A wounded Cubapino lay just before him, and one
of the soldiers kicked him in the head and killed him. Sam noticed it,
and was a little startled to find that it seemed all right to him.
"I've half a mind to kick the next wounded man I see," he thought. "It
must be rather good sport"; but he did not do it.
The rest of the fight was in the nature of a procession. They pursued
the flying Cubapinos as fast as they could, but were unable to come up
with them. In a native village through which they passed, Sam asked an
old man, who had been too weak to get away, how far off San Diego was,
and learned that it was five miles away to the left. He could not
understand this, but still he kept on in that direction. As they left
the village it burst into flames, for the last soldiers had set it on
fire. Sam thought of the old man perishing in his hut, and it seemed to
him a fine thing and quite natural. On their way they came across other
bodies of troops who joined them, and it so happened that no one came
forward of superior rank to Sam, and consequently he retained the
command. Before they came in sight of San Diego he had quite a brigade
under him. He halted them in front of the town and sent out a scouting
party. There was no sound of firing now except in the distance. In an
hour the scouting party came back and reported that the place had been
vacated by the enemy, who for some reason had been seized by a panic.
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