“By cracky!” uttered Dick, when the camp was at hand, near before. “A parade, isn’t it? And if that isn’t Sam Houston himself addressing it, I’ll eat my hat, and his, too!”
Right! The army, cavalry and infantry had been drawn up, by companies, in close formation, two ranks deep; the general officers were sitting their horses, in front, facing the line; and midway between them and the army a large man, in familiar Mexican blanket and big gray hat, from his saddle was making to the men a speech accompanied by vigorous gestures. Sam Houston, sure enough!
Just as the scouting party arrived, to Ernest’s disappointment the general ceased and retired; but a hearty cheer applauded him. The parade was dismissed, and Ernest hastily unsaddled and sought out Jim and Leo—who as usual were confabbing together.
“Aw, is that all you got?” they scoffed, greeting him. “We saw you come in.”
“Did the best we could,” defended Ernest. “Deaf Smith had to have his family, and so we captured half the Mexican nation for him.”
“Where’d you go?”
“Almost to the Espada Mission, on the San Antonio River, six or eight miles below Bejar.”
“Sight anything?”
“Nope.”