“When do you start, Leo?” asked Ernest, enviously.
“I don’t know. Any time the captain says so,” replied Leo, hastening importantly away.
“Scatter-guns and blunder-busses!” scoffed Jim, after him. “You-all’ll be a hefty crowd, if you meet up with those Mexican regulars.” But he added, to Ernest: “That Bill Travis is a fighter, though. I’d certainly admire to be going along.”
“So would I,” admitted Ernest.
It indeed seemed slow work, sitting around, waiting; and that night they missed the spunky Leo, for the Captain Travis troop of scouts had ridden out, reconnoitering.
However, in the morning another event occurred. Jim, as usual, brought the word, excitedly hailing Ernest.
“Hurry up!” he cried. “Get your hawss and shooting-irons if you want to go.”
“Where? All right. I’m coming,” rejoiced Ernest.
“Up-river, on a scout with Jim Bowie and Captain Fannin. But they won’t wait long.” And with Ernest, Jim hustled breathlessly for the ponies.