“No. Deaf Smith’s heard from his fam’ly, an’ I reckon you’re goin’ out to escort ’em in.”
Camp life had been rather dull, save for the scouting parties constantly trotting out and trotting in; Jim and Leo both had been off on details for outpost duties—Leo even had met the enemy—and Ernest felt that it was high time he was given a chance. He grabbed his little rifle, saddled and bridled in a jiffy, and on his yellow pony loped hastily across the camp-ground to where Major Somervell was sitting his horse amidst a small group of other horsemen. Deaf Smith also was there. And Dick Carroll.
“I am ordered to report to you for duty, sir,” said Ernest, saluting and trying not to grin.
The major surveyed him quizzically and scratched his nose.
“Well,” he remarked, “if Dickinson can spare you. They must grow soldiers young, in that company of his.”
“Oh, he’s a Texan, all right,” spoke somebody—Dick Carroll. “He’s the boy who carried that message from Gonzales to Burnam’s.”
“Yes, and he can shoot as hard as General Jackson, I bet you,” added somebody else.
“I wasn’t hinting to the contrary,” laughed Major Somervell. “I was just looking twice to be sure I saw him. Let’s start and rescue Smith’s old woman and kids before he plumb bursts.”
The major pricked his horse; and Deaf Smith, who had not heard a word but who had been alertly waiting, at the first move leaped his horse to the fore. They were a free and jaunty little squad, as they rode away, the major and Deaf Smith leading, and the rest following two by two, Ernest beside Dick.