We were tickled at the outlook. A December night, yet you wanted no blankets. Four Eomichbooks (6)